by Rachel Woods
Sneering at him, I snipped, “No one calls me Harlequin.”
“Do people ever call you Harley?” he asked, as though he was actually interested.
“People only call me Quinn,” I said, crossing my arms as I glared at him.
Nodding, he asked, “And Miller is your maiden name?”
I nodded.
“And, just for the record, you are a U.S.-born citizen visiting the islands, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Where are you from?”
After I told him, he asked, “And you are an attorney?”
Again, I nodded, employing a strategy I would sometimes give my clients, which was to rely on nonverbal responses, when possible, and to not expound upon their answers. Most people wanted to explain themselves, but doing so while under oath was risky. In the courtroom, anything you accidentally said could be intentionally used against you.
“Why did you come to St. Mateo? Business? Vacation?”
Sex, I thought wryly, but I said, “Vacation.”
“For how long?” he asked, scribbling across a yellow legal pad. “And also, when did you arrive?”
Sighing, I answered his questions.
“How do you like St. Mateo?”
Exhaling, I asked, “What do you want to ask me about Henri Monteils?”
Following a tight smile, the detective said, “And you’re staying at the Heliconia? I’m curious, why did you pick that hotel?”
Despite the open curiosity on his face, I knew the detective had some opinion about my choice of hotel. Probably, he pegged me as some gold digger married to a rich geezer who couldn’t get it up, looking for, as Joshua had told me, “some good dick.”
Shifting uncomfortably, I asked, “What does that have to do with what you think I know about the man who was stabbed?”
A hint of amusement in his eyes, the detective leaned back and stroked his chin. “Interesting you should say that.”
“Say what?” I asked, panic and apprehension sneaking up on me.
“The man who was stabbed,” he said. “I told you Henri Monteils had been killed. Never said how he was killed. So, tell me, Ms. Miller, how do you know Henri Monteils was stabbed to death?”
Shell-shocked, I stared at the detective, desperate to come up with some plausible reason for how I knew Henri had been stabbed.
“Maybe you know because you stabbed Henri Monteils.”
“That’s not true.” Shaking my head, I said, “I didn’t stab him. I would never—”
“A neighbor saw you pounding on the door,” he said. “This neighbor said you were demanding that Henri Monteils open the door.”
“I don’t know what the neighbor—”
“You recognize this, Ms. Miller?”
Trying not to scream, I stared at the object the detective had placed on the table between us, like a gruesome centerpiece. Inside a clear plastic evidence bag was my tank top, covered in Henri’s blood, dried to a dark, rusty brown.
“Looks like a tank top,” I said, remembering how I’d practically ripped it from my body I’d been so desperate to get it off.
“It was found in Henri Monteils’ house,” the detective said. “A witness identified it as the shirt that the woman who was banging on Henri’s door was wearing.”
My heart dropped into my churning gut as I struggled to breathe. How could this be happening to me? Was I dreaming? Trapped in a nightmare? Nothing about this situation seemed real. It was all like some bizarre hallucination. Why the hell was I sitting in the interrogation room of some island police station being questioned about a murder I couldn’t have possibly committed?
“Know what else we found when we searched Henri Monteils’ house?” The detective asked, his expression smug. “A burner phone with two very interesting text messages that Henri sent.”
Holding myself rigid, I stared at the detective, praying I wouldn’t betray the fact that I knew about the messages he referred to.
“He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”
Stricken, flummoxed, I sputtered, “Yes, but—”
“And you killed him, didn’t you?”
I shook my head. “No!”
“Ms. Miller, we have a lot of evidence against you,” the cop said. “Are you sure you don’t want to just tell us the truth? Save us a lot of time and money. Save you a lot of embarrassment.”
“Embarrassment?”
“If you cut a deal with our prosecution team,” the cop said, “they can keep this whole sordid mess out of the papers. Nobody will have to know that you came here to have a little fun at that sex hotel.”
My heart thundered as I glared at him.
“I know all about the Heliconia.” He gave me a mirthless, judgmental smile. “The seven-star hotel that caters to lonely, desperate women who are starved for attention, longing to be touched.”
Ashamed, I dropped my head.
“You checked into the Heliconia for some good stuff,” the detective went on, a hint of ridicule in his derisive rant. “You want it long and thick. You want it to last forever.”
I kept my eyes averted.
“You’re a high-powered attorney, but you work at one of those good-old-boy conservative firms where the men are given most of the credit and the women really should be home taking care of the kids and the house,” he said. “But not you. You’re determined to prove yourself. Determined to make partner even though you know those good old boys don’t think you’re good enough. They’re waiting for you to fuck up so they can tell you that you’re just not partner material. The last thing you need is a sex tape floating out there on the Internet for those good old boys to see. You know that tape is gonna fuck up your whole career, which hasn’t been going very well, has it? Funny thing is, those good old boys might have given you a chance to redeem yourself, but if they see the tape, you can forget it. Goodbye making partner. Goodbye job at that prestigious law firm. It’s a paralyzing, sobering thought. So, you decide to pay the guy. But then you realize if you pay him once, you’ll be supporting this guy for the rest of his life because there is no way he didn’t make a dozen extra copies of that video where you’re getting it in the ass—”
“I didn’t kill him!” Enraged, I pounded my fists on the table.
