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"Rob," Finn returned, the familiarity in his voice belying the tension that knotted his shoulders. One didn't easily shake off the burdens he carried—the weight of a tarnished badge, the ghost of a love lost, and the whispers of a trial that still clawed at him. But Finn's way in the world was to joke his way out of a bad place. “I had that giant right where I wanted him.”
"Word in the office is you had quite the tussle with Frank Butter," Rob said, his mouth quirking in a smile that hinted at the daily absurdities of their line of work.
Finn grinned. "Took care of business," he confirmed, the words clipped. Frank Butter was now one less thorn in their side, but there were always more to take his place.
“I hope you didn't goad the man into a fight just to get him here,” Rob said sarcastically.
“Oh never,” Finn added in his on sardonic tone.
“You did well, Finn,” Rob then said softly.
Amelia cleared her throat, a pointed sound that drew a sideways glance from Finn. "With a little help from Amelia," he conceded, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards despite himself.
"A little help!?" Amelia's laugh was a burst of warmth in the icy air. "That's one way to put it."
"Okay, a lot," Finn admitted. Amelia's intuition had steered them right more times than he cared to count, and her bravery had matched his own, stride for stride.
"Let's get inside," Amelia said, her keen gaze shifting to the entrance. "We might just have caught our murderer."
And with that, they moved into the building, navigating its many brightly lit hallways and rooms.
Rob, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his unbuttoned overcoat, eyed them both, the lines around his eyes crinkling with a mixture of amusement and concern. "We've put Frank in an interview room," he mentioned casually as they ascended a set of stairs. "I hope you've got kryptonite cuffs on him," Finn joked.
"Kryptonite?" Rob's chuckle was dry. "Afraid we’re fresh out. But he's secure enough." He paused, then added, "And no sightings of Vilne yet before you ask. I just hope your suspect can give us something."
Finn's jaw tightened at the mention of Max Vilne. "How's Demi?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice level.
"Safe, but she's on edge," replied Rob, casting a glance sharp enough to slice through Finn's stoic exterior. "You might want to give her a ring later. We've got a couple of constables with her at every moment."
The suggestion gnawed at Finn's insides, churning up a storm of guilt and unresolved feelings. "After the interview," he said tersely, pushing the unwelcome emotions down deep where they wouldn't interfere with the task at hand.
"Right," Rob nodded, looking a little less certain than usual about things. Finn could feel that his friend thought differently to him. That Rob felt Finn should be more in touch with Demi. “I'll keep you advised. Good luck.” And with that, Rob disappeared back into the maze of corridors.
The remaining two detectives moved through the building's sterile corridors, their footsteps resonating against the linoleum floor. They passed uniformed officers and clerks buried in paperwork, each glance and nod a silent testament to the gravity of the day ahead. Amelia led the way to the elevator, pressing the button with a decisive thumb.
"Up we go then," she said, the doors sliding shut with a hush.
As the elevator hummed upwards, Finn's mind raced. The tight space seemed to contract further with each floor they ascended. And suddenly, he was aware of just how close Amelia was to him in that small space. And how her perfume made him feel like holding her and telling her how he felt.
Exiting onto the third floor, they navigated to the interview room, its door ajar. Inside, Frank Butter sat, his large frame dwarfing the metal chair he was cuffed to. Like Tanner before him, there was no lawyer present, just Frank and his simmering defiance.
"Surprised to see you without legal representation, Frank," Finn remarked, stepping into the room, his eyes never leaving the suspect.
"Lawyers," Frank spat contemptuously, "are part of what’s wrong with society."
"Where have we heard that from?" Finn mused aloud, turning to Amelia with a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you guys read from the same script?”
Frank looked confused.
The sterile scent of antiseptic mingled with the less distinguishable odors of a room that had seen countless confessions and denials. Finn's gaze swept over the bland walls, noting how the dull paint seemed to absorb rather than reflect the fluorescent light overhead. He took his seat across from Frank Butter, whose hands were cuffed securely to the table, his bullish neck strained as he leaned back in an attempt at nonchalance.
Amelia was already seated, her posture upright and professional, betraying no hint of the adrenaline Finn knew coursed through them both. She pressed the record button on the interview tape, the click resounding with finality in the air.
"Interview commencing at 9PM," Amelia's voice was crisp, each word enunciated clearly for the record. "Present are Inspector Amelia Winters, consulting detective Finn Wright, and Mr. Frank Butter."
"Why wouldn't you answer our questions back at your house, Frank?" Finn's question sliced into the silence like a scalpel, precise and probing.
Frank's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Answering questions got me locked up before." His eyes, cold and guarded, flicked toward Finn. "And I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you, Wright."
