The lock on his door clanged so loud it sent bolts of pain through his exhausted, throbbing head. As he forced his eyelids apart, the door swung open, and a barrel-chested guard stepped in.
“Get up, Mortimer. Your attorney’s waiting.”
Thank fuck.
With a tired, pained groan, Jansen rolled to his feet, carefully protecting his arm as he moved. As soon as he was upright, he was so dizzy he had to sit down again. Christ, when was the last time he’d eaten? Not that he thought he’d be able to eat now; anything he forced down was coming right back up with reinforcements.
“C’mon.” The guard grabbed his upper arm. “Let’sgo.” He hauled Jansen back to his feet, and the pain shooting through Jansen’s arm almost made him puke.
“Fuck! My arm!”
“Yeah, yeah. Hands behind your back.”
“Behind my—” Jansen stared plaintively at the guard, then nodded down at his arm, which was black and blue and swollen. “Dude. Really?”
“You want to see your attorney or not?”
“I do, but I can’t move my arm.”
“You moved it enough to get in here last night.” The guard manhandled Jansen around. “You can move it again now.”
He yanked Jansen’s good arm back, causing him to lose his grip on the injured one. Jansen cried out, not the least bit ashamed by how pathetic he sounded. “Fuck!”
“Uh, Max?” Another guard appeared in the doorway. “Let’s not get the city sued again, all right?” He gestured at Jansen. “He’s not a violent suspect. Just cuff him in the front.”
The guard named Max grunted his displeasure but did what he was told. It still hurt—the cuff barely made it around Jansen’spuffy wrist—but it was better than trying to put his hands behind his back.
Then he was frog-marched down a few beige-painted hallways, past what seemed like dozens of cells just like his. They turned him down another hallway that was so normal—cheap linoleum floors, generic posters and safety information on bare brick walls—it was jarring after almost twenty-four hours of beige, beige, beige.
At one of many doors, they stopped, opened it, pushed him inside, and?—
Oh, for shit’s sake. Really?Really?He was already neck deep in a bullshit carnival of fuckery, and now he had to meet withhim?
As the guards uncuffed him, Jansen opened his mouth to announce that, uh, no, that wasnothis attorney, but the man in the tailored suit spoke over him.
“Thank you, gentlemen. It’s about damned time.” He shoved a card into Jansen’s good hand, then did a double take. Glaring at the guards, he pointed at the bruised arm. “What the fuck is this? Can you not see that this man’s arm is broken? What the actual fuck?” He flailed a hand at the door. “Go get him some paramedics, get me a supervisor, and while you’re at it, call the city’s attorney, because New York is about to be hit with the mother of all multimillion dollar lawsuits. What iswrongwith you piss-poor excuses for people?”
He kept screaming at the guards, who were slack-jawed and wide-eyed as if they had no idea what to make of the attorney losing his shit at them.
Taking advantage of everyone else’s distraction. Jansen discreetly looked down at the card. It was an attorney’s business card, but on the back, someone—likely the man in front of him—had handwritten:
Play along. Don’t be a dumbass.
He almost snorted. Yeah, that was on-brand. Cole Dalton didn’t suffer fools, was anything but a team player, and would absolutely walk out if Jansen didn’t toe this bizarre line.
Then again, Jansen could tell the guards that Cole had been at the party, too, and that he was probably a suspect in numerous high-profile thefts. Then Cole could stay in a beige-coated cell, where he’d be apoplectic over being forced into thin, scratchy scrubs.
He was, however, currently reaming out the guards over the state of Jansen’s arm, and the guards seemed to be trying to calm him down and assure him they’d get the paramedics right away. So… fine. Maybe Jansen could cut Cole alittleslack. Today. Just this once. For a minute.
As the guards backed out of the room, Cole barked, “There’d better be EMTs knocking on this door within ten goddamned minutes, or so help me?—”
“You got it, sir. We’re calling them right now.”
“I should hope so.” Cole slammed the door in their faces, which Jansen had to admit was satisfying even though he still thought Cole was a douche.
If… maybe less of a douche than two minutes ago.
The douche in question faced him. “We don’t have a lot of time, so let’s get down to business, shall we?”
