“Yes. I’m here to see Jack Simmons. I’m his lawyer. Matthew Jones.” Sliding my fake ID across the smooth wood, I try for a half-smile.
“No shit? You like Daredevil or somethin’?”
Because that joke never gets old.
I shake my head as I push my glasses up so the guy can see my eyes. “No, Officer…?”
“Officer Bushman. You must get that a lot, yeah?”
“You have no idea.” Trying to affect a bored, bitter tone, I lean against the desk. “Listen, the kid doesn’t know I’m coming. He can’t afford me, but his pop picked up the tab.”
“He’s still awaiting arraignment. I can get him in a room for ya’ in the next ten minutes. Have a seat and I’ll call ya’.”
My ID slides back under my fingers, and I nod my thanks. “Where are the chairs?”
“Oh. Sorry. Turn around and they’re at your two o’clock.” In the next breath, Bushman starts yelling at someone behind him, and I take a seat.
“VoiceAssist: Text Wren. Message Content: At the station. Anything you have that can help me get him to talk, send it over.”
A few minutes later, she replies.
“He got away with the fake name because his prints aren’t on file anywhere. I’m checking the dark web for any evidence he’s used the Jack Simmons alias before, but so far, nothing. He has a mother in St. Louis, and a brother out in California.”
That might be enough leverage for me to get the kid to talk. That is, if he’s not behind this whole fucking thing.
“Matthew Jones?” A bored, male voice calls out my alias, and I push to my feet.
“Right here.”
Heavy footsteps approach to my right. “I can escort you back to the interview room, Mr. Jones. I have your visitor’s badge here.”
Once I clip the temporary badge to my jacket, the man clears his throat. “Can I assist you?”
“Yeah, sure.” I’m too tired and still a little dizzy from the migraine, so I let the guy take my elbow in a feeble grip and escort me down the hall, around a corner, and into a room that smells of sweat, stale coffee, and fear.
For a moment, I hear Ripper screaming in my memories, but in the next breath, I realize there’s no awful stench of shit and too much aftershave that always surrounded us in Hell.
“Simmons, you’re goddamn lucky,” the man says after he’s pulled out a chair for me. “Your daddy sprung for something better than the public defender.”
“I didn’t—”
“Stop, right now,” I snap, slamming my hand down on the table. “Don’t you say another fucking word until we’re alone. You understand me, son?”
Kyle sputters for a moment, and the officer who escorted me in here leans in. “He’s cuffed to the table, Jones. You need us, you bang on the door.”
“Who the hell are you?” Kyle asks when we’re alone.
“A friend. Maybe. If you tell me what you know about Beacon Hill Technologies.” I pull out my voice recorder and place it on the table between us.
“No way, man. I’m not talking to you. I don’t know shit about any technology anything. And I don’t want a fucking lawyer. Get out of here.” Desperation roughens his tone, and something hits the table. His head, I think.
“Kyle—”
“Shut up. My name is Jack, asshole. Are you trying to get me killed? I’m safe here. No one knows—fuck. How did you even find me? Oh shit, shit, shit.”
“My associates are extremely good at their jobs, Jack.” I reach across the table, fumbling for Kyle’s cuffed wrist. He flinches as I wrap my fingers around his bony joint. “The cops don’t know your name. And I won’t tell them. As long as you answer my questions.” Punctuating my words by pressing two fingers against a trigger point along the bone, I let him feel the sharp pain for half a second before I release him. “What do you know about Beacon Hill Technologies and who’s trying to kill Evianna Archer?”
“P-please,” he whispers. “Get out of here. I c-can’t help you, man. They’ll kill me. If you found me, they will too. I’m dead already.”
