Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  Chapter 2

  Michelle stared at the detective, disbelief warring with all-out panic. He stared back, his expression as cold and emotionless as carved granite. His eyes were more gray than blue and reminded her of a storm. The kind that was violent and unpredictable and wreaked havoc on everything in its path. Thick, black brows rode low over intense, all-seeing eyes. Laugh lines bracketed a mouth that looked as if it didn’t smile easily or often. A five o’clock shadow darkened an arrogantly cut jaw.

  Under different circumstances he might have been attractive, at least on some primitive level that had more to do with hormones than intellect. Good thing ego-driven, alpha males had never appealed to her.

  Michelle struggled to calm her frazzled nerves. Having worked in the legal profession for the last four years, she knew police procedure. She told herself that just because she was being taken downtown for questioning didn’t mean she was a suspect. It certainly didn’t mean she was guilty. After all, even suspects were innocent until proven guilty.

  She wondered if that hackneyed phrase included her kind of people.

  Betancourt stepped closer. “A female officer will drive you downtown. You can call your attorney from there.”

  Her breath stopped in her throat when his eyes flashed down the front of her. Suddenly it struck her that she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath the oversize sweatshirt. Unnerved, Michelle folded her arms across her chest.

  As if realizing he needed to justify his roaming gaze, he said, “The female patrol will need to bag that sweatshirt. It’s procedure to ID the stains. We’ll also test the fabric for powder burns.”

  Michelle repressed the subtle physical awareness that swept through her. “If you’ll get out of my bedroom, I’ll change clothes.”

  “I’d prefer you to wait until the female officer arrives.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do, Detective, hide the evidence under my pillow?”

  “Or else take that sweatshirt into the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.” His gaze burned into hers.

  She stared back, aware she was breathing too fast. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Then talk to me, dammit.”

  The sincerity in his voice surprised her. But she knew better than to trust a man like Betancourt. She’d learned that lesson the hard way a lifetime ago. The experience had cost her a piece of herself that could never be replaced.

  “I wish I could,” she said quietly. “I wish it were that simple.”

  Abruptly, the thought hit her that she needed a lawyer. Her heart stopped as the repercussions rumbled through her. The only lawyers she knew well enough to call upon were Armon’s two sons and daughter. She didn’t even know if they’d been told about their father’s death. They would be devastated….

  Pain speared her. Suddenly, she wasn’t nearly as worried about herself as she was about the three people with whom she’d worked for the last four years. They’d been her family, her only friends since she’d come to New Orleans. Michelle accepted the responsibility of being the one to break the terrible news. Better they hear it from her than from the unfeeling cop with the cold eyes.

  Turning away, she started for the door. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  She heard Betancourt behind her, but she didn’t stop. Leaving the bedroom, she started down the hall. Ahead, a woman wearing a red jacket brushed silver fingerprint powder onto the phone. In the foyer, a well-dressed black man knelt next to the body. A sense of surrealism swooped down on her when she realized it was Armon Landsteiner lying there dead.

  “Miss Pelletier?”

  Michelle vaguely heard the detective’s voice. She felt dizzy, disoriented, overwhelmed by the bizarreness of the scene around her. The body of her dear friend lay in the foyer. Her apartment had been taken over by police who suspected her of a horrendous crime. It was as if she’d stepped onto the set of a horror movie in which she was the star and the players were more real than any nightmare.

  Just before she reached the phone, a pair of strong hands closed around her upper arms from behind. “The phone is being dusted for prints.” Authority laced Betancourt’s voice.

  Twisting within his grip, she spun around. “I’ve got to call Armon’s family. They don’t know yet. They deserve to know.” Only after she’d spoken did she realize she was crying. Damn. The last thing she wanted to do was break down in front of this cold-hearted cop. But her emotions had taken all the bashing they could handle.

  “I’ll notify the next of kin,” he said.

  A wrenching sense of despair settled over her. She closed her eyes and felt the tears squeeze between her lashes. She couldn’t stop thinking about Armon. Such a kind man, such a good friend. God, how was she going to tell his children he was dead? How would they react, knowing it had happened in her apartment?

  “No,” she said. “I’d rather they hear it from me. I work with them. They’re my friends.”

  “It’s my job,” he said firmly. “The best way for you to help is to come downtown and answer some questions.”

  Horrified that her emotions were spiraling out of control, Michelle brushed furiously at the tears on her cheeks. “I didn’t kill him, Detective. I don’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill him.”

  For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. “If that’s the truth, you have nothing to worry about.”

  His voice drifted over her like a warm bayou breeze. Not at all unpleasant considering the circumstances, and Michelle found herself starkly aware of his hands against her biceps. But as much as she needed comforting, she certainly didn’t need it from a cop. Especially this cop with his hard, suspicious eyes.

  “Let go of me.”

  “This is a crime scene. You can’t touch anything.” His hands slipped from her arms. “You got yourself under control?”

  Her flesh felt warm where his fingers had pressed. Not sure she trusted her voice, Michelle nodded jerkily, knowing it didn’t matter if she had herself under control or not. He suspected her of a terrible crime. And he was going to take her downtown whether she agreed to go or not.

