Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Stop speaking,” I say quietly.
He glances at me, one eyebrow rising.
I look at the detective. “All you have is Hendrix getting into his brother’s car after that same brother bailed him out?”
Battlement crosses his arms. “That and the fact that your client discovered that morning that his brother quite possibly set him up for an earlier murder.” He leans toward Alexei, his belly bumping the table. “You spent seven years in prison. You’re telling me you don’t want revenge?”
Alexei shrugs. “What I want doesn’t matter. We have a company to run.” He sounds smooth and believable, but the detective doesn’t look convinced.
“Your prints were found on the murder weapon,” Battlement says.
I blink. “What was Hendrix murdered with? Was he shot?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Battlement says.
Alexei snorts. “You found my prints on murder weapons before.”
It’s an excellent defense. I hope I don’t have to use it. “This doesn’t need to go any further, Detective,” I say. “You don’t have enough on my client to keep him.”
“The hell I don’t. Forget motive. Like I said, his prints are actually on the weapon.”
I sit back. “I’ll ask again. What weapon was used to kill Hendrix?”
The detective opens a file folder and pulls out an enlarged photograph to toss our way. I look down to see a photo of Hendrix Sokolov on his back, his eyes open in death, and blood pouring from his neck. I peer closer and then can’t breathe. What in the world?
The detective smiles. “Yes, his prints weren’t the only ones found on the murder weapon.”
Alexei scrutinizes the photograph. “What are you talking about?”
“Yours were there as well, Counselor.” Battlement taps his fingers together and steeples his hands beneath his chin. “Do you recognize the weapon?”
I stare, not believing it. I peer closer to see my letter opener from my office, the one I used just the other day to open bills I can’t pay, sticking out of Hendrix Sokolov’s neck.
“Is that your letter opener?” the detective asks.
I sit back. “We’re not saying anything else.” It looks like I need my own attorney.
Battlement tugs the picture back to put in his file folder. “Here’s my theory, Ms. Mooncrest. Alexei visited you in your office, saw the letter opener, and took it. He picked up his brother, Hendrix, took him home, and then there was some sort of scuffle that led to Hendrix’s death. The deceased has bruises on his arms. I think your client’s trying to set you up, Counselor. You sure you don’t want to talk to me?”
I cross my arms, my brain fuzzy. This can’t be happening. “I’m positive.”
“Very well.” The detective slaps the file folder closed. “Alexei, you’ve been arrested, and you’re going to be held.”
I leap to my feet. “You can’t hold him. We’re going to request bail.”
The detective shrugs. “Sorry, but I can’t get in front of a judge until Monday, so it looks like your boy is going to spend a little more time in custody.”
I look in panic at Alexei, but he seems calm, bored even. “The man spent seven years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Release him on his own recognizance.”
“That’s not my decision, and I don’t have a judge available.” The detective stands. “In addition, we think he’s an extreme flight risk.” He looks at Alexei. “Please stand. We’re going to hold you at the prison and not here at the jail. We’ve been informed by the local PD that they don’t have the resources to keep you safe in their little cell.”
My stomach drops.
Alexei stands, as always in perfect control. “Don’t worry about it, Peaflower. Just get my bail set on Monday.”
THIRTY-THREE
Alexei
A mere few hours after being arrested, I find myself back in the prison wearing a starchy, orange jumpsuit. The door clicks shut, and I stare across the cell at Urbano Reyes.
He stands against the rear wall, his arms crossed. “This can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s not,” I agree. “I had to pay a fortune to make this happen.”
He blinks. “You killed your brother?”
“Man, gossip reaches fast, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He eyes me warily, a big, beefy man with a whole gang behind him, but right now it’s just two of us in this cell.
“I didn’t kill my brother,” I say, knowing that there are ears everywhere. “So if you’re trying to think of a way to get out early, that ain’t going to be it.”
His smile lightens his eyes. “I didn’t figure. You obviously want to talk.”
I do. “Did you get the money?”
“Yes. Thank you for your kind gift to my commissary account,” he says. “I may have a couple of favors I need from you.”
“No more favors.” I set my feet and roll my neck.
I was happy to get out of prison, but even so, this feels familiar, much more familiar than that penthouse I recently purchased. The only place I’ve felt at home since getting out has been with Rosalie.