Chapter 2
“I did not kill Gerald,” Harper said for the five-hundredth time over the last six hours. Her brain felt like someone was using it for archery practice and her eyes ached under the unrelenting florescent light of the police department interrogation room.
The space was stark and free of anything that could be used as a weapon, and her butt had gone numb from sitting all day in the same position on a wobbly metal chair.
Detective Lance Mignon—as in the steak—stared at her through his own set of bloodshot eyes beneath bushy gray brows, assessing her as if trying to figure out the exact moment when she’d crack. His grizzled face appeared confident in his interrogation skills and his expression was meant to intimidate her into submission.
As if. She had rights and she wasn’t about to dissolve into making a false confession. “I told you that he was already dead when I got there,” she said with a stubborn jaw set. “Check my phone. Would a killer call 9-1-1 from the scene of the crime?”
“Ah-huh.”
If she wasn’t already facing murder charges, she’d gladly pull off her white tennis shoe and smack the “ah-huh” right off his smug face. But since she was trying to convey innocence, it wouldn’t be in her best interest to load up on other charges, like assault on a cop, if she wanted to avoid prison.
“How do we know you intended to call for help?” Detective Mignon said. “That failed call may have been a ruse to turn suspicion away from yourself.”
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t that criminally clever, but the fewer words she said, the less of a chance she’d insert her flip flop back into her mouth.
“When exactly did I have time to plant that red herring before they took my phone? During the five seconds before they burst into the room and ordered my hands up? Or the next ten seconds when I was handcuffed and then led on the perp walk out of the hotel? I must have perpetrated the world’s fastest cover-up in those long fifteen seconds.”
The man was annoying. Clearly repeating the same argument over and over was supposed to confuse her into making a mistake. Well, it wasn’t working. Truth was on her side. Justice, too.
So when she finally cracked two seconds later, it wasn’t in the way he’d hoped. She’d just had enough.
Leaning back in the uncomfortable metal chair, she crossed her arms over her chest and matched his glare. Her twisty stomach threatened to ruin the moment.
“I want my phone call.”
He snorted and glanced at the wall clock. “This isn’t TV. You can call your mommy when we’re finished.”
Jerk. “I want my lawyer.” She didn’t know any lawyers but he didn’t know that. But she did know a fantastic PI who had to know someone. “I’m not saying anything else until I get representation.”
He worked the yellow, cigarette-stained hairs of the lower part of his mustache with his bottom lip and she tried not to let it gross her out. Be tough, Harper.
“You know that asking for a lawyer makes you look guilty.”
She gave him a look. “You already think that.”
Gathering up his file, he shot her one last scowl and left the room. All bravado fled. She unfolded from the chair with a pained groan and pushed to her feet.
Her pelvis creaked as her bones moved back into place. She rubbed her butt and slowly paced back and forth across the small room. Ten gray speckled floor tiles each way. Eventually the blood circulated back into her lower extremities.
Twenty minutes passed and she was sure Mignon had left her there to die a slow, lonely death by thirst and starvation. Then, a female officer, in a too-tight blue polyester uniform, opened the door and waved her out. The woman showed her into the hallway with a hand on her gun.
What did she expect? An escape attempt?
“You can use the phone over there,” the officer said, not unkindly, and pointed to the phone on the wall near the ladies’ bathroom. “It’s collect.”
Harper stumbled to the lifeline. She wasn’t sure how to call collect or use the out-of-date machine with the metal cord connecting phone to the receiver. Thankfully, someone had typed out instructions, laminated the card, and taped it to the wall.
Information was free. She called Brash & Brazen, Inc. in Ann Arbor and asked for Taryn Hall.
The operator at Brash almost refused the collect call. Clearly they didn’t get a lot of calls from jail. Harper quickly explained her connection to Taryn before the call disconnected. The operator accepted the charges.
Then the woman explained that Taryn, Summer, and Jess were at Quantico taking a course in updated forensic techniques. They wouldn’t be back until Monday. Four days from now. The idea of spending days in this cold place made her want to cry.
