Page 26 of The Devil She Knows
Sam started to sweat. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying.”
“Oh, we’re hearing you.” Roscoe chuckled. “Jokes aside, you’re good, Miss Cooper. Don’t get me wrong. You gave us the runaround for two whole years. But we caught you red-handed at the scene of a crime tonight. And if that wasn’t enough, the judge signed off on a warrant. We already searched your apartment and your restaurant, and in addition to finding blueprints and schematics of several of the locations you’ve hit up over the years, we also recovered approximately”—he glanced at the open file—“ten thousand dollars in stolen goods. You don’t get much guiltier than that, sweetheart.”
Under the table, Sam’s knees knocked, and she was glad she was sitting down, because her legs suddenly felt rubbery and weak, like overcooked spaghetti.
“That’s the bad news for you. Good news is, we’re prepared to offer you a plea bargain. Reduce your sentence from fifteen years to five if you help us find your buddies Jasper and Horace, who, unfortunately for us, managed to evade arrest.”
“Fifteen years?!”
“Maybe even twenty,” Roscoe said, and Sam’s lips trembled, an uncontrollable whimper escaping. “Look, honey, we got you on grand larceny with intent to sell or distribute in the first degree, conspiracy to commit larceny, transportation of stolen goods, criminal possession of stolen property in the third degree, intent to illegally traffic caviar, which, as it turns out, is a violation of the”—he squinted down at the paper lying in front of Jenkins—“Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, and as such, the US Fish and Wildlife Service’s International Affairs department has decided to step in to confer.”
“But I didn’t even take—”
“On top of that, the prosecutor’s probably gonna try to smack you with felony burglary charges and destruction of private property for tonight, too. So, to tell you the truth, now that I think about it, if they throw the book at you, you probably are looking at more like twenty-five years. Wouldn’t you agree, Jenkins?”
Jenkins nodded.
“Plus, technically you were armed.”
“Armed?!”
“One of the duffel bags you and your crew were in possession of contained a meat cleaver and an oyster-shucking knife. But seeing as youse guys are a bunch of cooks, we were thinking that might be par for the course.” He paused and looked at her expectantly. “Get it?Par?Like you cut? Andcourselike a meal—”
“It’spare, you putz.” Jenkins pinched the bridge of his nose. “Youparboil your potatoes. Jesus.”
Their bickering faded into a hum of white noise.
Her chest tightened painfully, the gravity of the situation hitting her full force. She couldn’t go to prison. She couldn’t spend the next twenty-five years of her life locked up for a crime she didn’t commit. Day in, day out, waking up and eating all her meals in a mess hall, taking five-minute tepid showers, and making license plates and other goods that would inevitably wind up in the supply chain for some big-
box store.
“I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I swear I really was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sam needed them to understand. “And all that stuff you found at my apartment? At Glut? That’s not mine.”
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Sam clenched her jaw and reminded herself that snapping at the police officer who at least partially held her fate in his hands wouldn’t do her any favors. “I—I’ll take a lie detector test.”
Jenkins shook his head. “Polygraphs haven’t been admissible in court in New York since 1938.”
“Nice try, though,” Roscoe added.
A shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock sounded at the interrogation room door and Sam’s heart slingshotted into her throat.
“I got it.” Heaving a sigh, Roscoe got to his feet and stretched, his back snap-crackle-popping. He walked to the door and stuck his head out into the hall. “Yeah?”
After a moment spent conferring with whoever stood on the other side of the door, Roscoe looked over his shoulder, gaze skipping right over Sam, and to Jenkins said, “C’mere a sec.”
Detective Jenkins shoved himself back from the table, his chair legs screeching. He joined Roscoe at the door. Sam had never been this on edge before, this anxious, legs restless and chest tight, feeling like she was about to crawl out of her skin. Who were they talking to? Was it about her? What happened next? Was she supposed to request a lawyer? What about her one phone call?
“You’ve got a visitor.” Jenkins stepped to the side and Sam collapsed against the table, tears springing to her eyes.
“Hannah!”
She was a sight for sore eyes. Her leopard-print dress clung to her curves, formfitting and asymmetrical, and she’d piled her long, chestnut-colored hair atop her head in a messy, Pamela Anderson–style updo that highlighted the elegant column of her neck and the sweet curves of her cheeks, and Sam wanted to bury her face against Hannah’s throat and hide from the world and just breathe her in, violet and sandalwood and cocoa butter.
Hannah slipped inside the room and gave Detective Jenkins a nod. He shut the door, granting them the pretense of privacy.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Well, nothere, but—” Sam managed a watery smile. “God, is it good to see you.”
