Chapter 31
King/Dante
It was late in the afternoon when I pulled into the driveway of my house. I hadn’t even considered going to the clubhouse, because I didn’t want to deal with all the nosy-ass questions from anyone quite yet. Normally, a long ride helped clear my head, but not today. I just kept replaying my conversation with Ella, torturing myself with the words she’d thrown at me.
I realized that what I was feeling was probably only a fraction of what Ella had been experiencing since Friday morning, so I refused to try to blank it from my mind. I deserved to have to remember her tear-stained face, and the pain in her eyes as she asked me why I’d chosenthosewords. The same kinds of words that fucker Clayton had used to denigrate her after she caught him cheating.
I wasn’t sure if she would ever forgive me, but I knew for a goddamned fact that I would never forgive myself.
Since I hadn’t been home much at all lately, the refrigerator and pantry were both pretty bare. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but knew I needed to eat, so I ended up making a dinner of scrambled eggs, along with some sausage patties I’d found in the freezer. I was washing up the few dishes I’d used when my doorbell rang, followed by a few solid knocks.
I grabbed a dish towel to dry my hands as I headed to the door. Assuming it was Cowboy, I didn’t even bother glancing out the peephole before unlocking it and throwing it open. It wasn’t Cowboy.
Standing on my front porch were two men in suits, flanked by two police officers. I recognized one of the men as Lt. Brown, who was in charge of the homicide division. Abby’s dad was a homicide detective, and I’d met his boss last fall, when Jagger had shot Molly’s stalker to save her life. He seemed OK, even though cops and bikers typically didn’t mesh well.
I stiffened, schooling my expression as my mind raced with possible explanations for their presence. The most obvious one was Pic.Fuck!
“Dante Morgan, would you please step outside?” Lt. Brown phrased it as a question, but we all knew it was simply a polite demand.
I hesitated but knew from casual conversations with the club’s lawyer that it would be better in the long run if I cooperated from the start.
“I will, but I would like to ask why,” I replied slowly, then very deliberately held up my hands as I dropped the dish towel. I kept my hands in plain sight as I took one step forward, then another. Immediately, the two officers rushed forward and turned me around to face the doorway as they placed me in handcuffs, then frisked me.
Luckily, I had taken off my cut as usual when I got home, so I didn’t have to worry about them freaking the fuck out over my switchblade. The only thing they took from me was my phone and my wallet, both of which had been in my back pockets. My phone was password protected, and I was prettydamned sure there wasn’t anything incriminating on it, but I still wasn’t thrilled to see it in their hands.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as Lt. Brown read me my rights. When he finished, he instructed the other detective to close my door.
“Turn the button on the doorknob to lock it,” I reminded him. The fact that they’d had me step outside proved they didn’t have a warrant, and I wasn’t about to make it easy for them if one of them decided to go snooping without one. The deadbolt would be unlocked, but at least the knob lock was better than nothing.
The younger detective shot me a glare, then made a production out of locking the door before slamming it shut a little harder than necessary. He grasped my arm none-too-gently, and led me down the front steps, with Lt. Brown following us.
“Why am I under arrest,” I asked again, and the detective gripped my arm harder. The punk-ass little shit couldn’t even come close to wrapping his hand around my bicep, which seemed to only piss him off even more. “You’re being charged with the murder of Starla Monroe.”
Fucking hell,Star was dead, and I was catching a charge for it. My mind raced as I tried to remember what I’d done as I’d searched her apartment. I knew I’d been careful, but maybe one of her neighbors had seen me breaking into her place. Shit, this could go sideways in a heartbeat.
He yanked opened the back door to the patrol car and Lt. Brown himself stepped forward to secure me in place. Before the lieutenant stepped back and closed the door, he looked down at me and asked if I had anything I wanted to say to him.
I shook my head grimly. “I want to speak to my attorney.”
“Fair enough. You can call him when we get to the station.”
Almost an hour later, I was still cooling my heels in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the fucking table, as I waited for Brick’s brother, Tom, to arrive. I had Lt. Brown’s sidekick for company though, and Detective Marsden had been a fucking delight.
He hadn’t violated my rights by asking any questions, but he’d sure as hell run his mouth, telling me how happy he was to see me sitting in this room, in cuffs, where I clearly belonged. He had very definite opinions about bikers, and he’d been happy as fuck to share them with me. Apparently, we were all degenerate thugs who were responsible for half the drugs, rapes, and murders in the county.
I forced myself to remain calm, knowing that he was trying to provoke me. I’d be damned if I’d fall for that though. Marsden underestimated me, and that was his second mistake. His first had been to put cuffs on me in the first fucking place.
The door finally opened, and Lt. Brown stepped in, followed by my attorney. Tom glanced at me as if to assure himself that I was all right, and I gave him a head nod. His eyes fell on the handcuffs, and he shot a glare at Marsden as he introduced himself.
“Tom Gallagher, defense counsel. I understand that my client has been more than cooperative, so let’s lose the cuffs and get started. I’m sure Mr. Morgan and I both have better things to do with our time, and I’m quite certain that you and your fellow detectives do, since Ms. Monroe’sactualkiller needs to be found and apprehended.”
Tom and I were allowed to speak privately first, and he reminded me to answer only what was asked. “Don’t volunteerany information, and keep your cool, for God’s sake. Don’t let them rattle you.”
For the next two hours, Brown and Marsden took turns asking the same questions, over and over, changing the phrasing of the question each time in the hope that it would trip me up. We learned that Star’s body had been discovered behind an abandoned house on Friday evening, just two blocks from her apartment. She’d been shot in the head. Based on the coroner’s exam, as well as interviews with neighbors who heard a woman screaming followed by a gunshot – but hadn’t fucking bothered to report it – her time of death was estimated at between two and four Friday morning.
“Where were you between the hours of eleven o’clock Thursday night and seven o’clock Friday morning?”
“I was staying with my lady. I arrived Thursday evening at around eight o’clock, I think, and left at six-thirty or maybe a little after on Friday morning. I drove to my office and was there before seven.”
