by Adira August
Before You Begin…
This book is a stand-alone and not part of the Hunt&Cam4Ever series. The Hunter Dane Investigations series, of which this is the first book, is aimed at a general audience of murder mystery and suspense readers. No “on screen” sex.
Regular H&C4E readers should know The Interrogation happens at the end of September just before Secret Men begins. This means some relationship milestones haven’t happened yet.
addi-
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The Interrogation
A Hunter Dane Investigation
Adira August
Content Editor
Dianalee Rode
Line Editor
Tanja Ongkiehong
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously..
Copyright © 2020 Adira August
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Downloading “free” copies not provided by the author often results in downloading adware or malware into your device. Purchase only on Amazon.
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First Edition
INSIDE
Before You Begin...
For…
Late September 2017
The Parking Lot
The Kitchen
The On-Ramp
440 Dunton Court
Homicide
The Principals
The Info Desk
The Unexpected
Interrogation One
Plans
Strategy
Morning Snow
Epilogue
LAST THINGS:
For the Grammarians (of whom I am not one):
BIG HANS
FIRETOWERS
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For…
...those who do.
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* * *
Late September 2017
* * *
The Parking Lot
* * *
A boy’s red-and-silver sneakers pump the pedals of his red Huffy Moto X.
Small fingers spin the combination on the bike lock, attaching the bike to a rack. Nearby, a red backpack is snatched up, and the sneakered feet cut between cars in a parking lot.
An adult’s arm in a suit jacket appears from between the cars. A man’s hand holds out a picture—a black and white, button-eyed, fuzzball of a puppy.
The boy’s fingers touch the picture.
The backpack hits a silver trunk where it meets a car’s dark-tinted back window.
The open back door of a silver car, a seat back folded forward, the trunk a dark maw.
A man bent over, head and arms inside the car, struggling with something.
The seat back in place.
The backpack snatched off the trunk. Eyes dart around the parking lot. The backpack flies through the air, slung toward the bike rack.
The driver’s door closes.
A silver Mercedes sedan pulls out of the parking lot of an urban lake park into morning traffic.
The Kitchen
* * *
“Are we driving in separately?”
Hunter Dane sat at the granite-topped island that separated Cam’s kitchen from the great room of his foothills A-frame. He clutched a mug of coffee in both hands as if it were the only thing holding him up.
He was not a morning person.
Camden Snow was. Awake every day before dawn without the help of an alarm, he worked out in the well-equipped room off his bedroom. The results of which Hunter thoroughly enjoyed.
“We’ll take your Bronco,” Cam answered. “We’re leaving early to get back before the storm hits, right?” He opened a drawer and grabbed a handful of antiseptic wipes.
Cam wasn’t exactly OCD, but he was meticulous about cleanliness, especially where sex was involved. When he scooped up a second handful, Hunter perked up.
Cam smirked at him. “I thought you were against assuming anything?”
“True,” Hunt said, finishing the coffee. “But I’m a big fan of hope.”
In his off hours, Detective Lieutenant Hunter Dane craved respite from life-or-death decisions, release from responsibility. Cam was safety, care and control in a ruthless, chaotic world. At only twenty four, dominance and certitude rolled off the former Olympian and forced that world to recede.
Cam came out from behind the island and hooked an arm around Hunt’s neck, pulling him back for a deep kiss. Hunter’s body immediately relaxed, blood rushed. He shifted on the stool.
Cam pulled back a little. “Too bad I have to get in early. I have a lot to do before the thing. This afternoon we’ll be back here, snowed in. Lots of time.”
“That’s eight hours from now.”
Cam nuzzled Hunt’s ear and whispered, “Keep hoping.”
The On-Ramp
* * *
On a wide suburban arterial, a jackknifed semi had lodged itself firmly under a freeway overpass.
Two Denver cops directed a crawl of vehicles between several mangled cars that had slammed into each other trying to avoid slamming into the truck.
On the berm, south of the westbound ramp, rookie traffic Officer Emil Xavier, 23, worked on the accident report inside his cruiser. On his own for only a month, Xavier focused intently on his clipboard. He needed to get this one right.
He checked his computer monitor for the time, 09:06. Beeping from his onboard computer signaled an alert. A school picture of a boy with sandy-hair, warm brown eyes and a crooked smile appeared on his monitor.
Xavier barely registered the announcement from dispatch, deciding how best to diagram the complex scene.
“Attention Amber Alert. Victim Brian Trowbridge, eight years old, last seen Sloan Lake Park, zero eight fifty-five…”
North was supposed to go at the top, but it might be simpler to put South at the top, since all the action happened north of the overpass.
“...tan slacks, blue jacket, knit scarf white, navy and orange with letters B-R-I-A-N…”
Cars crawled past Xavier’s window. He positioned his template and drew a few lines.
