Refusing to meet him in his room, Saffi had reserved one of the conference spaces at the upscale Beverly Hills hotel he was staying in while he looked for a new house. Although, it might’ve been more effective to interrogate him at a police station. If only the bureaucratic mess of paperwork it would require didn’t put her off.
No, it was better to stay off the books. A mutually consensual discussion, nothing more. And if the man ended up confessing his sins to her, well, it would only be to her benefit.
“Mr. Olsen, if we could please stay on topic—”
“Do you have any idea the work I’ve put into this industry? This film is going to be the best thing to grace cinema in fifty years! But just because I like to have fun every once in a while, I’m suddenly a threat to society? I’ve spent every waking hour of the past few months on that set. Just ask my assistant!”
“That’s great, Mr. Olsen,” Saffi had replied absently. “Now, the party where Dimple Kapoor was targeted—”
Olsen’s eyes had darkened at Dimple’s mention. “You can tell that little bitch to shove her lies—”
“And what, exactly, did she lie about?” Saffi asked.
“ShewishesI touched her—I didn’t even go to that party,” he seethed.
Saffi had paused at that, straightening up considerably. “What do you mean by that?”
Olsen shifted in his chair, as though uncomfortable, but continued in a much more subdued tone. “Are you deaf or stupid? I said I didn’t go.”
Saffi clenched her fists. “Mr. Olsen, this is a serious claim you’re making. You do understand that if you were not at the party, there is no way you were to blame for Dimple Kapoor’s fall? What’s more, the real killer could be framing you. Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Olsen shouted. “It’s the ethnic bitch with the long hair—she did this to me!”
He slammed his fist down on the table with a loud thud and Saffi felt the vibrations against her elbows. She didn’t flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Men like Olsen were used to lording their power and stature over others. But no matter what he might think, Saffi was the one who held the power there. She could, however, somewhat sympathize with the plight of being the only one who could sense something off about Dimple Kapoor.
“How would you explain her blood on your suit?”
“It wasn’t me! Those are custom-made—very expensive,” he scoffed, clearly put out that Saffi was unaffected by his antics. “Dry clean only. I’ve never even spilled water on them.”
She heard the frustration creep into her voice. “If not at the party,then where were you that night? Is there anyone who could verify your whereabouts?”
And because nothing could ever be so easy, Olsen suddenly closed in on himself. Saffi could see it in the way he angled away, crossing his arms. If he was refusing to tell her what he’d been doing, then Saffi figured it must’ve been something equally as damning—if not more. But if she could figure out what he was hiding, then maybe she could at least get him locked away for another, more appropriate reason. Killing two birds with one stone. If Olsen became too defensive, however, there would be no reasoning with him.
“This information could exonerate you. If you’re found guilty, you’ll be put on death row. And that’s exactly what whoever is framing you wants to happen.”
Saffi had played the Dimple card in the hopes that it would get him riled up enough to admit something. It had been far from helpful.
“I don’t care what that bitch says, I didn’t lay a hand on her,” Olsen growled, fists clenched so hard they trembled. “Don’t tell me she’s still holding a grudge? It was just a little something to get her to loosen up—what she gave me was worse!”
Saffi stilled, pen frozen above her notepad. She’d been almost certain that she’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
“What?” he asked, suddenly defensive. “She’d never been drunk before. I did her a favor! Usually, girls love that shit.”
Saffi’s throat ran dry. “Are you telling me you drugged her?”
“I didn’tdrugher, it was just a little alcohol. And it was years ago! It’s not like I—”
Saffi hadn’t realized she had her hands fisted in Olsen’s shirt until he’d stopped speaking, his breath cut off by her tight grip. For a moment, all she could do was stare down at his horrified expression and watch in fascination as his face began to redden. His hands scrambled weakly against her hold. If this was what it took for him to learn that it was not she who should fear him, but the other way around, then so beit.
“Where were you the night of the party?” Her tone was hushed and angry.
When he didn’t immediately answer, she shook him and repeated the question. The color of his face was approaching tomato and Saffi was beginning to think she was going about this the wrong way. Olsen was showing no signs of confessing. She let up the slightest amount and he choked out—“Laila.”
His ex-wife.
The one who’d tried to sue him for domestic abuse and lost. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together. Revenge for the attempted lawsuit or even thoughtless violence, whatever reason Olsen had for being with his wife that night didn’t matter. What mattered was how unlikely it was she would be willing to testify on behalf of her abuser.
Just as Olsen began to relax, Saffi tightened her grip on his shirt collar once again. “Don’t get the wrong idea. You may not be guilty of murder, but you’ve done much worse. If I can promise you one thing, it’s this: So long as I live, I will not let you walk away a free man.”
