AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Because this is about her.
Her likes, her dislikes. Her favorite places to go, and the people she hung out with. This is about where she was in the days before her death, and who she spent time with.
Why was the mayor, of all people, on her front doorstep mere hours before her death?
And why, with Walter’s innocence, does the pit in my stomach grow heavier at the thought that the mayor’s likelihood of guilt increases just a little more?
Frustrated, I bring my hand up and scrub my palm down again so the bristles on my jaw crackle audibly. “We don’t have to like it, but Walter’s name is clear. We’ll pull security footage from the restaurant that’ll have himnotat Anna’s house between seven and nine, and we’ll bring Rachel in, too, to see if she’ll corroborate his story. If she’s smart, she’ll pay attention to the wake-up call of having to provide an alibi for a douchebag to prove he didn’t kill his ex, and she’ll run the other way when it’s done. But his story is pretty tight, Fletch.” I drop my hand and fold my arms across my chest. “That’s an alibi we won’t break. So we have to look at the next on our list.”
“Next is security.” He takes out a different file and slaps a new picture to the board: a large, skinhead-looking white dude who must weigh an easy four hundred pounds. Tattoos instead of hair, and one ear half-missing. Heavy gold chains hang around his neck, and the whites of his eyes areblack.
“Fuckkkk.” I close my eyes and acknowledge I’m probably gonna be injured soon.
Bringing Andre the Giant in for questioning without feeling his meaty fist make contact with some part of my body will be a miracle.
“I don’t wanna get hurt again.” Whining, I drop into a chair and exhale a prematurely exhausted sigh. “My GSW still stings. I’ve been hit too much this year.”
Snorting, Fletch takes out a marker and writes a name below the photo. “This is Michel Heenan. He’s seven feet, one inch tall. He weighs four hundred and twenty-two pounds, according to his most recent stats.”
“Oh good.” I dig my thumb into my eye and pray for an easy death. “A pro fighter.”
“Pro wrestling,” he sniggers. “Ran out of skin to tattoo, so he started on his eyeballs, and he also dabbled in,” he points toward Heenan’s ear, “self-mutilation.” He caps the marker and shrugs. “I won’t yuck a giant’s yum—mostly for fear he’ll pulverize me in a fit of rage.” He turns from the board and grins. “You get dibs on cuffing him.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, then I take a second to close my eyes and find my zen.
Honeymooning in Barbados. Minka in a bikini. Me, having nothing on the schedule but fucking her all day, every day.
This is my happy place, and I’ll be damned if a giant wrestler is gonna take that from me.
“We’ll make the call and ask him to come in.” I open my eyes and find Fletch’s smiling gaze. “And we’ll use our manners.”
* * *
“Mr. Heenan.” I stay on my side of the interrogation room, my body locked tight in anticipation, and my hand hovering close by my gun.Just in case. “Thank you for coming in.” I glance across to an amused Fletch. “That’s Detective Charlie Fletcher. I’m Detective Archer Malone. We appreciate you coming down to speak with us today.”
“You were head of Anna Switzer’s security team,” Fletch takes over, his amusement making way for professionalism. “There were three on her regular team, but you’re the lead.”
Heenan watches us. His weight makes our chair groan, and his diffidence is born from anything but shyness. “Is that a question?” His voice is dark and deep, like he eats glass for breakfast and takes shots of acid for lunch. “Or a statement?”
“Uh… question.” Fletch chuckles. “I’d like to understand your position amongst Ms. Switzer’s team.”
Satisfied—if such a man can feel ‘satisfied’—Heenan merely nods. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Fletch looks to me, then back to our guest. “Yes, you were head of her security team?”
He only nods again. “Yes.”
So, we’re going with single word answers.
Fucking awesome.
“Did you keep standard working hours?” I ask. He’s yet to lunge from his chair and snap my neck, so I move away from the wall and come to a stop on the other side of the table. “Nine to five, Monday to Friday?”
“No.” He lounges back in his seat and twines his fingers together. “I worked when Ms. Switzer told me to work.” His deadly stare holds mine. “When she was recording, I only escorted her to and from the studio, so that left me with a lot of downtime. When she was touring, I was on twenty-four hours a day.”
“What about her home life?” I wonder. “When she was behind those doors, and the rest of the world was locked out, did you have to guard her then?”
Shrugging, he looks back down at his fingers. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Her home was deemed safe. I live in a wing of her mansion, available if she needs me, but typically, when we’re inside, she dismisses me.”
