My inner voice snapped she was past saving and I had another person to worry about, another life in this room of death.
The baby.
I sprang toward the portable crib, not caring where I stepped.
It was empty except for a small stuffed lion sitting in one corner, winking at me. No diaper bag, no bottles of formula.
No baby.
I closed my eyes and tried to pull up what little calm I had left. The situation had gone from bad to worse to horribly, horribly terrible beyond anything imaginable.
I retreated to the front door and dug my cell phone out. It took three tries to hit 911, my numb fingers refusing to work properly.
The cab driver wasn’t going to like losing his return fare.
The police came, the cab driver left and the hotel owner was very, very unhappy.
The homicide detective who showed up flinched when I mentioned my friendship with one of his colleagues, Hank Attersley, and my intention to say nothing to anyone but Hank. A short phone call later, and I was off to the police station with an escort to see Hank while CSI processed the scene and the coroner dealt with the dead body.
It took over an hour to get washed and rinsed through the system, finally ending up sitting in an interrogation room waiting for Hank and in the early grip of a major migraine.
My cell phone had stayed mercifully silent. The last thing I needed right now was to try to explain to Bran why I was at the police station.
I looked around the room. The two-way mirror was scratched and bent in spots, showing physical contact. It smelled like sweat and fear and blood with a little trace of urine mixed in.
I fought not to gag. The walls were a drab gray and for a frantic second I thought they were closing in on me.
Being trapped is one of our greatest fears. We chafed at the bit doing office jobs and thrived outside—putting us in cages was akin to a death sentence.
I swallowed hard, forcing the ball of fear away. I had nothing to fear from the police.
Bran, however, was a whole other thing. I definitely wasn’t making our lunch date.
The stainless steel table had seen better days—the scrapes and dents on the surface held a thousand stories, none of which I wanted to hear or to add my testimony to. I shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair and cleared my throat.
“Any chance of getting a bottle of water here?”
I knew there were people on the other side of the glass. I couldn’t scent them but I knew they were there, studying me like a butterfly under glass.
“Please?”
The door opened, admitting Detective Hank Attersley.
He tossed a plastic water bottle at me as he closed the door.
I caught it with one hand and wrestled the cap off. The condensation dripped onto the table, forming a small puddle of water.
He threw a file folder on the table, sat opposite me and glared, a snarl curling his lips. The generic brown suit was tight across his shoulders, with the white shirt desperately trying to hold in an ample belly brought on by having a wife who loved to cook and cooked well.
Hank and I had a love-hate relationship.
He loved making a little money on the side by helping me out. I hated the fact he kept trying to set me up with his wife’s nephew or worse, convince me to “go legal” and join the force.
He flipped the folder open but didn’t look down at the pages.
A black-and-white picture of Molly Callendar was clipped to the top page. Smiling, vibrant, alive.
I knew the other photographs would be buried at the back under the autopsy report. Pictures no one other than the police needed to see.
“Fuck, Reb. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” He answered his own question. “Murder. Fucking murder.”
I smiled, trying not to bounce in the chair. It was uncomfortable to sit still but jumping around would signal nervousness and I didn’t want to be here a second longer than I needed to be. “Missed you too, Hank.”
He rubbed his chin, the ever-present five o’clock shadow standing at attention. “Haven’t heard from you for a few months. You still hanging with that fellow?” His lips turned up on the last word as if he’d stepped in dog poop.
“His name’s Brandon Hanover. And yes, I’m still ‘hanging’.” He was making small talk, working his way up to the big event. “Still living in Parkdale and still paying my bills like a good little Canadian.” I tilted my head toward the world outside the closed door. “Let’s get down to business. Any idea what happened to Molly Callendar?”
His expression didn’t change. “That’s what I’m about to ask you.” He looked at the black-and-white photo before moving to the first typewritten page. “Girl, what the hell were you doing there in the first place?”
“I was running courier. I put everything in my statement.” I reached over and tapped the top page. “Delivering a legal document that needed to be signed by the victim. On my second trip I discovered the body and, as per the law, notified the authorities ASAP.” I tried not to sound bored. This was the third or fourth time I’d had to explain my presence and it was getting both annoying and upsetting.
Attersley grunted. “We’ve already spoke to Brayton. He confirms your temporary employment and your assignment.” He rapped his thick knuckles on the papers. “So how did you meet Brayton?”
The casual tone didn’t fool me. He wanted to know how a cheap PI ended up running papers for one of the biggest investment firms in the city.
I paused. If I told him about Michael Hanover I could be knocking over a whole nest of snakes. But if my answer didn’t line up with Brayton’s statement I’d be in Hank’s gunsights for not giving a truthful statement.
I took a deep swig of water, buying myself a few more seconds to think.
The question was how much Brayton wanted to keep Hanover out of this situation. From what I’d seen, Brayton wanted to keep his buddy on the other side of the moon, if possible. Whatever Michael Hanover had on David Brayton was enough to make him claim a child who wasn’t his and arrange a support agreement that would last decades—but was it enough to keep quiet about possible involvement in a murder?
I rolled the dice.
“His boss, Michael Hanover?” I allowed myself the biggest shit-eating grin ever. “Brandon’s his son.”
Hank’s eyes widened. I heard a thump on the other side of the glass and imagined some low-level flunky being shredded by his superior for not making the connection. If they hadn’t figured it out before, they knew now and I wasn’t going to hide it.
“I met his parents yesterday. Daddy asked me if I could do a favor for one of his employees—I don’t know how much, if anything, he knew.” I spread my hands. “Get on the family’s good side and all that.”
Hank sat back and crossed his arms. I knew he was giving me more time to talk and for the other detectives behind the one-way mirror to watch me for any signs of discomfort.
I drew a finger through the puddle. “I arrive this morning and Brayton tells me he needs a ghost runner. He didn’t want to use anyone from the firm and risk being found out. Cash on the barrelhead, no paper trail and no one making the connection back from Callendar to Hanover Investments and David Brayton.”
Hank slowly nodded like a tired bobblehead.
I licked my dry lips. “I don’t have to tell you how much scandal this would cause if it hit the papers. Especially some trashy tabloid like the Toronto Inquisitor.” I couldn’t stop a sly smile. Bran had been working for the Inquisitor when we’d met and Hank’d warned me off the slick, silver-tongued reporter.
Hank didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
“I figured it’d be a fast few hours of work and I’m in good with the parents.”