“...eight-year-old male Caucasian, four feet two inches, fifty-five pounds, blond and brown…”
A silver Mercedes sedan crept along next to him, close enough to touch through his open window. It moved slowly ahead in the line of traffic.
Looking up to check the location and angle of the semi, Xavier glanced casually at a long knit scarf caught on a rear wiper, flapping around on the trunk of a silver car that moved ahead and out of view.
He went back to his report to label the vehicles. ... His head jerked up. He dropped the clipboard, clutched the edge of his computer screen:
“...knit scarf white, navy and orange with letters B-R-I-A-N…”
Up ahead, the Mercedes entered the ramp for Sixth Avenue west.
“Shit!”
Trapped by disabled vehicles and slow traffic, Xavier leapt out of his cruiser, scribbling the license plate on his palm. He tore after the Mercedes on foot, dodging twisted metal.
He pounded up the side of the entrance ramp, skidded a little on gravel. Head tilted to key his shoulder mic, Xavier’s hip rammed into a car’s protruding side mirror.
The impact spun him; the mirror caught his holster. His sidearm skittered across the ramp. The cop hit the ground.
In the side mirror of the Mercedes, the driver’s eyes watched cars zoom toward him, waiting to enter the highway. The eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. Nothing unusual. A dull thu
mp ... thump-thump from the trunk. The driver’s tongue darted out to wet parted lips. Eyes in the mirror closed briefly, relishing the sounds.
Xavier scrabbled to his feet. Limping. Running. Chest heaving. Keyed his mic.
“Nine-two-six!”
“Nine twenty-six, go ahead.”
The Mercedes was at the top of the ramp, blinker on to merge.
Xavier ran, gasping. “... Amber alert ... suspect vehicle ... westbound ... Sixth Avenue … from Sheriden ... silver … Mercedes ... four door …”
Xavier was four cars back. The young cop read off his palm as he closed on the Mercedes.
“Colorado ... passenger plate…” (... three cars ...)
“Alpha, Charlie… ” (... two cars ...)
“... Zebra, four, zero, nine, zero …”
Xavier touched the fender of the Mercedes. The car surged forward. A desperate grab as it accelerated away, leaving the scarf clutched in his fist.
“... Tinted windows. No I.D. on driver ... Alert Lakewood ... Jeffco...”
Xavier stumbled to the side, doubled over, gulping for air. Along the edge of the scarf in his hands: "BRIAN."
He watched the Mercedes race west toward the foothills.
With a child in the trunk.
440 Dunton Court
* * *
“I can’t keep submitting time sheets to pay people to not work here.” Diane Natani dropped a sheaf of printouts on Detective Lieutenant Hunter Dane’s desk. “You want to keep doing it, you sign them.”
He glanced up. “I sign off on case stuff. Administration is your deal.” He quick-shuffled a deck of cards and counted sixteen off the top.
She dropped into the visitor’s chair and yanked the leather clip out of her long, black hair—most of which had already escaped the restraint. One-hundred percent Navajo, her hair was as lustrous as her equally dark eyes and apparently as irritating to her as she found Hunter Dane.
“Nobody’s working! I sign those, it’ll be fraud.” Natani finger-combed her hair back, twisted it up and fixed the clip back in place. It drooped an inch as soon as she let go. “I’m a goddamn deputy district attorney, detective, not your administrative assistant.”
“Everybody is working.” He separated the sixteen cards into four piles by suit. “Hang on, I have to write this down.”
“Working where? The bullpen is empty. We don’t have a case. You’re playing with cards. The only one working around here is me, and I don’t work for you.”
“Hey, you’re the one who said I was head of the Unit.”
“No, the mayor did that when he created a special unit just for you. I was only the messenger.”
“Yeah, I have a vague memory of you pounding on my door at some ungodly hour of the morning when I was supposed to be on leave, with the orders.” He shuffled and dealt again.
Hunt waved his orders at her. “What kind of special unit?”
“Technically,” Natani said, “it’s the Forensic Data Inquiry, Analysis, and Examination Unit.”
“The FDIAEU? All the good acronyms were taken?”
“You want a boring one that won’t attract attention. You handle rich people, Dane. It’s like a special skill. You aren’t corrupt. You understand politics.”
“So I’m head of the Managing Rich People’s Expectations Unit?”
“No. You’re head of the ‘Do the job without media exploitation of the principals’ unit.”
Hunter’s team called the detached and very discreet section of DPD homicide “the Unit” because MRPEU wasn’t much of an acronym, either.
“In any event—I’m in charge and I made admin your job.”
She stood. “I’m officially assigned here as the district attorney’s liaison and consultant. You didn’t make me, anything—you ignored your responsibilities. If I didn’t do the admin crap, we would have folded months ago. But your three missing team members who are not working cannot keep getting paid for not working. Not with my name on the time sheets.”
She locked her arms across her stomach. A thick lock of hair slithered out of the clip and settled on her shoulder.
