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I turn around to face the elderly woman. Her graying hair is pulled back into a severe bun that is pinned at the base of her skull, her suit is neatly pressed, and although she’s wearing black cat-eye glasses, the lenses seem to add to her pointed features rather than detract from them. “Ma’am?”
“My name is Joan Stark. I represent the Antoinette Rupetta Escort Agency as well as Miss Rupetta’s personal interests, which,” she indicates the small group, “happens to extend to these girls.”
“Welcome, Ms. Stark.” I don’t miss a beat, but I know, beyond a reasonable doubt that my day just got worse. “Shall we-”
“If it suits you, I’d like you to conduct the interviews one at a time.” While her expression doesn’t change, she glances at the small blonde. “For my own sanity.”
“Of course.” I nod politely. “I have some contact forms for you to all fill out, after which we’ll just have a few questions. You understand,” I extend my question to the group, “that this is just to gather background information on Miss York?”
They all nod.
Mani chooses that moment to come out from the back. His hair has been brushed, his uniform straightened. The smell of his fresh cologne travels just before him. “Afternoon,” he greets the group.
“Detective Sanchez.” Toni sends him a polite smile.
“After you,” he offers.
We wait for the group of women to filter through before us.
“Did you go and freshen up, dickhead?” I whisper.
He casts a pointed look at my rumpled shirt. “Did you sleep here last night?”
I grin but refrain from laughing. “Asshole.”
Mani sniggers quietly and follows the girls through, his friendly, “First left,” ringing through the room.
Chapter 4
Catherine
“Okay,” the detectiverifles through the stack of forms in his hand, “Miss Beauchamp?”
“Yes.” I step forward, meeting his direct gaze.
The cop—Flint, I remember—is a tall, looming man with a lean, lanky build. His height should make him intimidating. In my experience men typically arm themselves using size first. But there’s something about his warm brown eyes and gentle smile that soften what should be an overwhelming physical stature. He looks a little rumpled. His white shirt is creased beneath his suit jacket. The jacket itself is accidentally tucked into his waistband at the back. Even his hair, a mess of thick, chocolatey brown, is in dire need of a trim; it swirls this way and that as if he’s been running his hands through it constantly.
“Right this way.” He opens a closed door to the left and then stands back, waiting for us to go in before him.
I don’t move.
It is an altogether strange sensation to be sober in a police station. I want to look around and take notes, maybe even ask for a tour. But there’s also some part of my brain that is frozen, a deer in headlights. I haven’t been here before—I know that. But the old Rampart Station and I were acquainted. At night, when I first close myeyes to go to sleep, I can still smell the urine and sweat that would permeate the holding cell.
Now, my palms sweat at the thought of entering the small room. My stomach, usually so settled, wars with nerves. When I look at the detective, he smiles kindly. His eyes search my face as if he can drink in my thoughts, and, for some reason, I feel that he can, that he perfectly understands who I am and why I suddenly feel sick with fear.
“Don’t be afraid.” His voice is quiet, meant only for me. “This is a safe place.” When I nod, he raises his voice slightly, and adds, “Ms. Stark will be right there with you.”
Joan, ever efficient, steps through before me, her voice dry with what sounds like fatigue. “Come on, Catherine. Let’s get this show on the road.”
I manage to make my feet move and follow. As soon as I’m in the room, the second detective, Sanchez, closes the door, locking us all in together. The soft click of the door echoes loudly, a trap closing in on its prey.
“Please,” Detective Flint indicates to the chair opposite his, “take a seat.”
Joan sits next to me. The hard plastic is cold through the thin layers of my long-sleeved dress. The room is square. It is plainly furnished with a table and six chairs. My imagination, which had conjured up a bolted handcuff bar on the table, two-way mirrors, and maybe a telephone book or blood spatters on the white wall, is rather underwhelmed by the generic environment.
“We’re just going to verify your information for the audio-visual recording before we start.”
It’s only then that I see two cameras, one in each corner of the room. “Y-you’re recording this?”
