I took a breath and nodded. “I went to see a guy I met online. He and I have been chatting for a while, and it was time to meet in person.” I didn’t mention Jericho’s name because they didn’t need to know it was him. They met him at my condo and at the police station, and I didn’t want to cause him any more problems. However, using the story Jericho had told his mother wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.
“And where was that?” Compton asked.
“Maryland. Why? Did you find something else out about Byron’s murder? Are you still convinced I’m the person who killed him?”
My gut was spinning like a dryer at the idea they were going to charge me with Byron’s murder. I wasn’t sure what they had or what they thought they had on me, but I wasn’t going to jail for something I didn’t do.
I opened my briefcase and pulled out the envelope that had been delivered to my office on Friday. I hadn’t opened it until Saturday morning when I went into the office to catch up on work. There it sat on my desktop.
After I had a cup of coffee, I picked up the mysterious envelope. On the outside, my name and business address were typed on a label. There was no return address, which was odd.
I grabbed a letter opener and slid the tip under the flap, glancing inside the envelope to see one sheet of paper with what appeared to be a picture. Dread filled my body, sending a shiver down my spine.
Pulling out the paper, shock zinged through me at the sight of a photo of Byron with his head turned at an awkward angle. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was open with blood trickling out, frozen for eternity.
Words were smeared on the eight-by-ten photo with some sort of brown paint, maybe?
You’re next.
Immediately, I picked up the photo and jammed it into the envelope, shoving it into my briefcase and locking it until I sat in front of the officer and the detective.
I rolled the tumblers of the lock and opened the briefcase, pulling out the tan envelope. “This was delivered to my office after my car blew up.” I put the envelope on the table and slid it over to them.
“Who touched this besides you?” Compton asked. Mathers retrieved a pair of rubber gloves from her pocket, pulling them on before she picked up the envelope and stared at me, waiting for me to answer Compton’s question.
“Oh, uh, my assistant accepted it from the guard at the front desk, I’m guessing, but beyond that, I have no clue.” Did I look like a fucking psychic?
“We’ll need their prints to eliminate them.” Mathers then reached into the envelope and pulled out the photo. She placed it on the table between them. “Who’s this?”
I glanced at the picture again, another shiver racking my spine. “That was my assistant before you found his remains in the trunk of my car.”
Compton stood and left the room, returning an instant later with a large bag labeledEvidencein red over the top where the bag closed. “Do you know who left it?” Compton asked.
Mathers turned to him and rolled her eyes before returning her focus to me. “I’m guessing no, so we’ll pop down to your office building and look at the security footage. We’ll get the guard’s and your assistant’s prints while we’re there.”
A hard knock shattered the silence as the three of us stared at the garish photo. The door opened, and a tall, thin guy stepped inside and handed an evidence bag containing stapled pages I’d never seen before. “Thanks,” he said before the door closed.
Compton opened the bag and handed me the pages. “Since we didn’t get your cell, we subpoenaed your call log and text messages from your carrier.”
“I’m not surprised. Find anything good?” .
I was done with theirgood cop, bad coproutine. I had meetings on The Hill with four Republicans and drinks with Marv Thompson and his boss, Senator Rowe. Marv left me a message that Rowe was on the fence about the transgender healthcare bill the Republicans were jamming through the House, and I wanted to discuss it with her before the Senate vote.
Compton shook his head. “It lines up with your calendar that we seized. Nothing we didn’t already know, but Mr. Fitzpatrick, don’t leave town without letting us know.”
What a condescending prick!
I held up two fingers, resisting the urge to lower my index finger to flip them the bird, and I walked out of the interview room, heading straight for the front entrance. Dealing with the police was fucking tiresome.
Dominic stood when he saw me, walking ahead of me, which made me think of Jericho. It was the biggestdeja vuof my life seeing the front of the building just as I had that day. Hell, the windows were still boarded up from the last time I was at the shithole.
The police still had no suspects in the drive-by shooting intended to end my life. They hadn’t even mentioned it when we were in the interview room. I was beginning to wonder if they even gave a fuck.
We stopped at the front desk for Dom to collect his Sig Sauer P365x handgun—as he’d told me—and then we headed toward the front door. He turned to me. “Gimme a minute, Sean.”
He walked outside and flagged a taxi, his head on a swivel. When a white taxi with blue letters stopped in front of him, Dominic stuck his head inside and spoke to the driver before he jogged up the steps and motioned me out. I followed him to the cab, him continuing to observe everything that happened around us.
It reminded me of the young guy on the bike who got hit by the black Tahoe used in the drive-by. “That kid who got hit in that drive-by, has anyone talked to him?”
