Chapter 14
It wasn’t me
Dina
To say I’ve had a crappy week is an understatement.
It all started with the man under my tire who refused an ambulance when he clearly needed one.
Since the law wouldn’t care if it was an accident or not, I decided I’d look out for myself as well as help him.
I didn’t call anyone. Instead, the man and I made a pact of sorts.
I took him in, and he gave me a pass for hitting him with my car. He also paid me thirty-five grand.
I knew taking him in was a risk.
But doing the opposite would’ve meant I’d have even more problems on my plate. I’m in the middle of a vicious divorce, on my own and fighting a lawyer ex, so I couldn’t afford, mentally or financially, any more problems.
I regret not driving away. That would’ve been selfish and horrible, but so many people would’ve done it to save their own ass, and they would’ve continued to live their hypocritical lives criticizing the rest of us for being dumb enough to give a shit.
There. I said what I said. Now I digress.
The very thing I feared, a.k.a. becoming a criminal and going to jail for something I didn’t mean to do is the very thing that’s happening to me now.
After I dropped off the man, I kept his bag even though I assumed it didn’t hold a trombone.
Still, it didn’t cross my mind that a man would carry a sniper rifle in what looked like a long black box.
I most definitely didn’t think it was the sniper rifle connected with the murder of Massio Crossbow.
Yup, Massio Crossbow, Selnoa’s most notorious crime boss.
If what the police are saying is true, I provided sanctuary to the man who gunned down Massio Crossbow.
I don’t know what I’ll tell Jesus when my time comes, but I hope that day isn’t any time soon, because I’m not sure I feel bad about the whole thing.
I can’t say I’m sorry Massio got what he deserved.
I stare at the pistol the detectives left. I think they want me to use it on myself. Or point it at them so they’ll have an excuse to shoot me. What kind of corrupt police force is this?
I’m a hairdresser. Like, what’s a girl to do?
As a God-fearing woman, I’m not going to off myself. I have no idea what kind of game they’re playing, but if they want me dead, they’ll have to do it themselves. I’m also not giving up the description of the man who was in my house.
Denial is the best strategy, second only to silence. Say nothing, Dina. Stay strong.
The pair of detectives return. You’d think the police would sidestep the investigation, but the two who are overseeing the investigation of the Crossbow murder are threatening me horribly.
The coroner released a statement that Massio died of a single bullet right between his eyes before someone unloaded more bullets into his chest. They’re after two men. One of whom is the guy I ran over as he fled the scene, I’m pretty sure of it.
I tell them nothing, but as they ask me questions and show me gross pictures of Massio Crossbow’s corpse, I’m putting together my own timeline.
With a shake of her head, the woman approaches the table and holsters the pistol she left next to the file of sickening images of the carnage at the Crossbow mansion.
She’s brunette with a styled bob. I wonder who does her hair, or if she styles it herself in the morning before coming to work.
What went through her head this very morning before she came in here and brought me a suicide weapon?
“Don’t say I didn’t give you an out.” She turns around and checks the camera in the corner. It’s not recording. They’re shut off when these two cops come in.
“What time is it?” her partner, an older man with a receding hairline, asks her.
“It’s almost four.” She leans against the door, her lanyard sliding over her chest. The black-on-black outfit suits her. Secretly, I envy women like her. They kick so much ass. I just cry. A lot.
Well, maybe not so much today, mainly because I’m lethargic. I haven’t eaten anything since they brought me in for questioning. Which was a few days ago. I think. I’m not even sure what day it is.
The man runs a finger over his mustache. He does that a lot. Also scratches the side of his neck. Or taps the table three times. He might have OCD or something closely related to it, but I’m not a behavioral expert, so I wouldn’t know for sure. I only noted the patterns of his repetitive gestures.
He thrusts a stack of pictures at me.
Bodies and blood everywhere. And crab legs.
I look away.
“Take a look at those again,” the woman says.
I shake my head.
He lifts an image of me behind the driver’s seat at the Crossbow mansion’s gate when I tried to get in. “You are here, on scene. Was the rifle in the trunk?”
They think I did it.
