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Before Arron could further deflect, Amelia leaned forward, her movement deliberate, introducing a new photograph into the interrogation's delicate ballet. This one showed the cargo hold, utilitarian and cold, a stark contrast to the luxury of the cabin.
"Does this look familiar too?" she asked, her eyes sharp as flint, watching for any telltale fracture in Arron's facade
He took a longer look this time, his fingers pausing mid-twitch. "It's a cargo hold," he said finally, a touch of disdain creeping into his voice. "They're all quite similar."
Finn noted the slight tightening around Arron's eyes, the way his fingers betrayed a tremor as they rested on the table. He sensed the shift in the room's atmosphere, like the charged silence before lightning strikes. Every detail was a puzzle piece, and Finn knew that patience was necessary to place them correctly.
"Similar, maybe," Finn agreed, but his thoughts weaved through the facts they already knew, connecting dots that Arron hoped would remain disparate. "But not many have the exact configuration we found on this particular flight. It's... unique."
Arron's response was a calculated shrug, but Finn wasn't swayed by the veneer of indifference. He could almost hear the cogs turning in Arron's head, the same way they churned in his own. The game of cat-and-mouse continued, both men aware that every second ticking by was another moment closer to truth or consequence.
"Unique or not," Arron said, recovering some of his earlier confidence, "I'm just a passenger. I don't poke around in cargo holds."
"Of course not," Amelia chimed in, her skepticism clear as she folded her arms. "That'd be beneath someone of your stature."
"Quite right," Arron smirked, but there was an edge to it now, the faintest hint of steel beneath the silk of his words.
Finn leaned back, letting the silence stretch between them again, a taut line ready to snap. In his mind, scenarios played out like scenes from films he'd seen, each possibility a route to explore, a potential trap to set. The photographs were just the beginning, a prelude to the crescendo he felt building in the depths of the case. As Arron met his stare with cool defiance, Finn knew the dance was far from over – but he intended to lead.
The air in the interview room felt heavier as Finn flicked another photograph across the table. It landed with a soft slap, its glossy surface reflecting the harsh overhead lights. The image, an unassuming cargo hold, seemed innocuous enough until Amelia's finger tapped insistently on a panel that didn't quite align with the aircraft's inner wall.
"Found this little number tucked away behind here," she said, her voice betraying no emotion, yet somehow it hung in the air like a threat.
Arron's eyes darted to the image, then away, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple despite the coolness of the room. His fingers gripped the armrests of his chair, knuckles whitening against the dark leather. "A hidden compartment?" he echoed, attempting nonchalance but only managing to strain his voice slightly. "Sounds like a mystery novel."
"Reality often outdoes fiction, Mr. Reinhardt," Finn interjected. "Especially when it comes to illegal goods, historic items and antiques—quite the collection you've amassed. And with flight records going all around the world, I wonder if you have a business for dealing in priceless antiques... Stolen ones."
"I assure you, I know nothing about this." Arron's attempt at recovery was swift, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his composure. "I merely take flights, not inventory."
“You take more than that,” Finn retorted. “Looking at your movements, the way you conduct yourself, the fact that the pilot wasn't even willing to listen to the control tower, it all boils down to crime. You areverysuccessful. From the information we've received in the last hour, you have been investigated before by the FBI, no less, but somehow slithered your way out of facing up to your own crimes. Not today. Your operation stops here. There are two murdered people from the States, and they are pointing straight to you as their killer. That flight is the last one you'll take as a free man for some time. Ironic that the flight itself is what has incriminated you.”
“Sounds like complete fiction! Like I said,” he reiterated, a vein bulging now on his forehead. “I was just a passenger.”
"Yet, the manifest," Amelia leaned forward, placing the document before him with precision, "suggests otherwise. It seems 'just a passenger' doesn't quite capture your involvement."
"Manifests can be misleading." Arron's retort came too quickly, his eyes now scanning the room as if seeking an escape route from the truth.
"Or illuminating," Finn countered smoothly. "They shine a light on details, like who charters planes. And according to this," he tapped the paper pointedly, "that person is you."
"Paperwork. Bureaucracy." Arron's laugh was devoid of humor, a hollow sound that bounced off the sterile walls. "It’s all semantics."
"Semantics that place you at the center of a smuggling operation," Amelia stated, her gaze unwavering.
Finn watched Arron closely, reading the minute shifts in his posture, the way his eyes refused to settle. The suspect was unraveling, thread by precarious thread, and with each word, each piece of evidence laid bare, they were one step closer to snaring him in the web of his own deceit. The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint hum of the recording device, capturing every nuance of their exchange.
"Being a passenger on your own chartered plane filled with contraband doesn’t look good for you," Finn said quietly, allowing the implication to hang between them, a specter of guilt that couldn't be easily dispelled.
"Looks can be deceiving," Arron managed, but his glance toward the door spoke volumes.
"Indeed, they can," Finn agreed, his mind already racing ahead to the next move in this high-stakes game.
Finn leaned back in his chair, the metal frame groaning under the subtle shift of weight. He slid a set of black-and-white photographs across the nondescript gray table, their edges skating over the surface with a hushed whisper. The images, stark depictions of ornate relics and intricate tapestries, settled into Arron Reinhardt's line of sight.
"Recognize any of these?" Finn's voice was level, his eyes locked on Arron, searching for the telltale flutter of guilt. "They have quite the history, you know, and I wonder if some will be traced back to Richmond Castle."
Arron's fingers twitched, betraying him as they reached out before curling back. His facade cracked, lines of strain etching themselves deeper around his eyes. "Richmond Castle? I have nothing to do with that place."
Finn's gaze didn't waver. "But you've been rather vocal about the renovations there, haven't you? Quite the local activist." He paused, allowing the statement to settle. "Or is it more accurate to say you saw an opportunity among the controversy?"
