“What?”
“We’ve arranged an interview for you with Leland King from—”
“Stiles Times.” Oh, Lord. King had mentioned her in a piece he’d written in regards to a recent case. It was a big ordeal, apparently, to the rest of the city, but to her, she would have preferred to have had nothing to do with it. The limelight wasn’t invented for cops—especially her. “I take it I don’t have a choice.”
Winston put his mug down on a nearby table. “You will be prepared for the interview, on what to say, what not to say. You can’t fuck this up, Knight, do you hear me?”
She nodded. She also received the unspoken communication that lingered beneath the words being said out loud. The chief was after her hide again, and he would take a chunk out of it large enough to render fatal. Again, her career, her life, hung in the balance.
“Your representation has already been arranged. They will be present when you speak with King this afternoon. I will likely join you as well.”
“This afternoon? What about IA?”
“They’ll be coming for you shortly. After that, you will be prepped for your interview. And you’ve been booked in with the department shrink for tomorrow afternoon.” He fully faced her now and slid a hand into a pocket. “You’re going to have to explain for your actions before this is all over. I hope you’ll be able to.”
This was the first time she ever felt the man was on her side. True, there were times that a glimmer of admiration filtered through, either in his words or a reflection in his pupils, but everything indicated he really didn’t want her to fail this time. Madison wondered if he actually cared about her, or if he was on a mission to prove to the chief that he was in control of his staff.
-
Chapter 16
MADISON WENT TO THE INTERVIEW room and waited on the officers in charge of the investigation. She hoped it wasn’t Alex Commons from narcotics, with whom she had built up a rather prejudiced track record. If it was, she’d leave. On top of that, her union rep was running behind—something to do with a blown-out tire.
It was times like this, Madison wondered if this was her life. Where had she gone so wrong? She shouldn’t be sitting here waiting to defend herself, when, just rooms away, two members of the Russian Mafia sat smug and self-assured, hiding behind their money and power. If Blake found a way to let them walk, she’d—
Toby Sovereign entered the room with another detective from the division, Erik Brown.
“You’ve got to be effing kidding me.” She shot to her feet and pointed a finger at Sovereign. “No. There’s no way I’m being investigated by you.”
“Would you please sit, Detective Knight?” Brown asked. His features were delicate, like a woman’s.
“Huh.” Madison spun, turning her back on the two men as she bit down on her lip, hoping for the strength not to hurl out how absurd this situation was. An IA investigation led by her ex-fiancé? No. No way.
She faced them. “I’m not going to do this. How—do you have any idea who—” Her eyes sliced from Brown to Sovereign and back.
“Our conversation will be recorded,” Brown said.
She narrowed her eyes and dropped into the chair. “I’m not saying one word until—”
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” A woman in her late thirties settled in beside her. She was carrying enough bags to go away for a week. One large case was strapped over a shoulder, one was tucked under an arm, and she held a briefcase.
Once everything was situated between the table and floor, she sat down and extended her hand to Madison. “Carla Smith.”
The handshake ended abruptly, as Carla’s attention went to the opposing side. “Let’s make this quick and stay on point.”
Madison pried her eyes from the woman. She was deadly efficient when it came to business.
Carla swept her hair back with both hands and tossed her head, letting the wavy strands fall where they might.
Sovereign looked from Carla, to Madison. In that glance, Madison read a lot of emotions in the guy. He didn’t want to be in this position any more than she did. Still, he could have refused, but he didn’t. Was he going to seek revenge because she turned her back on him?
“Everything will be taped for the record.” Brown hit a button on a recording device set in the middle of the table.
While Madison doubted the existence of a literal tape, the result was the same—digital or not, everything she said could be used against her.
“Please start at the beginning. Tell us what happened.”
Carla shifted, placing one hand under a thigh and turning her torso toward Madison. Her other arm went to the table, that hand to her face, her long fingers spanning across her cheek. “You can go ahead, Detective.”
“I went there to get answers.”
“There? Please be more specific,” Brown asked.
Anger cinched in her chest. She answered anyway. “Homeland Logistics.”
“Why did you go there?”
“To get answers.”
“What sort of answers?”
She had two options—proceed by laying it all out, efficient like her representation, or draw it out in a step-by-step questioning process that would take all day. She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair.
“His name was Bryan Lexan. He was a defense attorney. He represented Dimitre Petrov in his murder trial—the one that saw him put away on a life sentence.”
“Please, Detective, stick to point.”
Her eyes went to Brown. “He was murdered after Petrov was found guilty.”
“Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“No, I do not.”
“So you went to Homeland Logistics to get answers about the lawyer’s murder?”
“Yes.”
Carla shimmied again. This time it had her crossing her arms in front of her chest. It seemed as if she needed to lay off caffeine.
