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“If the shooter is here,” Drake cuts in harshly, “which is unlikely. Butifhe is, and he’s going by the name Vallejo, then he’s powerful enough to kill you, even if he’s behind bars. He’ll have men for that stuff. That means if you point out him or his men today, then you’re still a target.”
“Detective Banks,” Archer snarls. “Let me work with my witness.”
“Work with her then,” he bites back. “But you gotta give it to her straight. No fluff, or she’ll fuck you off and you’ll get nothing out of her. Tell her the truth, so she can be prepared for what’s actually gonna happen.” He drags his attention from Archer and looks down into my eyes instead. “Whether or not you point out a guy today, you’re still a target, Aurora. Whoever shot Lombardo already knows your name, and he already found where you live. He’s coming for you, and he’s powerful enough to pull a name and address when not even the cops could. That means you’re staying in lockdown with me until we have him and his men in a cage.” He scoops me under the arm and helps me off the escalator when we reach the top. “Get comfortable, Little Bird. This is gonna take a while.”
“Little Bird?” Archer dashes off the escalator after us and catches up on my right. “What the fuck is happening here?”
“I’m keeping her alive,” Drake answers for us both. “I’m hunting down a man who either had my partner murdered or knows the guy who had my partner murdered.” He looks over my head and meets Fletcher’s honeycomb stare. “You would do the same. We both know it. I have decades of experience with Vallejo, and just as many in the DEA. You might understand these people,” he looks to Archer. “Maybe they’re related to you somewhere along the family tree. But this is bigger than you know, and I’m not willing to leave her fate in the hands of a man with no experience fighting these fuckers.” Finally, he loosens his grip on my arm, but doesn’t release me, before turning back to the much younger Officer Clay. “Let’s get the witness secure, Officer. She’s not safe in the middle of a bullpen.”
His eyes instantly jump to Malone’s, as though to ask for permission.
Though Archer doesn’t speak, he dips his chin and releases the officer from his moment of uncertainty.
“Yes, sir.” Clay recognizes Drake’s seniority, even without knowing his name or rank. Then turning on his heels, he leads us through a busy office area with a dozen or more desks, set up in twos so the occupants face their desk-buddy. Their partner, I suppose.
Clay leads us into a room labeled “three”, and as Archer and Fletcher file in behind us, I’m left feeling a little struck by the view on the other side of the glass. It’s all a little Hollywood, with the height markers lining the wall, and footprints painted on the floor.
I’ve seen something like this in the movies.
But not in real life.
Never, ever in real life.
“We’re going to bring some men into the other room,” Detective Malone says, his tone softening as he sets his manila file down and turns to face me. “There will be eight men. You may recognize one, or several. Or you may recognize none. You do not have to choose anyone, and picking someone for the sake of picking like you think you’ll get in trouble if you don’t, does more harm than good. Clay.” He meets the officer’s gaze. “Bring them in, line them up. Please.”
“Yes, Detective.” He darts out of the room and shuts the door at his back so just the four of us are trapped inside our half of a room that spans about six-feet one way, and ten-feet the other. Archer Malone is a serious man, vibrating with a need to find closure on this case I’ve somehow come to be wrapped up in. Charlie Fletcher, on the other hand, while protective of his partner, isn’t nearly as forceful or formidable in his quest for answers.
And then there’s Drake. A man who smiles easily, coins nicknames like we’ve known each other a lifetime, seems to understand trauma, or at least, his role in a traumatized woman’s life. But most importantly, I think, is that he’s a man willing to press the end of his gun against another man’s temple and pull the trigger.
Not a detail I should forget.
“Do you understand what you need to do today, Ms. Swanson?”
“Yeah.” I unzip my bulky coat now that we’re indoors and locked in a small room, and though I intend to battle with it alone and hope I don’t drop my cane in the process, Drake grabs the lapels and drags the fabric back to free me from the material. I glance over my shoulder and give him a small, appreciative smile, then I fix my sleeves and tug my shirt down to make sure my belly is covered. “I understand what I need to do, Detective.” I bring my focus back to Archer. “Look at them. Make sure I’m sure.”
My head snaps around as the door on the other side of the glass opens and men file in. They wear cuffs on their wrists and ankles, the profoundness of their situation slamming into me like a ton of bricks. If I say any one of them were in an alleyway three nights ago, beating up a man who is now dead, then they’re going to jail. Maybe not forever. But for a while, at least. Until trial, when a judge and jury decide what to do about the things I declare today.
“Take your time,” Detective Fletcher murmurs. He comes up on my right, and though he doesn’t touch me, his body warmth seeps into mine, and his hands wait, like he thinks I’ll fall. “Look at every single face. Study them. Really think about it. The only thing you need to do is say yes, or no, that you saw that person on the night of Lorenzo Lombardo’s murder.”
“If you point your finger at more than one,” Archer inserts carefully, “then we’ll discuss each of their roles. Were they holding the gun? Were they hurting the victim? But none of that is important for right now. You just have to—”
“Yeah,” I cut in, inching closer to the glass and categorizing each man that lines up on the other side. “I got it. Yes or no.” I rest my weight on my left hand and use my cane to relieve my thigh and the metal bar in my leg from holding me up. But when my body screams at me to do better, I twist in place and find the small table Archer tossed his file onto.
Grabbing the corner and breathing a little easier when it moves, confirming it’s not screwed to the floor, I noisily drag it closer. The metal legs scrape the concrete floor. I check the distance of the table from the window, then deeming it suitable, I hitch myself up and exhale when I find instant relief.
“Do you want a drink or something?” Fletcher offers. “Soda? Coffee?”
“No.” I set my feet on the lip of the window and rest my elbows on my knees. I make myself shamelessly at home inside this police precinct viewing room—I honestly have no clue what else to call this place—and when Officer Clay finishes lining his men up and turns to face the window, I swallow down the knowledge that everyone on the other side now knows we’re here.
I mean, anyone who has watched a cop show in the last fifty years knows one-way glass always has someone hidden on the other side. But still, the way he turns and faces us makes my skin break out in goosebumps. Because it’s almost like he’s staring directly into my eyes.
“Alright.” Archer steps toward the glass on my right, and leaning in, he presses a button I hadn’t noticed before this moment. “Number One. Take two steps forward. Then stop and wait for my instructions.”
My heart thunders, not because the slightly-too-short man with stubble on his chin and heavy brows shadowing his eyes is not familiar to me. But because this is on me now. My decision to make. My memory to rely on. It’s all so much pressure, and if I screw up, I either let a guilty man free, or I’m responsible for locking an innocent man up.
“Rory?” Fletch perches on the table beside me. “He look familiar to you?”
I shake my head and reach up to pinch my lips together to have something to do with my hands. Nerves wreak havoc on my system, and though everyone in this room is calm and quiet, my mind screams a thousand things at once, making it nearly impossible to break through the chatter and focus.
