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“Shit.”
“You don’t want to make them wait; trust me, it’ll cause a riot.”
“Jesus.” I push my chair back. Using both my hands, I try my best to smooth out my crumpled dress shirt. When it doesn’t make a difference, I put my suit jacketon, hoping that I can hide my frantic state. “Wait?” Mani’s words catch up to me. “Why will they cause a riot?”
“Nah-uh. Come on! Quick!” He runs on the spot like a sugar-fueled child, impatient that I’m taking my time.
“Mani…” But he’s gone already. “Damnit.” I grab a notepad and pen. I haven’t even had a moment to read through the skinny file Mani’s thrown together since this morning, which means I’m going into an interview blind.
My day could not get worse.
But as I walk through the familiar hallways of Rampart Station, my spine tingles. Something’s not right. It takes me a moment to place it: There’s no noise.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Typically, at any given time of day, the place is a hive of activity—officers coming and going, their footsteps a constant, soothing hum, civilians sitting and waiting, speaking to each other in undertones, even the occasional shout or scream when something, or someone, gets out of hand.
At the door that leads from the administrative section of the station to the public entryway and lobby, a small crowd of uniformed officers has formed. Their bodies—men and women—are pressed close together, their heads vying for a better view of the lobby. “You assholes at a Nickelback concert?” My voice rings through the quiet.
They scatter immediately, breaking off to go back to their various assignments. I frown and push open the door.
And stop.
Seven people are sitting on the black chairs in the waiting room: Two males, one black and one white, sitting two chairs apart on the same side of the room.They do not notice when I step into the lobby; their attention is transfixed on the five women sitting across from them.
I quickly take in the scene as I move toward the girls. I may not have had time to read Elizabeth York’s meager file, but there is no mistaking the commonalities between these girls and the victim: Other than the stern-looking elderly woman, their ages range from mid-twenties to mid-thirties; three white, one Asian; all wealthy; all—I have to remind myself—grieving. If I think of Elizabeth, alive and hanging out with her friends, this is exactly the group of women my imagination would have conjured.
As I approach, I see one of the women raise a hand and blow a kiss to the men sitting across from them. My mind inventories her: Petite, honey-blonde hair, and mischievous blue eyes. Clad in blue jeans, a letterman jacket, and strappy heels with thick soles.
The men across from the girls visibly blanche, unsure of how to react. They look at each other, exchange a bewildered glance, then break into twin grins as they momentarily find common ground in their confusion.
“Really, Lyla,” the tallest and most striking of the five, chastises.
The woman who blew the kiss, Lyla, just grins.
The Asian woman doesn’t react. Her faraway eyes tell me that she is somewhere else entirely.
The last woman is a small, curvy redhead. She’s staring right at me, her head tilted slightly, her green eyes assessing me with what I can only think of as curiosity. She smiles, flashing a set of dimples that should be illegal. The gesture is so sweet, almost innocent, but it packs a punch.
I clear my throat and break eye contact. “Ladies,” I say as I approach, “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”I try my best not to think about my rumpled shirt and how disheveled I must look to them. “My name is Aiden Flint; I’ll be leading this investigation.”
They push to their feet en masse. But it’s the same woman who chastised the small one who replies, “It’s no problem, Detective Flint. We’re early.”
I don’t correct my title; it doesn’t matter. “Miss…?”
“Rupetta. Antoinette Rupetta.”
“Miss Rupetta, I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend. Thank you so much for coming down, especially at a time like this.”
“Do you know what happened?” she asks, her voice firm and clear. “To Lizzie?”
I stand back and extend my arm, showing them down the hall to a private interview room. “Let’s go through so that we can talk in private.”
None of them moves.
“Lieutenant Flint.”