“Did you get your answer?” Brown asked.
Madison let her eyes drift over everyone in the room. “I haven’t yet.”
“So it was pointless, except for the fact that Sergey was shot in the abdomen.”
Carla spun straight and placed a flattened palm on the table. “From what I understand, there is no proof that he was shot by the bullet fired from Detective Knight’s gun, or shot period, for that matter. There was no bullet. No licensed doctor has come forward to say he took one from the Russian. What we’re left with is the word of a Russian Mafia member against a proven detective. Am I correct?”
Madison held her breath.
Carla’s question had Brown going into the case folder in front of him. She leaned her torso over the table. “Well?”
“No. The bullet wasn’t retrieved.”
“Then, we’ll proceed without the accusations.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brown cleared his throat.
“In fact, when I read up on the latest evidence, there was a bullet, but this one was recovered from the brick wall, behind Sergey. Is that correct?” Carla waved a pointed finger to the file. “Double check that.”
A bullet was recovered in the wall? Why had no one told her about that? Madison let out the breath she had been holding.
Brown followed orders from Carla the way a puppy obeyed its master. Seconds later, he closed the folder.
“Like I thought.” Carla glanced at Madison before rising and collecting all of her bags. She motioned for Madison to follow her out. “I don’t even see any wrongdoing here. Detective Knight went to the warehouse—she fired her gun? Yes? Maybe? We have yet to prove it.”
“She had one less bullet in her gun. It went somewhere,” Brown said.
“Yet we don’t jump to conclusions, do we? As I was going on to say, they held her against her will and threatened her life. They would have been successful if the bullet was in the
right chamber. It’s plain what the agenda was. If SWAT hadn’t stepped in, the Russians would have killed her. In fact, the records state that SWAT found her bound to a chair, and the Russian, Anatolli, was holding a revolver to her head.” Carla made a demonstration of it as she spoke, turning her hand into a makeshift gun against her temple.
On the count of three…
A drop of sweat trickled down Madison’s back. Tremors surged through her body and she willed her focus across the room, some place between Sovereign and Brown.
“Without a verified wrongdoing, this really is a waste of time.”
Brown straightened up, clasping his hands on the table. There was a glint in his eyes. “My turn. As I said, there is a bullet from the detective’s gun that is unaccounted for. She doesn’t deny firing the weapon. In fact, she’s admitted to it in this report.” Brown waved her statement. “When a gun is fired, there has to be answers or law enforcement could run around shooting whatever they felt like.”
Carla lifted the flap of her satchel and went rooting through the bag. “Your statement, again, implies Detective Knight shot something or someone. This has not been substantiated.” She tossed two business cards on the table—one across and one in front of Madison. “New design on the cards.” She threw in an odd smile. Back to Brown. “You call me when you have something on this detective because right now you don’t.”
Madison wanted to move, but she felt stapled in place. She knew that both officers watched her, and not the fleeing rep, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them. If she did, she was certain she’d gloat, and it was too soon to get excited.
-
Chapter 17
MADISON HEADED BACK TO HER DESK, feeling like her world had been tipped upside down. Even if she were found innocent of any wrongdoing, she would have a permanent mark on her record from the investigation. Add to that, now she had to talk out her feelings with a shrink.
Wasn’t it bad enough that she couldn’t have an active part in the investigation? She needed to be in that room with the Russians, even if that meant being in there with Blake Golden.
Given the clients he chose to represent, it only reassured her that she had made the right decision to break up with him when she had. They were two different people on separate pathways through life. She was the victim’s voice while he was the defender of the guilty.
Add to that, Cynthia and Terry withheld the fact that a bullet was pulled from a wall inside the warehouse. Why? They didn’t want to get her hopes up?
Terry dropped into his chair across from her. “I don’t know what you saw in that man.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”
“It’s a nightmare in there.” Terry wiped his forehead. His cheeks were flushed. “Now I have to face questioning by the rat squad.”
“He’s getting under your skin.” The cliché was audible before she had time to give it any thought, but in light of everything, they didn’t bother her near as much as they used to. “You might not have to.”
“What do you mean? Not have to what?”
“The investigation is on hold.”
He stopped all movement. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, she’d wonder if he was breathing.
“No investigation?”
“Not yet anyway.”
“What happened?”
“You sound disappointed.” She waited a few beats then asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about the bullet in the wall?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, oh that, Terry. What happened to loyalty?”
“Loyalty? Oh, that’s rich.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to run off and confront the Russians?” Terry’s arms were flailing wildly in the air.
“It was a matter of time.”
“So—what?—you’re like some ticking bomb now? You should have gone about it the right way, not skulking around by yourself like you were on a special ops mission.”