I look in the other direction, avoiding the images they’re shoving in my face. I need a lawyer, but they haven’t offered me one, and I can’t afford one. My lawyer handles divorces. This is beyond his pay grade. In fact, it’s beyond most lawyers’ pay grade.
“We recovered a pistol from your apartment,” he says. “We know you know how to shoot.”
I suppress laughter. They know as well as I do that a sniper rifle and a pistol that I got from my dad for self-defense and never fired aren’t the same thing.
“Bitch, talk!” The detective walks up and grabs my ponytail, tilts my head back, then slams my forehead against the table. I immediately feel a lump forming, and the pain in my nose makes my eyes water. Tears spill out of my eyes.
Blood trickles out of my left nostril. I sniffle and throw back my head to stop the bleeding. Tears roll down my temples. My chin quivers. I’m crying again. If she hurts me again, I’ll break. I know I will.
“Take a look at the images again,” she orders.
I do as she asks. Since she almost flattened my nose, my eyes are watery, and now I can’t see. I want to glare at her and tell her to fuck off, but I fear she’ll slip on the brass knuckles hanging from her belt and use them on my face.
It’s easy to be brave when you have nobody to lose. I have a life that I like, however fucked it is, and I have my dad and my daughter who would miss me. So no, I don’t glare or otherwise provoke the already agitated detective.
Blood drips from my nose onto the picture.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She walks behind me and presses the barrel of her pistol against the back of my head. This is it. If I don’t answer her, she’ll shoot me. I examine the picture. This one isn’t gross like the others. This is a picture of Massio and some people dining in a…restaurant, maybe. I’m not sure.
“Can you spot Massio Crossbow?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My throat is parched.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I lick my lips.
“Yes, Detective Ramres.”
I repeat after her.
“Do you see anyone else you recognize?”
Most Selnoans would recognize Massio’s face. I shake my head.
“Second image.”
It’s the same spot but taken from a different angle.
It’s a close-up of a man in his thirties with a five o’clock shadow.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt under a suit jacket.
His gaze is focused. Intense. He kind of reminds me of the man I ran over.
He also looked at me like that once. If looks could kill, this is the killer look.
I never want anyone to look at me that way again.
“I don’t know him.”
The male detective points to a brunette sitting across from Massio. She seems uncomfortable, maybe even frightened.
I shake my head.
“Are you sure you don’t know her?” the female detective asks, sounding more agitated.
I turn a little in my chair so I can look at her. “Do you want me to know her? I’m at the point where I’ll do whatever you want.” I begin to cry again.
“It would help if you could identify her.” She sits down with a smile.
Her partner leans back and tidies up his mustache.
Now that Crossbow is dead, I wonder who is paying these two.
Why are they working me so hard over his murder?
There’s no way they care that he’s dead.
It’s not a righteous cause. The people of Selnoa don’t care either.
Hell, most of us are glad someone had the balls to remove the bastard who’s terrorized the city for over a decade.
“Have you met this woman before?” the detective asks.
I nod.
“There you go, darling,” she says, praising me as if I’m her dog. “See how easy that was? Where do you know her from?”
“My salon?”
The woman scrunches up her nose.
No. Not the salon. “I know her from the grocery store?”
She shakes her head.
“A house call? From the house call she booked when she called me to get her hair done.”
The cop nods. “A house call. Which house?”
“I was at the gate that day because she called me to come do her hair at the Crossbow mansion.”
“Now you’re catching on,” the male detective says. He pushes a bottle of water toward me. I’m parched, but I think they might poison me. Call me crazy, but violent things have happened since I arrived at the station.
“What is your relationship with her?” the woman asks.
“Um, she’s a client.”
“Or maybe you haven’t come out of your closet yet. Your daughter—”
“Leave my daughter out of this,” I bark.
The detective smirks. “I don’t think I will.”
“If you mention my daughter again, I’ll clamp my mouth shut. You’ll get nothing from me.”
“Are you threatening me?”
I spit on her.
She slaps me. Hard. I fall off the chair and can’t get up. I don’t even try. I cry again. They’re going to pin me with murder or, at the very least, accessory to murder. It’s what corrupt cops and lawmakers do, and everyone is corrupt in Selnoa.
