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“The night of the party. The one you hosted for the Diamond Ring. You spent the night eating oysters and drinking champagne and you wanted a little company after your clients left.”
Again—stay as close to the truth as possible. Get me in the house the night I actually arrived. Keep me around the freeport as long as I’d been there in fact.
“We hit it off,” Trap says. “You stuck around. We have no idea where the video came from, but it’s got to be some asshole trying to blow up the freeport, especially after you proved your worth at the Monet auction.”
“It’s nothing personal,” I say. “Just business.”
Trap looks directly in my eyes. “And you got caught in the crossfire.”
We’re a long way from a trial. It’ll be months—if not years—before we have to swear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help us God. We’ll rehearse this story dozens of times before then, saw off the rough bits, polish the details to a high shine.
This is wrong. It’s a lie. But in a crazy way, viewed through a warped lens, somehow, some way, it’s all true.
“You can do this, Princess,” Trap says. “We can do it together.”
And for the first time since I saw that video flash on the screen of his phone, I believe he might be right.
The pilot’s voice breaks into our silence. “We’re starting our descent into Dover, Mr. Prince.”
We leave the office and head out to the main cabin. To the luxurious leather seats. To the curious eyes of the flight attendant, who probably thinks we’ve been making mad passionate love the entire flight.
After we land, a chorus of paparazzi is gathered at the chain link fence. They’re shouting questions before we step through the plane’s door. Their cameras flash in the early morning light.
No comment,I think, but we’re far enough away that we don’t have to say a word.
A car is waiting to take us to the freeport. Samantha Mott stands just outside the front door of Trap’s house. Three police cars are parked on the driveway, along with a Dover Police Department van.
Trap squeezes my fingers before we step out of the car.
It’s show time.
23
TRAP
* * *
Slouching in the driver’s seat of the Range Rover, I keep my head low to avoid the fucking paparazzi. They’re swarming the steps in front of the police station like a cloud of biting gnats. I got out through a side door, but I bet Alix won’t be as lucky.
I check my watch for the tenth time in fifteen minutes. I knew the cops would talk to us separately. I knew they’d take more time going over her story than they did mine. I knew her lawyer would need to jump in more often, need to monitor the cops’ phrasing, need to decide whether to let Alix respond or take the goddamn fifth.
But it’s been four fucking hours. Why the hell are they still in there?
It was easy enough for me. I didn’t need to make up much—just the night that Herzog died. We expected him at the party, but he never showed. He sent his car, though. Had it delivered to Cole Wolf, the guy who bought it after seeing it at an earlier meeting.
Good food, good booze, good business with clients—it all left me wanting a little female companionship. Sure, I could call one of those high-end escort services. But I’m a simple guy. Simple tastes. And I don’t want a record of who I pay and when and where and everything we do.
A drive to the train station in my Range Rover with its fully reclining seats, a couple hundred bucks, and I got the shock of my life—Alix, the woman I’d been jonesing for since we met three years ago.
A goddamn love story, if I ever heard one.
They took me back over the details a few times. When I planned the party. When Herzog said he couldn’t make it. Why he sent the car, who dropped it off, how Wolf paid ninety grand for a vehicle he’d only seen once before…
The video? It had to be a fake. That much blood? That sort of destruction? It looked like a slasher film, not anything from real life.
It was easy to repeat my answers. Easy to say the same things over and over and over again.
My lawyer—some white-shoe bigshot from New York City that Sam lined up—let me talk. He and I shook hands on the sidewalk, and he caught the train back to Manhattan. We’ll follow up on Monday.
