Page 55 of Girl, Empty
‘I thought it was about… the things you were looking at.My collection.’
‘Oh, we got questions about that coming right up, but first tell us where you’ve been the past two nights, say around midnight.’
‘I was at home.Both nights.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’asked Ella.
‘No.I live alone.You don’t really think I murdered anyone, do you?That’s madness.I wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
Ella was building up to the finale.You always started small.The little questions were the bars of the cage, and the last one – the real one – was the lock on the door.She motioned for Ripley to make with the goods.Her partner opened her folder and slammed a photograph on the desk.A wide-shot of the bank vault, punctuated by Thomas Grayson’s dead body, stared up at them.
‘Wouldn’t hurt anyone?This look familiar?’Ripley snapped.
Sinclair took a closer look.Ella studied his reaction.His fidgeting had escalated, and now he was rolling his shoulders repetitively.Sweat had gone from a sheen to actual droplets on his forehead.His feet were pointed towards the door in the classic flight response, and one hand gripped the table while the other rested on it.Ella didn’t like that because guilty people usually kept their posture symmetrical.Sinclair lingered on the photo for a few seconds too long, then when he looked up, his face had gone blank.
‘I don’t know what this is.’
'You sure about that?'
Sinclair wiped his palms on his pants again.'I'm sure.This is… awful.'
Ripley leaned over the desk.‘That sounds like fake sympathy to me, Alex.’
‘What do you want me to say?That I’m broken hearted.I don’t know this man.Who is it?’
‘Thomas Grayson.Head of security for First National Bank.Found dead inside the vault.’
Sinclair eyes expanded.‘In thevault?How’d he get in there?’
Ella shrugged.‘Dunno.Next photo please.’
Ripley dropped the next one on the table.This time it was Michael Rankin’s lying face down on his office floor.‘I’ve got a feeling you’ll recognize this one.’
‘That’s…’ Sinclair leaned in.‘I don’t know who that is.Should I?’
‘Yes you should, because you’ve got this guy’s nameplate in your little cabinet of curiosities.’
The color drained from Sinclair in a blink, and what bothered Ella was that it was the white of genuine shock.Not the pale of someone who’d been caught lying.
‘Michael Rankin?That’s him?’
‘Yes.Found dead in his office at Morrison & Associates, and something from his office wound up in your house.What do you think about that?’
Sinclair took a panicked breath.He scooped a load of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand then used that same hand to pull his ponytail tighter.Ella looked past the grossness of the act to the subtle tells on the suspect’s face.There was pure emotion tugging the lips downward and narrowing the eyes, but cowardice and confusion shared some overlapping tells.
‘I didn’t know.I mean, I knew a guy named Michael Rankin had died, but I didn’t know it was the guy from Morrison.It’s all a little…’
‘A little what?’Ella pushed.
‘Complicated, okay?It’s messy.All this… stuff.’
‘We know better than anyone it’s complicated, so you better lay it out for us real simple.Why do you have a dead guy’s nameplate in your house, because that Rankin’s office has been quarantined for two days, so it isn’t like you could slip in there and pick it up.’
Sinclair’s jaw went slack.For a moment he reminded Ella of a fish out of water.The suspect then swept the room with a paranoid gaze.He looked to the corner, the door, the one-way mirror, then back to Ella.He avoided Ripley, probably because he could sense through some primal awareness that she was on the verge of punching him.
‘If I tell you everything, you have to promise me it won’t leave this room.’
Ella and Ripley laughed in stereo.Ripley said, ‘What are we, Egyptian mummies?We don’t keep things under wraps.Whatever you say may be used against you, and you can bet that we’re going to use it against you.’