It doesn’t even matter if they’re paid by Crossbow or someone else, or hell, maybe they’re not even paid by anyone.
Maybe they just want to get ahead in their careers.
They want to impress their boss. Something, anything, to get ahead when a case like this presents itself.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work on a major case like this one.
She’s young, younger than me even. A newbie with connections in corrupt places, probably, getting her feet wet in the dirty business. She’s also a woman in a male-dominated field. Lots to prove. Lots to learn. I’m her ticket to a big promotion.
The police have circled the mansion for a week with no suspects, no explanations. They’ll lose their funding; their jobs are at stake.
The male detective bends to lift me. His badge slips out of the top shirt pocket and falls onto the floor. I read the name. Detective Belvich. Once I’m seated again with my face heating up on the side that she slapped, he picks up his badge and slips it into the front pocket of his pants.
The woman rests her palms on the table and leans in.
I lean back.
“The man in the picture is Endo Macarley, Massio Crossbow’s half brother.
They hate each other. We have a video of him shooting Massio.
The woman is the daughter of a known weapons manufacturer.
We’re not sure how they’re connected yet or why the meeting was called, but Endo wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t a life-or-death situation.
I think this woman”—the detective pokes the brunette on the picture—“is the key to solving this case. Did she ask you to bring the rifle?”
Oh God. I nod.
“Very good. This woman called you, and Endo gave you a rifle.”
“I never made it inside the mansion.”
“Sure you did,” Detective Belvich says.
“I need you to help me connect the dots, Ms. Ferrar,” the woman follows up.
The lights go out, plunging us into pitch darkness.
The alarms blare. The fire sprinkler showers us with water.
The detectives shout as the door to the interrogation room opens and someone enters the room.
I think it’s a guard, but then I hear popping sounds.
The detectives hit the floor as if the intruder shot them.
The person unlocks my chains. He lifts me by sliding his hands under my armpits and starts to drag me out. I trip over bodies. I’m so terrified that I panic for the second time in two days. The first time I panicked was when they told me that the rifle was the weapon that killed Massio Crossbow.
I can barely breathe as he drags me through the hall. It’s dark. You would think the police station would have a generator in case of a power outage, but that might also be disabled. The red emergency lights flash in the corners, so we can see where we’re going a little.
The gun the man wields is like an extension of his arm, and people fall like bowling pins in front of him. Screams of pain. Shouts for help. The alarms blare, and water pours on us. It’s mayhem. It’s the Twilight Zone for me.
I can’t understand what’s happening. As I rush down the hallway with the man’s hand gripping my biceps as he drags me along, I feel like this is all happening to someone else. An out-of-body experience.
We burst outside, and I squint against the bright daylight. A black SUV appears, its brakes screeching on the asphalt. The man throws me inside it, and we peel off like bats out of hell.
In the back of the SUV, there are two seats like there are in limousines. The seats face each other. I sit on one, my palms on the leather cushions, balancing myself so I don’t hit my head on the window as the SUV sharply cuts corners.
Across from me sits a clean-shaven man in a sharp, tailored suit.
One of his long legs is propped on the seat next to me, which I find odd.
He’s looking down into his hands, which both hold silenced pistols.
There’s another man next to me. Same obsidian suit.
His weapons are golden, with silencers screwed onto the barrels.
The tops of his hands are inked with skull-and-bone tattoos.
He lifts an arm and smears a spatter of blood over his chin and cheek.
He’s the one who…rescued me?
He extracted a detainee from a police station.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, his voice familiar, his profile undeniably the same as the man who was in my house. The one I ran over. The one who carried the rifle that I forgot to leave under the bridge with him. But I don’t remember him being tattooed. Are they stickers? Fake? What…
The man across from me looks up. One of his eyes is blue, the other light brown.
“You,” I manage to utter, my voice a bare whisper.
Quiet as ever, the man nods.
If this is the man who was at my apartment, then who got me out of the station? The one sitting next to me? It sure looks like him. His brother. His twin?