She forced down that emotion.
“I can text Taryn for you, though,” the woman offered kindly.
Even if Taryn could help, it could take hours to get sprung and she didn’t have that kind of time. She was already losing her sanity. “No. Thanks anyway.”
She hung up.
Leaning her head on the wall, she considered her options. She could call her aunt. But she was in Arizona soaking up the sun with a years-younger man-toy named Frank. Her brother lived in Oregon, so he wouldn’t be helpful. She had to go elsewhere.
Think. Think.
A name came to mind and she groaned under her breath. Noah Slade was the absolute last person she should call. The. Last. However, he was former law enforcement professional and she’d run out of ideas. Maybe he’d feel sorry for her and head on over to the jail on a white horse.
Desperation returned her to the phone. Gossip from her flaky cousin Marty let Harper know that Noah was back in their home town and living in his childhood home. He’d gotten in a mess with the Feds and had been fired. Still, he knew law enforcement inside and out.
If anyone could get her out of this fix, it was him.
Hopefully, he still had the same home phone number. Hopefully, he’d be happy to hear from her. Hopefully, eleven years had erased old hurts. She dialed. Distracted, he accepted the call.
“Hello.”
Thank God. The voice was gruff and deep and familiar. Her mind flew back to high school and her knees went weak beneath her. She leaned against the cool surface of the wall, and forced herself to maintain control. The female officer stared from her place near the door but didn’t protest the second call.
“Noah?” she said in a half-whisper. Hell, even now, with the years and the awful way they’d ended things, he still had the ability to tangle up her emotions.
“Speaking.”
Harper took a deep breath. “It’s Harper.”
There was a long pause and she thought she heard a sharp intake of breath. For a moment, it seemed as if he was scanning his brain to make the connection. Fortunately, he couldn’t know that many Harpers. It wasn’t a common name.
He was more likely contemplating whether hell had finally frozen over. That was the only reason she’d call.
“What do you want, HJ?”
Almost smiling, she felt a small sense of relief. He always called her HJ because he’d liked having something just theirs.
She wondered if he realized the slip.
“I need your help, Noah.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’ve been arrested. The police think I killed my boss.”
A humorless chuckle followed. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
Silence. Then, “Why are you calling me?” Impatience edged his tone. “If I remember your last words, ‘screw you’ and ‘I hate you’ and ‘I hope you get hit by frozen airplane toilet water’ come to mind. You also said that you never wanted to see my ‘ugly face’ again.”
Her face warmed. “I was upset.”
“You think?”
Rehashing the breakup at this point was counterproductive. Reminding him that everything had been his fault wouldn’t ingratiate him to her side. She needed out of the police station and into a shower. After six hours without hand sanitizer, she was convinced she was riddled with a fatal case of criminal cooties.
“Can’t we discuss that later,” she said, harsher than she intended. The headache turned her surly. “Will you help me get out of jail or not?”
A pause. Seconds clicked by.
“Not.” Then the line went dead.
* * * *
The holding cell smelled faintly of outhouse, and the smiling woman who’d shared the space was middle-aged, had tattoos from neck to toes, and was looking at Harper like she was a hoagie sandwich after weeks of famine. Across her ample chest, where her low-cut and dingy gray tank top neckline dipped down to almost an indecent level, a “Sexy Momma’ tattoo was written in blue ink just above her wrinkled cleavage.
Ugh. The day wasn’t getting better.
Harper smiled awkwardly and shuffled to the bench opposite her new roommate. She sat and tried to look fierce, like this wasn’t her first arrest. She fooled no one.
“How you doin’?” The woman winked and ran an appreciative gaze down Harper. A crooked grin followed.
Harper struggled not to flinch. She was convinced that if Kimmie didn’t get there soon, she’d be spooning on the narrow bench with her “Sexy Momma” before sundown and making plans for matching cleavage tattoos.