  A stout policewoman in an ill-fitting uniform approached them. Michelle didn’t miss the look that passed between her and Betancourt. Michelle had seen that look before, and dread swelled inside her. Even if she wasn’t being arrested, she knew what she faced in the coming hours. Interrogations, especially if a serious crime was involved, were lengthy and exhausting. The name of the game was to wear down suspects until they slipped up or spilled their guts.

  Of course, if she lived in a nicer neighborhood or if her clothes had a designer label, perhaps Detective Betancourt wouldn’t be so quick to haul her downtown. Michelle tried to staunch the bitterness that rose inside her, but it came anyway, as thick and stinking as the muddy bayou town from whence she sprang.

  It took every ounce of strength she possessed to walk into her bedroom and remove her sweatshirt while the female officer looked on. Michelle watched the woman stuff the sweatshirt into an evidence bag. Numbly, she pulled on an oversize shirt, then stepped into her sneakers.

  They didn’t handcuff her, but she was no longer a free woman. If they saw fit to arrest her and incarcerate her for murder, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Her only hope was to get her memory back. If she couldn’t do that, her only other alternative was to find out for herself who had killed Armon Landsteiner.

  The interrogation room was everything Michelle feared it would be, only worse. Located on the third floor of the Broad Street Police Station, it was windowless, cold, and stank of old furniture and cigarettes. An ugly, institutional gray paint covered the walls. A coffeepot containing what looked like engine sludge sat in the center of a rectangular wood table.

  Michelle sat alone in one of three chairs, trying to ignore the crude words carved into the scarred surface of the table. Where was Betancourt, anyway? She didn’t wear a watch, but knew she’d been sitting in the dank room a
t least twenty minutes. It galled her that he hadn’t bothered to show up yet.

  Though she was entitled by law to an attorney, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to call any of the Landsteiners in an official capacity. They’d lost their father to a brutal crime. The last thing they needed was to spend the night at the police station. Of course, after the initial shock wore off, she knew that, as attorneys and friends, they would want to be actively involved with the investigation.

  Foremost in her mind was the knowledge that she’d lost her best friend tonight. She couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that Armon was dead. The information registered; she’d seen the body lying in her foyer. She’d seen the blood and the pale, staring eyes. But, somehow, she just couldn’t believe he was gone. It only doubled her pain knowing he’d been taken by an act of violence—and that she was inches away from being accused of the crime.

  If it hadn’t been for Armon, she wouldn’t have survived those first months in New Orleans. In the four years she’d known him, he’d become the father she’d never had. Armon Landsteiner had been a generous, compassionate man who loved life fiercely. A brilliant attorney, he’d been respected by his colleagues and loved by friends and family alike. He was the only person who had ever cared enough about Michelle to reach out and make a difference in her life. His kindness and generosity had saved her when her future was bleak and she’d been sliding down that slippery slope into the pit of hopelessness that had plagued her mother.

  And she swore she’d never be like Blanche Pelletier.

  Shoving thoughts of the past to the back of her mind, Michelle took a deep breath and ordered herself to concentrate on the problem at hand. Somehow, she had to get her memory back. She didn’t know anything about amnesia, but figured she was good enough at research to give herself a quick education—as soon as she got out of here.

  She wondered what could have caused her memory loss. Had she seen something so terrible that her mind simply blocked it? Or had she done something unspeakable? Her heart bucked hard in her chest at the thought, but Michelle quickly calmed herself. She knew for a fact that she wasn’t capable of hurting Armon. Still, just knowing there might be some vital information locked away in her mind made her feel somehow responsible. That responsibility weighed heavily on her shoulders.

  How could she convince Betancourt she was telling the truth when the notion of amnesia sounded crazy even to her? Couldn’t he see she wanted to cooperate? Was there some kind of psychological test she could take that would prove her amnesia was real?

  No, a cynical little voice answered. Betancourt had tried and convicted her the moment he’d laid eyes on her. What would he think when he found out what had happened all those years ago in Bayou Lafourche?

  The thought sent a quiver through her.

  Too restless to sit, she rose and began to pace. Since she was obviously stuck here for a while, she supposed the most productive thing to do was work on her memory. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she went back to the table and sat down. Closing her eyes, she eased her thoughts back to the morning to retrace her day. It seemed like an eternity since she’d risen and dressed. She couldn’t afford to live in the Quarter, so every morning she walked the two blocks to a coffee shop near Jackson Square for a beignet and coffee. Then she hopped on the streetcar to her office at the Whitney Bank Building. Such a typical day, she thought with a shudder. How could it have ended in tragedy?

  Her workday had been uneventful, as had her class afterward. A creature of habit, Michelle always came straight home after school. If she’d followed the same routine tonight, she would have arrived at her apartment at least an hour before she’d made that call to 911. What had happened during that hour? As far as she knew, she could have walked into her apartment and found Armon’s body. But that didn’t explain who had let him in or what he was doing there in the first place.

