Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Huck clicked off the TV, the remote dropping onto the couch beside him. His jaw ached from clenching. “I can’t believe she has the Griggs story.”
“It sounds as if Sandra contacted Rachel. Right now, I need to deal with Abigail’s plans,” Laurel said.
Abigail’s plans. Words Huck never wanted to issue. “I’m sorry she wants to use you in her defense.”
Laurel didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still locked on the blank screen, her expression calm, too calm. Huck recognized that look. She was picking apart Abigail’s words, rearranging them in her mind, searching for the thread Abigail was trying to tie around her neck. “We knew she would bring that entire situation up in her defense,” Laurel finally noted. “I’m not entirely shocked she’s done it publicly. The jury pool in Genesis Valley and Tampa County is small enough. It’s a strategic move. A good one.”
Huck watched her take two big swallows of wine, her throat working as she drained the glass. He followed suit, the cabernet searing down his throat, its quality wasted on his growing frustration. “Let’s not worry about this.”
“I’m not.” Laurel’s gaze flicked to him, concern and sizzling intelligence in her eyes. “I’m worried about her next move.”
No shit.
Chapter 24
On Monday morning, the bulletproof vest felt heavy. Too hot. Too tight. But Laurel kept her expression neutral as she entered the interrogation room at the Elk Hollow police station. Walter’s shoulder brushed hers as he followed her inside.
Detective Joshua Robertson sat hunched at the table, fingers laced so tight his knuckles blanched. He kept his eyes on the chipped surface, shoulders curled forward like he could shield himself from whatever was coming. The sweat gleaming along his forehead had nothing to do with the chill outside.
But it was the man sitting next to him who caught Laurel’s attention.
Henry Vexler.
Laurel stopped short, her gaze locking onto the polished attorney. He sat with the precise poise of a man comfortable at the table. His expression betrayed nothing.
“Agent Snow.” Vexler’s voice was smooth, measured. “Agent Smudgeon.”
“This is a surprise,” Laurel noted. What was Abigail’s high-priced attorney doing there?
He offered a mild smile. “While on The Killing Hour, I heard Rachel Raprenzi mention her upcoming interview with Sandra Plankton, so I asked her to fill me in, and she quite happily did so. I, of course, followed up by calling the officers involved.”
Laurel tilted her head. “Why?”
“Why not?”
So wait a minute. Her eyebrows rose. “The officers told you that I requested interviews with them, so you took their cases?” Just to get to her?
He tightened his jaw, and truly, he didn’t have the jawline of Captain Rivers. In fact, his jaw looked a little . . . weak. “I plan to see a lot of you, Agent Snow. Either you come and talk to me about your sister’s case, or I’ll make it my mission to be on the opposite side of every single one of your investigations.”
“That’s a threat,” Walter muttered.
“Actually, it’s extortion,” Laurel noted.
Detective Robertson finally focused. “Wait a minute. You’re here just because of her? Not to represent me?”
Vexler didn’t even look at his client. “I’m one of the best defense attorneys in the country. Take the gift horse and just be quiet.” He inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I assume you have questions for my client.”
How did Abigail get these men, of all ages, to go to such great lengths to protect her? That was a puzzle for another day. “Many,” Laurel said, taking a seat across from Detective Robertson. “Detective, I’d like you to explain your relationship with Mark Bitterson.”
Detective Robertson’s gaze snapped up, alarm flaring before he caught it. His fingers tightened around each other. “I don’t have a relationship with him.”
“Except you do.” Laurel noted the pace of his breathing, which was rather even so far. “You’ve met with him. Repeatedly.”
“I’ve met a lot of people.” Detective Robertson’s lips compressed. “Bitterson was a small-time hustler. A nuisance. If you’ve investigated him at all, you’d know that.”
“I know he’s dead,” Laurel countered. “And so is Tyler Griggs, the podcaster who documented you meeting Bitterson on multiple occasions.”
Detective Robertson’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “I was investigating Griggs’s death before the FBI stole the case from me, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s no documentation because it did not happen.”
“I see. Then it might shock you to learn that Tyler Griggs recorded you, very often, and documented not only your relationship with Officer Jackson but your meetings with the very deceased Mark Bitterson. Your attorney might want to explain to you that it’s a felony to lie to a federal agent,” Laurel said.
Detective Robertson’s gaze flicked to Vexler, who remained impassive, his hands folded neatly on the table.
“I told you,” Detective Robertson grunted. “I didn’t have anything to do with Bitterson. He might’ve approached me a couple of times, but that’s all. Nothing major.” His expression cleared. “He was an informant for me.”