“So as I said, this can go one of two ways. You can plead guilty immediately to all charges, including first-degree murder. The judge will take your swift guilty plea and confession into consideration. An early demonstration of regret, plus any information you can provide about the drug-running happening in this hotel, could go a long way in lightening your sentence.”
The teapots dance around in my lap. The detective is droning on, but her voice sounds tinny, farther and farther away.
“Or we can do this the long and slow way. We can gather more evidence, and we can end up in court. Either way, Molly the Maid, the jig is up. So what do you choose?”
I know I’m not thinking straight. And I don’t know the proper rules of etiquette when one is accused of murder. Out of nowhere, I remember Columbo.
“You read me my rights earlier,” I say. “At the door of my home. You said I have the right to consult an attorney. If I hire one, do I have to pay immediately?”
Detective Stark rolls her eyes—exasperation writ so large that I can’t miss it. “Lawyers generally don’t expect cash on the spot,” she says.
I hold my head up and look straight at her.
“In that case, I’d like one phone call, please. I demand to speak to a lawyer.”
Detective Stark pushes back her chair. It makes an aggravating noise. I’m certain she’s just added to the plethora of unsightly scuff marks already on the floor. She opens the door of the interrogation room and says something to the young police officer standing guard outside. He fishes a cell phone from his back pocket and hands it to her. It’s my cell phone. What is he doing with my cell phone?
“Here,” the detective says. She drops my phone on the table with a clunk.
“You took my phone,” I say. “Who gave you the right?”
Detective Stark’s eyes go wide. “You did,” she says. “After you fainted in the cell, you insisted that we take your phone in case you needed it later to call a friend.”
The truth is that I don’t remember, but something vague niggles at the back of my consciousness.
“Thank you very much,” I say. I pick up my phone and press Contacts. I search all eight entries—Giselle, Gran, Cheryl Green, Olive Garden, Mr. Preston, Rodney, Mr. Rosso, Mr. Snow. I consider who is truly on my side—and who might not be. The names swirl before my eyes. I wait until I can see clearly. Then I choose and dial. I hear it ringing. Someone picks up.
“Mr. Preston?” I say.
“Molly? Are you all right?”
“Please pardon me for troubling you at such an inconvenient hour. You’re probably getting ready for work.”
“Not now. I’m working the late shift today. Dear girl, what’s going on?”
I look around the plain white room with the fluorescent lights beating down on me. Detective Stark eyes me with her ice-glazed stare. “The truth is, Mr. Preston, I’m not quite all right. I’ve been arrested for murder. And more. I’m being held at the station nearest the hotel. And I…I hate to say this, but I could really use your help.”
Chapter 16
Once I finish my call to Mr. Preston, Detective Stark holds out her hand. In truth, I do not know what for, so I grab my empty Styrofoam cup and pass it to her, thinking we are finished and that she’s cleaning the table.
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Now you think I’m your maid?”
I most certainly do not. If she were anywhere near a half-decent maid, this room would not look as it does—scuffed and scratched, stained and smeared. If I had so much as a napkin and a bottle of water, I could bide my time cleaning up this pigpen.
Detective Stark takes my phone from my hand.
“Will I get that back? I have essential contacts that I’d hate to lose.”
“You’ll get it back,” she says. “Someday.” She looks at her watch. “So, is there anything else you’d like to say, while we’re waiting for your lawyer?”
“My apologies, Detective. Please don’t take my silence personally. First off, I’ve never been very gifted with small talk and when I’m forced to make it, I often say the wrong thing. Second, I’m aware of my right to remain silent and so I’ll begin employing it immediately.”
“Fine,” she says. “Have it your way.”
After what seems like an unholy eternity, there’s a loud knock on the door.
“This should be interesting,” Detective Stark says, rising from her chair and opening the door.
It’s Mr. Preston, in civilian dress. I’ve rarely seen him out of his doorman’s cap and coat. He’s wearing a perfectly pressed blue shirt and dark jeans. There’s a woman with him dressed much more formally in a tailored navy suit, carrying a black leather briefcase. Her short, curly hair is perfectly coiffed. Her dark-brown eyes immediately give away who she is because they’re so much like her father’s.
I stand to greet them. “Mr. Preston,” I say, barely able to contain my relief at seeing them. I move a bit too quickly and hit my hip bone on the table. It smarts, but it doesn’t stop the surge of words that flows from my mouth. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you so much for coming. It’s just that I’ve been accused of some terrible things. I’ve never harmed anyone, never touched a drug in my life, and the only time I’ve ever held a weapon was—”
“Molly, I’m Charlotte,” Mr. Preston’s daughter says, interrupting me. “It’s my professional advice that you remain silent at this time. Oh. And it’s very nice to meet you. My dad has told me a lot about you.”
“One of you better be an attorney, or I’m going to lose it,” Detective Stark says.
Charlotte steps forward, her sharp heels clacking loudly on the cold, industrial floor. “That would be me, Charlotte Preston, of Billings, Preston & García,” she says, flicking a business card to the detective.
“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says to me. “We’re here now, so don’t you worry about a thing. This is all just a big—”
“Dad,” Charlotte says.
“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, and zips his mouth shut.
“Molly, do you agree to be represented by me?”
I don’t say a word.
“Molly?” she prods.
“You instructed me not to speak. Should I speak now?”
“My apologies. I wasn’t clear. You can speak, just not anything relating to the charges lain. Let me ask you again: do you agree to be represented by me?”
“Oh yes, that would be most helpful,” I say. “Can we discuss a payment plan at a more convenient time?”
Mr. Preston coughs into his hand.
“I’d offer you a tissue, Mr. Preston, but I’m afraid I don’t have one on me.” I eye Detective Stark, who is shaking her head.
“Please don’t worry about payment right now. Let’s just concentrate on getting you out of here,” Charlotte says.
“You realize that to release her you’ve got to post bail of $800,000. Now, let me see…” Detective Stark says as she puts her index finger to her lips, “I think that’s just a spot above a maid’s earnings and assets, am I right?”
“You’re right, Detective,” Charlotte says. “Maids and doormen are often underpaid and undervalued. But litigators? We do all right. Better than detectives, so I’m told. I’ve personally posted bail with the clerk out front.” She smiles at Detective Stark. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that it’s not a friendly smile.
Charlotte turns to me. “Molly,” she says. “I’ve arranged for you to have a bail hearing later this morning. I’m not allowed to represent you there, but I’ve filed some letters already on your behalf.”