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“It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s mafia. Ya know, since I’m naturally sexy.” His grin is playful. Taunting. I was trying to mess with him, and in the end, he cuts me off at the knees. “But just so you know… even if you came here with bad intentions, I’m not letting you go now.”
He relaxes back into his seat and picks invisible lint from his jeans, while Fletch charges through my office door without invitation, his hands balled and his breath racing from a marathon I’m not sure he intended to run.
“Fletch?” Archer asks oh-so-casually despite the rage his partner carries. “What are the chances Chief Mayet is a plant from the assholes who want in on my family?”
“A plant?” Surprised, he drags his attention from the angry brunette on the other side of the glass and instead focuses on me. “Um—” Finally, he shakes his head. “Nah.”
“I could be.” I fold my arms and scowl. “I’ve seduced him. I once had a relationship with Pastore.”
“You married him.” Fletch smiles, pushing away his own marriage woes and releasing a pent-up breath of frustration. “You can’t fake your way through pleasantries even if your life depended on it. And besides,” he adds when I open my mouth to speak, “doesn’t matter what your intentions were anymore. He’d sooner burn the city down than let you leave.” He looks to Archer and lifts a single, inquisitive brow. “That the answer you were looking for?”
Smug, Archer brings his eyes back to mine and tilts his head to the side. “That about covers it. We have to go interview Adrianna now.” Pushing up to stand, he inclines his chin. “Chief Mayet. It was a pleasure, as always.”
“Was it?” Bested in my own office, I scowl. “I’m not sure we are both leaving this meeting equally satisfied.”
“Burn.” Fletch chuckles. “And you better be careful, Arch.” He claps his best friend on the shoulder as they turn toward my door. “They send women to suck your dick. Don’t think for a second they won’t send dudes for her.” He grabs the door and holds it for his partner. But he pauses before exiting and brings his honeycomb stare back to me. “Don’t worry, Delicious. I keep watch and make sure the ladies don’t touch.”
“So kind of you.” I roll my eyes. “You ready to ask Fifi out on a date yet? She likes you.”
“Sure. And I present such an enticing package,” he drawls. “I have a kid I’m obsessed with, a job that keeps me out at stupid hours, and an ex-wife who can’t function without me holding her fucking hand every minute of the day. If I let her go, even for a second, she spirals, and it seems she has no apparent qualms in taking our daughter down with her.” He taps his knuckles on the glass wall and starts away, releasing the door as he goes. “Make a line, ladies. Charlie Fletcher will see you now.”
ARCHER
“Detectives Archer Malone and Charlie Fletcher, entering Interview Room Three. Friday, July first. It is currently…” I check the clock on the wall. “Four-oh-three p.m. This is our first formal interview, excluding the initial statement Mrs. Alves made on scene yesterday, June thirtieth. Mrs. Alves…” I place our recorder and a stack of files on the table between us and show the scared, shaking woman a kind smile. “Do you understand your rights when you’re inside this room?”
Carefully, so the legs don’t drag against the floor, I pull my chair out and sit across from the woman already in prison orange. Though, that’s because she hasn’t been home to get changed, and the clothes she had on were marked in blood and quickly collected for forensics. “You have the right to have your attorney present,” I remind her. “You have the right to say nothing at all. You have the right to end this interview at any time you choose.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer,” she rasps, swallowing nervously and nibbling on her nails. Her hands are not bound, since I doubt she’s a danger to me or Fletch. Or really, anyone, except perhaps her husband. “I don’t want the one my mom is insisting on. She makes me sound guilty. And I don’t want to choose silence right now. I need you to hear my version of events, so I can go home to my daughters sooner.”
You won’t be going home for a little while yet, lady. Sorry.
“Let’s take this all the way back to the beginning,” Fletch coaches gently. “We’ll discuss what happened to your husband. We’ll discuss the days surrounding Wednesday night. And then we can go forward from there. Does that sound okay?”
The woman is scared. Young. Alone. She never got more education than her GED and a year of community college. And now the latter will be used against her.
“Mrs. Alves?”
“Yes,” she coughs out. “That’s okay. I’ll answer anything you ask. I want this over so I can go home.”
“Alright.” Fletch places his hands on the table, linking his fingers, and staring at the woman who could use a shower and a damn hug. “Let’s start with Wednesday night. The medical examiner says William was murdered between nine and midnight. Where were you?”
“I was in bed.” She shakes. Her voice. Her jaw. Her entire body. “Kiera’s been extra fussy lately, so the moment I got her to bed, I crashed, too.”
“Which was at what time?” I question. We’re going to ask the same things, over and over and over again, and wait for her to slip up and change her story.
“About eight,” she murmurs. “I think it was just after eight.”
“Why do you think?” I press. “What else had you done that night? What time was dinner? What time did William get home from work?”
“Um…” Her eyes glisten, terror making them dance with unshed tears. “He got home about six-thirty. Probably closer to seven. I had already cooked dinner by that point.”
“What did you cook?”
“Macaroni, broccoli, and sausages.” She glances at the mirror at my back. “The girls and I had already eaten. William was running late, I guess. Because we’d finished by the time he got home, and I was already doing the dishes.”
“Were you mad?” I ask her. “Mad that he was late, again, and cost you your class at the community college?”
Instantly, her eyes whip to mine, her cheeks paling. “What?”
