Page 90 of Loss and Damages
“We’re at the ninth precinct on—”
“I know where it is, thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I shouldn’t, but I waste a few moments washing my face and changing into a fresh suit. It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet. I don’t know where Jemma planned to go after she left here, but once I know the assholes who threatened her are off the streets, I’ll call back my men and she can live the rest of her life without me in it. I’ll have Anderson tell her. I don’t have the heart to talk to her.
Duncan drives me to the precinct and drops me off in front of the building. There’s no parking on the street and I dismiss him. If I’m not safe in a police station, I deserve to be dead.
I check in at the desk, and a woman wearing a black skirt and white blouse places a call. A few moments later, an officer gestures to me across the bullpen. We weave around desks, cops doing paperwork or talking on cell phones while they scribble notes. I get several looks, not all of them pleasant. In all the hassle, I forgot no one knows about my plans for the homeless shelter or the 1100 block but me.
Without Jemma to appease, I can do what I want with the property, but the victory leaves me hollow. I’m not a liar. I’ll still do what she wants me to do.
And face my father’s scorn for it.
“Detective Solomon,” an older man says, sticking his hand out as I approach a narrow hallway behind an interrogation room.
I grasp it, more interested in putting these two scumbags behind bars than meeting the detective who’s doing it.
A large window gives me a view of the room, and a kid, well, mid-twenties if I had to guess, sits sullen, staring at the scarred table. “Where’s the other one? You said two?”
“He’s that way,” Solomon says, jutting his chin. “We split them up, see who rats out whom first. Situations like this, they always cave hoping for a deal. Let’s get this party started.”
I lean against the window as Solomon enters the interrogation room. A cop in uniform follows him inside and stands at attention in the corner. The punk briefly meets Solomon’s eyes before returning his glare to the tabletop.
“If you work with me, it’ll be better for you,” Solomon starts, adjusting in the cheap metal chair and flipping a file open. “What’s your name, for the record?”
“William Kidder, people call me Billy.” He smirks. “Billy the Kid, get it?”
Solomon scoffs. “How old are you, Billy?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“What’s your address, for the record?”
“1100 Jackson Boulevard, apartment 215.”
“Still live with your parents?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a job?”
“Nope.”
I lose some of the answers, my mind still snagged on his address. He lives on the 1100 block.
“We found a burner phone on your friend, Matthew Young. That’s his name? It matches the number used to call in a bomb threat to Milano Management and Development. You do that? You got a vendetta against the Milanos?”
Sullenly, Billy shrugs.
Solomon turns a piece of paper over, but I don’t know if it’s for show or if he’s scanning the information printed there, looking for leads to ask other questions.
“What about Miss Jemma Ferrell’s gallery, out in Hollow Lake? She described a car that looks similar to one parked in the lot of your building. Plates don’t match the registration, but that’s not a surprise, is it? You two were out there?”
“We only wanted to scare her a little. So she’d tell Milano and he’d back off. Must not care about her that much,” he mutters.
I want to barge in there and show him exactly how much I care about her.
“Back off?” Solomon’s voice holds sincere confusion. “Back off what? You mean you were protesting the sale of your building.”