“You’re that upset that I didn’t take you along?”
“You don’t get it, do you? You could have been—”
“But I wasn’t.”
“But you weren’t.” He let out a deep breath and wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Things are going downhill fast. They are saying you provoked the attack.”
Madison laughed. “I provoked them? They tied me up in a chair and held a gun to my head. What is wrong with Blake? He’s taking a case he’s sure to lose.”
Terry shook his head. “Are you sure about that? I don’t know what to believe.”
“Terry.” Her heart palpitated. She allowed only a limited number of people into her circle—there were very few she trusted—and Terry was one of her foremost allies. At least he had been, up until now.
“I know why you went in there. You’re bull-headed. You’re probably not even taking pain pills.” His eyes went to her wrist.
She realized that she was cradling it with her other hand, but rushed to defend herself. “Bull-headed? They killed a man. Those men need to pay for that.”
Terry scoffed. “Those men have likely played a role in many murders.” His tantrum faded as his eyes latched with hers. “This is personal. I knew it. You said ‘killed a man.’ Are we still talking about Lexan?”
She looked down at her desk. Didn’t she owe the full truth to her family before confessing it to Terry?
“This is ridiculous. You expect me to talk to you, but you’re tight lipped. And you go around taking care of things the way you see fit.”
She glared at him. “Now you’re sounding like Winston.”
“The man has a point.”
Any hurt emotion that had threatened to rise was squashed back down with his attitude. She had every right to go into the business, to ask about Lexan. The past didn’t matter…even if it did.
Who pulled their gun first?
She kicked Winston’s question from her mind—again.
She deferred back to the interrogation progress, hoping to take the light off her. “Are you getting anywhere in that room?”
“Am I—” Terry rose to his feet. He started out in the direction of the bullpen but spun around to face her. “I will see this through, but it’s far from over.”
He left her feeling empty and alone. Two feelings she experienced too much in life. She had told herself that if she erected a wall and permitted few to get close that she would never get hurt, and those she let in, she wouldn’t empower with that ability. If she didn’t allow it, then anything fired at her could easily be dismissed, equated to a meaningless assault. It had sounded good in theory.
She dumped two pills from the bottle into the palm of her good hand and stared at them. Take them and have some relief, or tough it out and let the pain blind her mind to reason. She downed them in a large swallow, without water. If she actually sat still for longer than two minutes, she’d take the doctor’s advice and ice it too.
-
Chapter 18
STEPHANIE BECKER WAS ASSIGNED TO guide Madison on her approach with the media. She was late forties, and, in her high heels and black pantsuit, one for the other sharks to steer clear of. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a low chignon. This fine touch told Madison, the woman likely let her hair fall over her shoulders the minute she left the job. She had a fun flair to her personality, despite the more rigid exterior she projected.
Madison liked her the minute they shook hands.
Becker trained her on which words to leave out, and which to insert. Basically, the ones that hinted at accountability were to be eradicated from her vocabulary. She made it clear that in no way was the word sorry, or any variation thereof, to be spoken.
That was easy for Madison. She didn’t regret her actions. They were messy, they re
sulted in a sprained wrist and manpower to free her—Troy Matthews and his bulging muscles came to mind—but these sacrifices ultimately led to the truth.
Just cause. That was the key phrase she was to drive home during the interview.
Becker sat across from her, a pen held in her left hand and a lined legal pad on the table in front of her.
Madison guessed the gold accents in the pen’s design were the real deal, based on the apparent weight of it in Becker’s hand.
“Let’s go over this again,” Becker said. “What made you go to Homeland Logistics?”
“I went there to ask a question.”
“Were you on duty at the time of the visit?”
“No, I was not.”
“You said you went to ask them a question. What was it?”
Madison’s mind wanted to spit out the truth—at least the one she hid behind. She wanted the answer about the death of a young, defense attorney. She remained silent.
Becker gestured with her left hand as she spoke, the tip of her pen making wild arcs in the air. “Now, this is where Leland King may trip you up. If you say that you went there to question them about the death of a young man, the answer to your first question falls under scrutiny, and if that happens, you quickly lose credibility. You lose credibility, it will reflect badly on the department. The bad guy will be you. What will be next? Will the Stiles PD feel they have the right to go into any home, or enter the property of any suspect until they get the answers they seek?”
“I see that.”
This woman was sharp. Madison liked the way her mind worked. While Madison could take the time to project consequences, most times she would jump in and be left to face them…kind of like now.
“So how am I supposed to answer that question?” Madison asked. It must have been the radiating pain affecting her ability to formulate reasoning and retain information.
Becker aligned eyes with her. “You tell King you went there on duty.”
“I lie?”
“You lie, or all of this preparation is for naught.”
Just Cause Page 6