“Not bad, and you?” Did that sound as dopey as she thought? What do you talk about with your fellow inmates anyway? Crappy prison food and how to make a shank out of your toothbrush?
The woman waggled her brows. “Better now.”
“Harper Evans?” the female officer called out in a bored tone. “Your ride is here.”
Weak with relief, Harper pushed to her feet. Thank God Kimmie had come through. No spooning tonight.
Harper sent tattoo lady a small wave and scurried through the cell door.
It turned out that she hadn’t been officially arrested—Mignon left that part out—and since she’d sort of cooperated, she didn’t have to post bond. She jokingly promised she’d not make a run for the Mexico border when the detective grudgingly told her the good news.
Mignon assured her that he was building his case against her and would be happy to hunt her down like a mangy dog if she did flee the state, before leaving her to the female officer to check her out.
Harper signed for her phone and purse and was led through to the waiting room. Kimmie was dressed in a snug red dress and heels, clearly ready to go out dancing. Harper raced over and hugged her tight, blathering her gratitude while Gerald’s assistant firmly extricated herself from the embrace. The young woman quickly stepped back and made a face.
“You smell like sewage backup,” Kimmie said and checked her dress as if looking for old gum and plastic wrapped moldy cheese.
“I’m just happy you came,” Harper said, ignoring the dis. She reached into her purse for a bottle of hand sanitizer. At the moment, the younger woman was Harper’s favorite person.
She led Kimmie out the glass doors and sucked in her first deep breath of freedom. At no time in history had car-exhaust-filled city air ever smelled so good.
The cool germ-killing gel helped further lift her spirits until she got to a shower. “I thought you’d refuse to come.”
“I almost did. It’s a long drive.” Kimmie led her to a Mini Cooper. It was cute, cream colored, and about the size of a tuna can. “You’re persona non-grata at the office. You know you’ve been fired, right?”
“How can they fire me?” Harper said, her voice going shrill. “I’m innocent!”
After scrambling into the front passenger seat, Harper snapped on the seat belt and hoped they didn’t get run over by a big rig on the way home. It was that kind of day.
“Tell that to Willard.” He was the owner of the Lansing Mighty Muskrats and overall big ass.
Kimmie reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an alpine pine tree scented air freshener and hung it from the rearview mirror. Within seconds, the scent of outhouse dissipated.
“A lot of people hated Gerald,” Harper added in a rush and turned the air conditioning vent toward her flushed face. “He had a lot of enemies. Dozens, hundreds even. Heck, his ex-mistresses alone all wanted him dead.”
“Willard doesn’t care.” Kimmie left the parking lot with a bump over part of the curb. “Gerald’s his nephew and you’ve ‘always been a pain-in-the-ass’ so you’re out. Your personal items from the stadium are in the box on the back seat.”
Harper spun and looked. Sure enough, the plaque declaring her junior cheer champion of two thousand and two stuck out from the top of the box. They’d cleared out her desk and closed the door on her. Four years of loyalty to the team meant nothing.
She didn’t even get to keep one of the new stripper uniforms that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
Her bottom lip wobbled. Her entire cheerleading career was boiled down to a box of mementos and a kick out the door.
“I can’t believe Willard can do that. Don’t I get to tell my side of the story? I did not kill Gerald!”
Repeating her innocence made her feel better even if it didn’t help free her from suspicion.
Kimmie pulled up to a stop sign and turned to her. “I feel for you and I believe you’re innocent. However, article VII, section eight of your contract gives the Muskrats the ability to fire you for any infraction. Murdering the team manager qualifies.”
“But I didn’t—” She stopped. Moving quickly from feeling sorry for herself to boiling over with indignation, Harper knew that taking out her frustration on Kimmie wouldn’t be fair. The girl had come to her assistance and was on her side. So Harper kept her thoughts about Willard to herself. She’d find a way out of this mess. She had to.
And she’d get Noah Slade to help her.