  The interrogation room door swung open.

  Michelle started, inadvertently knocking over her coffee. Betancourt sauntered into the room, taking her in with a single swoop of his lethal gaze. “I see you found the coffee.”

  She looked into those stormy gray eyes and her pulse kicked. She’d worked with all levels of law enforcement, street cops as well as detectives, but none of them unnerved her as completely as this man. He had the most penetrating stare she’d ever endured.

  His charcoal suit was nicely cut, but not overly expensive. Beneath, a starched white shirt was beginning to wrinkle. He’d unfastened the top button of the collar at some point in the last hour. A conservative tie hung askew.

  Slipping off his jacket, he draped it over the back of a chair. His gaze fell to her spilled coffee. “Let me get that before it eats a hole in the table.” He strode to the coffee station and returned with a handful of napkins. One by one he spread them over the spill. “Stuff looks lethal.”

  “Why is it that cops always make the worst coffee?” She looked down at her cup, wondering why they were talking about coffee when her entire world was coming apart at the seams.

  “Since I made it more than six hours ago, I won’t take offense.” He filled a cup and sat across from her. “Feeling better?”

  Her head throbbed, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I feel fine. But that’s not what you really want to ask me, is it, Detective?”

  “No. What I really want to know is what happened tonight at your apartment.”

  Michelle’s heart bumped against her ribs. She told herself the reaction was unwarranted. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she didn’t have anything to hide. She tried to convince herself Betancourt wasn’t concerned with her past, but she knew better.

  People were always interested in her past.

  The door opened, and a short black man entered and went directly to the coffeepot. “Is this fresh?”

  Betancourt’s mouth curved. He looked at Michelle as if they now shared a secret. “Yeah.”

  She hadn’t expected him to smile, and the transformation amazed her. The hard lines about his mouth vanished. Even the sharp-edged suspicion in his eyes softened. For a split second he looked almost…handsome.

  “Miss Pelletier, this is Detective Sanderson.”

  Her attention snapped to the man who’d just entered. She wondered what etiquette called for when meeting a homicide detective during an interrogation when you were the suspect. Miss Manners wouldn’t have a clue, Michelle decided.

  “I guess I should tell you before we begin that I still don’t remember what happened,” she said.

  The two men exchanged dubious glances.

  Sanderson took his cup and leaned against the wall behind her. She imagined they were going to try the good cop–bad cop routine, and repressed the hysterical laugh building in her throat.

  “Since it’s late and we’re all tired,” Betancourt began, “let’s work on figuring out how much you do remember, okay?” He withdrew a tape recorder from his jacket pocket. “I’m required by law to tell you this interview is being recorded.”

  Interesting that he’d used the word interview. Michelle felt as if she were about to walk into a massacre unarmed. “Then we’ll both have to be on our best behavior, won’t we, Detective?”

  “By the book. We’re not here to cause you problems.”

  “You already have by dragging me down here when I’ve already told you everything I possibly can. I’m as baffled and frustrated as you are that I can’t remember what happened.”

  “I’m doing my job, Miss Pelletier. I’m trying to solve a murder. To do that I need information. Details. Anything you can tell me that might help us find who did this.”

  Did he really want the same thing she wanted? Or was he the enemy, more interested in making an easy arrest than finding the truth? Experience told her he was the last man on earth she should trust.

  “Do you want a lawyer present?” he asked.

  “I’m a year away from taking the bar, Detective. I haven’t done anything wrong. According to you, we both want the
same thing. As long as you refrain from harassing me, I can handle you and your questions.”

  His gaze burned into hers. “You sure about that?”

  She met his gaze levelly. “Positive.”

  His baritone voice cut through the air like a lance as he recited the date, time and a short introduction into the recorder. “Miss Pelletier, tell me what happened this evening after Armon Landsteiner arrived at your apartment.”

  She stared at him, starkly aware that whatever she said would be a matter of record. “As I said before, Detective, I can’t remember anything that happened between the time I arrived home after class and before I dialed 911. I know it’s important, and I want to help. But…I can’t remember.”

  “Did you go to your office at Landsteiner & Associates today?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave for the day?”

  “Around five o’clock. Then I went to class.”

  “What time did you leave the university?”

  “My class is over at nine o’clock. I took the streetcar to Jackson Square, then I walked home.”

  “What did you do after that?”

  “I…this is where things get…foggy. I’m sure I went home. I mean, that’s my usual routine.”

  “Was Armon Landsteiner already there? Or did you let him in?”

  Her heart pounded in perfect rhythm with the headache grinding behind her eyes. She reached deep for the memory, struggled desperately to find something, anything to give her solid mental footing, but came up blank. “I…don’t know. I remember his tap on the door, then I just don’t know. I’m sorry. My God, when I try to remember, it’s like there’s nothing there.”

  Betancourt looked skeptical. “That leaves us with a big problem.”

  “Of course it does. I want to get to the bottom of this as badly as you do. Probably more, considering I have a personal stake.”

  “How did you get the blood on your sweatshirt?”

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe I tried to help him.”