Hunter picked up the papers she’d brought in and held them out. “Twee’s at the Hort place doing temperature measurements in the spider hole before the weather hits later. Merisi and Snow are in the empty office down the hall, cataloguing the Tussy material.”
Natani ignored the forms. “So your crime scene specialist is working on her journal paper, and the junior detective is helping your multimedia expert start his own business.”
“If the Hort suspect is ever found competent to stand trial, you’ll be very glad Carol Twee is being so meticulous about the evidence. And yes, Cam is starting a nonprofit, and Merisi’s making copies of the Tussy material. But there’s also a chance Merisi will find clues to the identity of our other John Doe once they have it all organized.”
“Right. Except Mike Merisi isn’t trying to find clues to anything. He’s down the hall because he has a huge crush on Snow, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Merisi does? You met Cam interviewing him as a witness in a homicide. You asked for an autograph.”
“It was for my sister.” The twisted mass of her hair slid down another inch onto the collar of her blouse. “She’s a fan of Alpine skiing.”
“Diane, your sister’s an airhead who couldn’t name a single event Cam’s medalled in.”
“In any case”—she waved away the forms in his hand—“I’m not signing them.”
Hunter’s head dropped. So did his arm. He pushed himself wearily to his feet and went around the desk. “Fine. We’ll go down the hall and round up a couple of the strays.”
THE UNIT WAS THE only official occupant of the top floor of 440 Dunton Court. The 19th century, city-owned building had one creaking elevator and one wide stone stairway.
Hunter’s team occupied offices across from the elevator and around the corner from the staircase. The bathroom—a one-holer serving both men and women—sat at the far end of the hall between two empty offices. Except one of the empty ones held a dozen work tables and chairs and a copy machine—as well as the lifework of a murder victim.
Camden Snow was determined to share that work with the world. The city just wasn’t aware of that, yet.
Hunter figured what the city didn’t know couldn’t hurt it, and if someone did wander onto the floor, it would look less odd if another office was occupied.
He held open a heavy oak door for his disgruntled prosecutor, motioning her inside with a head bow.
Natani gave him an eye-roll as she passed. The piles of reports and print-outs, and stacks of journal articles she knew were inside hardly warranted any fanfare.
“SURPRIIIIIISE!!!”
Clapping and shouts of “Happy Birthday!” greeted her. Cake, hors d'oeuvres and beverages—alcoholic and non—had replaced the paper now stacked in neat piles on the floor against the back wall. Twee and Snow and Merisi, ADAs, politicos and a few judges raised glasses in her direction.
She spun around. “You asshole, Dane!” She wiped at her eyes. Her hair clip slipped off and fell to the floor.
“No way we close a single case without you.” He kissed her cheek.
She took a breath and faced the crowd.
IT WAS A GOOD party. Hunter enjoyed socializing with judges and lawyers outside his role as homicide detective.
Parties with civilians not inside the justice system too often included listening to complaints about somebody’s last ticket or questions about why the police couldn’t stop people from killing one another. Hunter refrained from explaining that when a man shot his brother-in-law to death because he ate the last piece of pizza, it usually happened in someone’s homes where he wasn’t allowed to station a cop 24/7.
But at this party were people who liked him and his work. And the feeling was mutual. He knew that was true because he made the guest list.
Hunt circulated freely, carrying a bottle of beer he barely sipped at, just in
case some rich kid ate the last dollop of someone’s caviar. No one talked shop. Mostly they talked about the weather and how they could be in the midst of global warming and be expecting a major blizzard that evening.
One of the young ADAs was explaining there was more condensed water in the atmosphere. Hunter looked around—Cam was perched on a tall stool across the room. Focused on him.
A summons.
Hunter faded away from the group toward his Dom. He really hoped Cam didn’t have weather on his mind.
“GO TO THE EMPTY office across the hall and wait for me.”
Hunter almost didn’t hear Cam’s order over the party noise. What he had heard must be wrong. “It’s locked up.”
Cam opened his hand to show Hunter a key. “Not anymore.”
A long swig on his bottle of Modelo Negro camouflaged Hunter’s visual sweep of the crowd. “They’ll notice if we’re both gone.”
Camden Snow didn’t stand or move or do anything but ask softly, “Are my orders open for discussion, sub?”
Hunter shifted with the rush of warmth that threatened to cause an embarrassment of sexual riches.
When standing, Camden Snow was a couple inches shorter than the rangy, dark, six-foot-two detective. Sitting, he had to tilt his head back to hold Hunter's gaze. Which he did with unwavering confidence in Hunt’s obedience.
“No, Cam.” Hunter put the half-empty bottle on a table and slipped through the crowd to the door. People would assume he was going to the bathroom.
Across the hall in two long strides, Hunt entered the office. Bright natural light through the west-facing windows showed the space was entirely empty. He adjusted himself to avoid being painfully trapped by the leg of his briefs. Not that Cam might not purposely shove him back down there.