“Concentrate,” she urged herself as she waved the phone over her head looking for bars. A concerning thought jumped forward and made her hesitate.
Last night, after receiving the prototype of the new uniform from Gerald’s put-upon young assistant, Kimmie, and cursing him back to his knuckle-dragging ancestors—many of them still suffered from that condition—she’d spent the better part of the evening drinking Fuzzy Navels and telling everyone within earshot that if he didn’t rethink the uniforms, she intended to kill him and dump his body parts in Lake Michigan.
Her heart sunk as memories came back to her of a dark bar with noise from several sporting events blasting in the background.
Oh, no.
“Not your finest moment,” she said and closed her eyes against the crush of worry. At least a dozen football players and cheerleaders had been at that large table celebrating the game win when she’d inserted a flip-flop covered foot into her mouth and made threats. There was no way any of them hadn’t heard.
“You made yourself suspect number one, dummy.”
She paused for just a half a second before ignoring the feeling that the walls were closing in. Gerald was dead. She could worry about herself and her big mouth later.
Moving closer to the door, she finally found service. Two bars appeared.
Harper tapped out 9-1-…
The chance to be a good citizen vanished when the sound of shuffling outside the door and a deep and authoritative voice called out, “Police!”
The cracked-open door swung inward and a pair of officers rushed in the door, guns drawn, faces hard. She felt a rush of relief that lasted about two breaths. They appeared to have been expecting trouble. Odd. She’d just found the body a minute ago. And there was no sign any Good Samaritan had gotten there before her. Double odd.
Her stomach tightened.
Had they known about Gerald before she showed up? How? Her call hadn’t gone through. Something was wrong here.
Her mind went blank.
“Get down on the floor!” the first officer demanded. He was well over six feet tall and had a menacing face marred by childhood acne scars. The second brushed past her, holding his gun up in case of danger.
Terrified, Harper dropped to her knees. “I didn’t do anything.” Her tight voice shook.
The protest was ignored. Cop one stepped forward and his gun came very close to her face. She blew a brown curl out of her eyes and fought to settle her shaking body.
“Hands up,” the cop said.
Her phone slipped out of her hand and bounced off the carpet when her arms went up. Just like in the old mystery movies she’d watched with Gramps, she’d been found bent over the body with the knife in her hand. Figuratively, of course.
“We have a body,” officer two said from behind her, more in confirmation than surprise. “It looks like a murder.”
The first officer stared down at her as if mentally practicing his witness statement when he testified against her in court. This was probably his first murder.
There was a faint and disturbing glint in his eyes. “Lady, put your hands behind your back.”
Harper whimpered. And complied.
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