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“Damnit,” she said, rushing into the room to grab her shoes.
***
“NO, I NEED to speak to the detective in charge now,” Sersha argued with the precinct desk clerk.
Her brother and father could sail right by. She wasn’t so lucky.
“He’s in the middle of interrogating a suspect.”
“I know and I have information pertinent to his case.” The guy wasn’t moving fast enough for her liking. “Do you know who I am? Is my dad here?”
That broke through and the guy picked up the phone on a grumble. “Hey,” he said to whoever was at the other end. “McLeod’s sister is here.”
Not the superintendent’s daughter or the victim’s granddaughter. No, she was Lachlan’s sister. And just like that, all was forgiven. She smiled at the clerk, apparently unnerving him.
In under thirty seconds, a door at the other end of the room buzzed and popped open. The moment she saw Lachlan, she hurried to him.
“Sersh,” Lachlan said. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I need to talk to the detective in charge.”
“He’s in—”
“The middle of an interrogation, I know,” she said, restraining her groan. “This is important.”
He put an arm around her to draw her into a corridor with doors along it. Interrogation rooms? Maybe. Interview rooms, that could be a better term. What was PC these days? Rooms that had seen the worst of the worst no doubt.
Her brother took her into one at the end with a couch and a fake plant. Maybe it was meant for victim interviews or a relative’s room where people’s worlds were shattered by irrevocable news.
“Wait here,” Lachlan said and paused by the door. “You need anything?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
Her brother left and the door clicked shut. Probably locked.
Ire McDade.
Even the news hadn’t used his real name. Did that piss him off? She’d have to ask, if he ever talked to her again.
Why would he after this? Arrested for her grandfather’s murder? Connel? It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic.
The pale pink walls and functional sectional were the closest to homely she’d seen in a precinct. And she’d been in a lot of precincts through the years.
Breakrooms had vending machines and tables, in addition to practical furniture. And they didn’t usually come with fake greenery either. It had to be for some purpose other than the cops just hanging out.
The door opened and she spun around as Lachlan and two other guys entered.
“This better be good,” the guy in the middle said.
“Thurrock,” Lachlan said, pointing to the guy furthest away, then gesturing at the one between them. “Wanstead.”
“You’re holding Ire McDade?” No one responded. “Have you charged him?”
“We’re about to.”
“On what evidence?”
“Listen, honey…” Wanstead started, and her brother flinched when her head ticked to the side. “You run around playing cop as much as you like, but in here, this is the big boy’s table. You don’t have a damn clue what McDade is capable of.” How people loved to tell her that. “We know our job. Know guys like this. And he’s guilty.”
