Processing the new data, my G-man’s jaw drops. “Don’t tell me. That bag belonged to Joanne Cormack.”
Sighing, the geek nods. “It matches the one they found at the crime scene.”
The rest talk all at once while I ignore the acids eating the pit of my stomach. “Where is she? Where is Brittany?”
Hunt picks up his phone and punches the speaker icon so we can all hear the ring with no answer.
“Find her.” In full FBI boss mode, the wolfman barks out commands.
All quiet now, they tap on their keyboards. Feeling useless, I order another tub of coffee and pace the small space.
Thank God, our pet whines because it gives me something to do. Once I attach his collar, Axel’s fingers pause, and he scowls. “Don’t go far.”
“I was thinking I could return to the beach house, do some laundry, and bring back clean clothes.”
Prepared for his objections, I barge in. “I’ll have our dog and my weapon. It’s broad daylight. That property has cameras everywhere. Please. I need to keep busy, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
“Okay, but if you see anything amiss, including arms dealers and informants, you come right back here, no detours.”
I salute him. “Aye-aye, sir.”
On the ground floor, as the canine and I pass the manager’s station, a man in a pink polo shirt calls out. “Dr. Wulf?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Hyperalert, I turn, ready to run.
I let go of my breath when the hotel employee holds a cell phone in the air. “A Mister Danbury said you left this on the bar.”
“Thank you.” As I drop the unknown device in my purse, a squad car squeals to a stop in the parking lot.
The same two detectives from earlier rush toward the elevators, and by the time Bear finishes taking a dump, they drag my husband off in cuffs.
Chapter 11
"Wolves don't lose sleep over the opinion of sheep." ~Aristotle
Axel
“I’m not saying anything until my lawyer arrives.” For two hours now, I have sat in this boring six-by-six room with nothing but two chairs, a table, and a ceiling camera.
The temperature started at 75° but now, it hovers around 90°. Judging from how my shirt sticks to my torso and sweat drips down my face, the humidity must be ninety-percent. With no idea how long it’ll take for my mouthpiece to arrive, I lie on my back under the table and catch a few Z’s.
Sometime later, the door slams and jolts me awake. Disoriented, I have no clue how much time has passed. While I slept, the cops must’ve switched on the air conditioning, a clear sign the games are about to begin.
A Fed, I’ve studied every interrogation trick and am frankly, insulted. “Has my solicitor arrived?”
The officer, a woman near retirement age, shakes her head. “You don’t have to talk, but there’s no law saying I can’t. Please sit.”
I straddle the chair across from her and nod. This is a most dangerous time for a criminal. If I flinch or appear distressed, AI will help them determine what upset me and use it as a focal point in their investigation.
The gray-haired inquisitor smiles, places her wrinkled elbows on the table, and teepees her fingers at her mouth. “Why did you leave your wife alone on your honeymoon?”
I’ve been asking myself the same question. “Lawyer, please.”
“Did you and Brittany Babcock have sex in theTiki Beach Tavern’s restroom?” She removes her reading glasses, wipes them clean, then flicks her gaze to the ceiling camera.
Saying nothing, showing no emotion, I lean forward, cross my arms, and stare back at her.
A poker player, she deals out the victim’s crime scene photos. “Joanne Cormack is a carbon copy of your ex-lover. Whose idea was the threesome? Yours or theirs?”
