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Oh no.
I was “escorted” (this, a nice way to say I was somewhat compulsorily guided) to a black GMC Denali, stuffed in the back seat and whisked here.
Which was part two of my denial.
I wasn’t sure what “here” was.
I knew it was an impressive set of offices in downtown Phoenix (and by the by, we drove by Lenny’s on the way here, and I now totally needed a vanilla malt).
I also knew that either these dudes didn’t put a lot of time into office organization, such was their desire to get the job done for their clients, or their business was new, what with all the boxes of unopened computers and flat screens and other shit I didn’t know what it was stacked around. Not to mention furniture that had been delivered, but not had its protective wrapping taken off. Nor had it been positioned, including desks, chairs, couches and a line of office chairs, which stood at attention along a wall, waiting for badass asses to rest in them.
I would rather have had them take me to my car so I could go home, have a bubble bath and descend into my Citadel of Denial, a place I’d had nineteen years to design, and it was impenetrable. It had ramparts and trebuchets, and vats filled with boiling tar and everything.
It was the shit.
It kept me safe.
With these guys I didn’t feel not safe, but I also didn’t feel safe.
I was sitting in one of the few chairs that had been unwrapped, across a handsome executive desk (that had also been unwrapped, but the top of it was completely bare), staring down the Hottie Partner.
I did this while Chris Evans stood against the wall behind the desk, arms crossed on his wide chest (thus, pecs popping,Lord), knee bent, one boot against the wall, blue-gray eyes scowling at me.
By the by, he could scowl very well.
Therefore, no matter how much I whipped up my trusty steed (her name was Cinnamon) to get me across the drawbridge and into the bailey of my Citadel, I knew I was screwed.
Not to mention, the staring contest I had going on with Hottie Partner, who seemed more like he was Hottie Head Honcho, was lasting a long time.
In the Denali, after I’d asked if they were taking me back to my Juke, and Chris Evans had replied with a curt, “No,” I decided further discussion could happen once they’d reamed me for being an idiot who frequently involved myself in deranged mischiefs (though, they didn’t know the “frequent” part of that).
The thing I had on my side was…I’d saved the girl.
And that was a big thing to have on my side. At least I thought so, even if they were right on my tail in that endeavor.
Finally, Hottie Honcho spoke.
“Let’s start with how you knew it was Donald Walken.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“How did you know Walken had Elsie Fay?” Hottie Honcho rearranged his question.
Oh.
“I went to Elsie Fay’s church,” I answered.
Hottie Honcho didn’t say anything.
I read this as he wanted more.
“So, you know, whoever took her had to have opportunity. Right?”
Hottie Honcho nodded. Once.
“And he had to have seen her, and from there, probably followed her, researched her, so he knew when he could take her.”
Hottie Honcho said nothing and made no move.
