“Listen, Mr. Beathach.” The trench-coated detective’s tone hardens. “You’re going to have to come down to the station with us. I suggest you call your lawyer on the way.”
THIRTY-ONE
Justice
We’re sitting in the drab interrogation room, Fergus as my lawyer. He’s old and pissy, and besides being my accountant, he once practiced law. I have tons of lawyers on retainer, but right now, I just want him.
I glance at the door, feeling Ella outside. Right outside in the company of Wynd. He met us here after dropping Wesley at an urgent care, and he has instructions to zip tie her to the doorknob if she tries to move. I’m done treating her gently. She’ll have a guard on her until I decide what to do with her. Letting her go doesn’t appeal to me, and neither does constantly chasing her all over the damn country if she gets irritated. Or just wants freedom.
I hate that she was in Sylveria’s den and could have easily been killed. I don’t know what to do about Sylveria, and that gnaws at me, but right now Horace Whimple is my concern.
The interrogation room tries to bully me and fails.The steel table is scratched and sticky at the edges, while a dent the size of a fist sits near my elbow. The mirror carries a smear someone half-heartedly wiped.
Detective Caldwell sits across from me, calm on the surface, shoulders tight. She taps one light pink nail on the battered table. She has been asking questions for fifteen minutes, and I’m already bored. “We know Ella Rendale was cheated out of her inheritance.”
That may be true. “Perhaps, but I’m not sure how much she was cheated. It’s my understanding that she plans to sue for her rightful place.” I keep my voice casual. Although knowing Ella, she’ll blow the whole place up first. I rather like that about her.
Detective Ashner leans against the far wall and tries for menace. He looks tired. I imagine his job isn’t easy, and today it shows. He watches me the way a bouncer watches a door he knows will not hold. “Your understanding? Come on, man.”
I appreciate his attempt to be my buddy in this place. Cold breath from a ceiling vent slides across my forearms, and a camera winks red in the corner. The chair complains every time I shift. Tile pops under boots in the hall, and somewhere a copier coughs. It smells of damp paper, anxiety, and lemon disinfectant that never met a lemon.
“Obviously, you and Ms. Rendale are in a relationship,” Caldwell says. The tone lands accusatory. Fluorescents buzz above with a faint hitch that turns seconds into static.
“Well, we obviously took a shower together,” I say. Their voices are barely bothering me, and I have to wonder if it’s because I’ve been around Ella so much.
Caldwell’s gaze sharpens. “Are you in a relationship with Ms. Rendale?”
So they’re trying to make Ella my motive for killing Horace. Interesting. “None of your business.”
Fergus sits forward so his chair legs squeal. “My client isn’t here to answer personal questions,” he says, voice low and steady. He places a gnarled palm on the rough table.
“The hell he isn’t,” Ashner bursts out. “We have a dead body on his property by the ocean.”
“I don’t believe you found a body,” I say. “I think you have a report, and somebody is wasting all of our time.” I can’t imagine anyone would dare bury a body out at my actual home. Although I have been distracted lately, and my men are scattered over different areas. I haven’t been home enough, so I guess it’s possible. Whoever did so will bleed. For quite a while.
The light flickers and steadies. Caldwell’s gaze never leaves my face. “You own one of the most powerful social media companies in the world,” she says, tapping the table again. “I’m sure your security system at your private residence is impressive.”
“I have three registered firearms,” I say. “That’s all I need.” The plastic seat creaks when I shift, and the vent hums a steady line across my wrists.
Her brows pull together. Her nail ticks against the steel table and keeps time with the fluorescent buzz. “You don’t have cameras. CCTV. Everywhere?”
“No,” I say. “I value my privacy, Detective. I assume you do too.” The ceiling camera’s LED blinks its slow red pulse and I toss it a smile. Just for the hell of it. I don’tknow anything about the detectives yet, but I will by the end of the day. Kaz is already on it.
Caldwell glares. “You’re telling me you have zero cameras on your private estate?”
I watch the vein now pulsing near her temple. “Cameras are too easy to compromise, even with our protections. You build a firewall and someone beats it. Then you build another and someone else tests that. I don’t need the risk or the noise.” I hold her gaze and say nothing for a beat. “I don’t want anyone watching me drink coffee on my deck in the morning. It’s simple, and it’s true.”
The detectives don’t need to know this, but I don’t even leave the place exposed to overhead collection. Mature canopy covers approach lanes. My roofs use a matte, low-reflectance ceramic coat that cuts visible and near-IR glare. We track satellite pass windows from TLE data and schedule outdoor movement when skies are empty.
She shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need your trust,” I say.
Fergus fidgets beside me, and a chair leg grates. He straightens his dark blue flannel, neat about the line of it. He slicked his hair back for the city.
“You’re looking good, Fergus,” I say.
Pink touches his cheek and he gives me a quick glance. “Thanks. It’s been a while since I dated anybody.” He studies Caldwell. “You’re pretty young, but I like your levelheadedness. Are you free?”
