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The police officer stopped the car, and the inspector opened my door after a moment. “Right, missy, come with me.”
Pushing my thoughts aside, I channelled Queen. I calmed my mind and focussed. For the moment, I had one thing to do. One job.
I let the inspector wait it out while I imagined myself naked, sinking into the high I got. I exhaled slowly and shifted, opening my legs to climb out of the car. As I was imagining eyes on me, my cunt squeezed, and a pulse ran through me.
Yes, this was it. This was the headspace where I needed to be.
The officers would want me. I’d let them look. Some I’d let touch and some I’d let take me. But I was in control. I was the one writing my narrative.
Processing complete, I let the junior officer lead me into an interview room, every ounce of arrogance I owned on display. There was no cowering, no hiding. Chin up, smirk firmly in place, I parked my butt in the plastic chair and stretched out like a cat. I owned the room.
I sighed. “A nap would be lovely. Do you have a pillow?” I asked my jailer.
He sputtered and laughed off my question, mistaking it as a joke. I raised my brows in question, waiting patiently for his answer. If he thought I was being facetious, perhaps I wasn’t being clear enough.
“Oh,” he huffed. “Um, no.”
“Hmm, shame.”
I looked around the room, finally taking in my surroundings. It was the epitome of a television cop show interview room. Block walls painted white, cameras mounted to the ceiling to capture every nook and cranny of the room, bright fluorescent lights, and a heavy door painted navy blue. The furniture was plastic, the chairs identical to the ones you find in high schools, and the table was bolted to the floor.
“We’ll be back to check on you soon,” he muttered before slipping out the door and closing it in his wake. The lock snicked into place.
My breath caught, and my heart rate spiked.
I couldn’t let them see me panic. I wouldn’t. I exhaled. Relaxed my muscles.
I had this.
As long as they saw what I wanted them to, I’d be fine. We all would be.
Two
Ezra
“W
hat in the ever-loving fuck was that?” Inspector Puglisi shouted, pointing in the general direction of the hangar. She was right. Kissing Zali had been wildly inappropriate and totally unprofessional, but my give-a-fuck factor was zero.
I’d needed her. I’d also needed to show her what was going on in my head.
The tangled mess that was my thoughts.
I was still trying to wrap my mind around what had happened. A few hours ago, Flynn asked me whether I had access to the Reserve Bank’s archives. I didn’t, but I’d put in a call, checking to see what I could do for Zali. The head librarian had shut me down. Access to the kind of data Zali wanted was out of the question—privacy laws prevented it. I’d backtracked, claiming that as part of an ongoing investigation, we were analyzing the security protocols in place.
Then, ninety minutes later, the same woman had called, notifying me of an incident. With my heart in my throat, I’d telephoned Zali. Then Flynn, and even Ryder. None of them had answered.
Inspector Puglisi had stormed into my office when I was hanging up the phone. Apparently, the head librarian had made a call to her too. The librarian didn’t believe my story, and Puglisi didn’t cover for me with the investigation angle either. Not that I expected her to.
“Your behaviour is beyond the pale, detective.” Her face turned red, eyes flashing with anger. She was barely five feet tall, but Inspector Puglisi was formidable. She didn’t take any shit and was happy to chew you a new one if you screwed up. I was officially on her shit list. “You don’t have any control over your assets, you’re a loose cannon yourself, and then, after you beg me to handle your asset’s arrest, you go and do that? What the hell do you think this is?”
“Inspector—”
“I’m not finished, Fraser.” She pointed at me, her fist clenched tight and her index finger coming close to poking me in the chest. I towered over her, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew when to shut up. “You’re off the case. She’s no longer your asset. She’s on her way to jail, and you’re on the edge of going with her. A phone call is one thing, but if I find any indication, any hint whatsoever that you knew what she was doing in Sydney, I’m charging you with being an accessory.”
“Okay.” I nodded.
She narrowed her eyes, her gaze threatening. “Get out,” she ordered.
