“Special? Besides being an incredibly talented, famous and rich musician, I’m not special.” The agent’s face contorted.Clearly, not the answer he was going for.“You want to ask me something, Agent? Just ask.”
“Why is someone so determined to kill you that they’d murder hundreds of innocent people?” Agent Anderson asked as he popped a fry into his mouth.
Ethan took a long breath, staring the agent in the eyes as he rocked his head from side to side. “That’s the million-dollar question.”
“So, what’s the answer?”
“I wish I knew.” He added a shrug for emphasis.
“Not good enough,” Agent Anderson said, his voice getting louder than the pleasant conversation they were having.
“What do you want me to say? I wish I knew. I don’t.” Ethan let the words fly out of his mouth rapidly. “I’m a boring popstar.”
“You’re a boringgaypopstar.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think this has anything to do with my sexual orientation?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who was fucking…or was it getting fucked by two guys? One’s dead in a morgue in New Orleans, and one is laid up in a hospital here in Houston. So, you tell me.”
Ethan looked at the agent. His pulse rose, and he felt the tenseness in his jaw as he bit out the words, “I have never had sex with Blayne Dickenson. He’s only involved in this because I dragged him into my world.”
“Really? So, he’s not one of your little butt buddies?”
“Butt buddy? Who says that? You know what? This conversation is over. I’m not saying another word to you until my attorney is present.”
Ethan stood up and left the conference table, placing his back to Agent Anderson, looking out of the window. Ethan watched as Agent Anderson grabbed his fast-food back and left the room. The agent mumbled loud enough for Ethan to hear, “Fucking fagots.”
Ethan whirled on the man and yelled, “What did you say?”
“Keep your voice down,” the agent said.
“Why? So, you can use more homophobic slurs? I think not!” Ethan wasn’t sure if anyone paid attention to his outburst, but he wasn’t about to back down now.
* * * *
Agent Murphy
Murphy and Harper exited the helicopter and looked up at the green glass building.God, that thing is ugly. A middle-aged man with a short-cropped haircut met them outside the helicopter pad.
“Agents Harper and Murphy,” the man said, “I’m Agent Raymond Anderson. How was the trip?”
“Uneventful,” Murphy replied, yelling over the roar of the helicopter blades. “What have you learned?”
“Not much. The suspect isn’t very forthcoming.”
Murphy narrowed her eyes at the man. “There’s no reason to believe Mr. Bond is anything other than a victim in this case.”
“Really?” Agent Anderson questioned. “He sure acts like he has something to hide.”
The three agents walked into the building, and Murphy, for one, was glad to have her hearing back to normal. She was never a massive fan of helicopter rides. She didn’t get motion sickness, but the blasted machines were always deafening, even with a headset or earplugs.
Agent Anderson led Murphy and Harper through the building to an elevator bank. On the ride up, the three kept silent. The small group approached the door to the conference room, and Agent Anderson pulled out his keys to unlock the door.
“You locked him in?” Murphy said incredulously.
“He should be glad we have him in a fancy conference room and not one of our interrogation rooms,” Agent Anderson said before opening the door. “The little prick is not exactly the most cooperative person in the world.”
Murphy glared at the Houston agent. Something about the man rubbed her the wrong way. She couldn’t quite grasp what it was, but he didn’t seem to be the right person for this job.