The cop scoffed and then chuckled sardonically as he leaned back in his seat. “Ms. Miller, let’s not go through this pretense, okay? We both know you killed Henri Monteils. You went to his house to confront him.”
“I didn’t go there to …” I shut my mouth, worried I’d already messed up and said too much.
“So, you did go there,” the cop said, catching the significance of my slip—inadvertently, stupidly, I’d put myself at the scene of the crime. “But … maybe you didn’t go to kill him? Maybe you went there to get the evidence of your indiscretion? And, maybe he didn’t want to give it to you? Maybe he wanted more money? And that pissed you off and you snapped and—”
“This conversation is over,” I told him. “I’m not saying another word until I talk to a lawyer.”
“You’re not saying another word until you enter your plea to the judge,” the detective said, scowling as he stood.
“My plea to the judge?” I stared at him, feeling something within me imploding.
“I’m arresting you, Ms. Miller,” Detective François said.
“Arresting me?” I whispered, aghast and outraged.
“For the murder of Henri Monteils.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I’m in jail ...” I whispered, clutching the phone with trembling fingers.
There was a pause, and then Icarus said, “Jail? Why are you in jail? What the hell happened?”
“I’ve been arrested for Henri’s murder,” I said, determined not to cry despite the tremor in my voice and the panic twisting my gut.
After I was booked—fingerprints, mug shot, the works—another deputy escorted me to a small, windowless, dingy room, allowing me some privacy to make a phone call. My first
thought was to contact Lisa. What could she do from thousands of miles away except worry about me? I didn’t want to put her through that.
Next, I contemplated calling my dad. My father could have gotten me out of this horrific situation, but I didn’t want my dad to find out about my shameful, deplorable actions. As it was, Dad thought I was off at some retreat meditating, which he’d thought was a good idea. “You need to exorcise Ellison, Zupancic, and Cox from your spirit, mind, and soul.” I couldn’t bear the thought of Dad knowing the truth, which he would find out if I called him for help. I didn’t want him to be disappointed by my visit to a sex hotel.
Exhaling, I stared at the faint traces of ink on my fingertips.
“The police arrested you for Henri’s murder?” Icarus echoed, as though he hadn’t understood a word I’d said, as if I was speaking a foreign language. “What? How? Why?”
What, how, and why were questions I didn’t have answers to, but I told Icarus, my tone halting and hoarse from sobbing, about the evidence and the witnesses the police had against me—the bloody tank top, the cab driver, and the neighbors who had seen me banging on Henri’s door like a woman scorned, ready to unleash my hellish fury.
“Doesn’t seem like enough evidence to charge you with murder,” he said.
“There’s also the text messages,” I said. “The messages from the blackmailer to me were found on a burner phone in Henri’s bedroom. Henri was the blackmailer. You were right.”
“Sonofabitch,” Icarus muttered. “I knew he was behind it.”
The question was, as Lisa had pointed out when I’d updated her, how had Icarus found out Henri was the blackmailer? When had he found out? And why hadn’t he told me the moment he knew, or even suspected, Henri had tried to extort money from me?
Those questions begged answers, but later, not right now.
“Okay, listen, don’t worry,” Icarus said. “I’m going to get you out of there.”
An hour later, Icarus showed up with his cousin, a criminal defense attorney named Octavia Constant. Short and stocky, and yet brisk and efficient in her red power suit, Octavia had an engaging smile and attentive light brown eyes, slightly magnified by the thick lenses of her black-rimmed glasses.
Octavia—Icarus affectionately called her “Tavie,” and she teasingly referred to him as “Ish” after Ishmael, his last name—had a passionate exuberance and natural warmness about her that I found comforting. Despite my predicament, her confident attitude gave me hope.
A few minutes after five o’clock in the afternoon, Octavia had secured my release on my own recognizance, which I was thankful for because I wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail.
“That’s the good news,” Octavia said as she, Icarus, and I sat at a table in the interrogation room.
“And the bad news?” I asked, my heart skittering.
When she told me, my heart dropped. The recognizance bond was contingent upon the surrender of my passport to the authorities.
“What if I refuse?” I asked. “I’d rather pay the bail amount.”
“If you refuse, the prosecution will argue that bail should be denied because you are rich, which makes you an automatic flight risk in their mind,” she explained. “The only way to keep you on the island is to make it impossible for you to leave. Because of the criminal charges, the U.S. Embassy would refuse to issue you a temporary emergency passport.”
“So basically, if she refuses to surrender her passport,” said Icarus, “then she has to stay in jail until her trial.”
“Exactly,” said Octavia. “Despite the fact that St. Mateo is a U.S. territory, it is not easy to extradite a citizen born in the United States back to the island. There’s a strict burden of proof, and it could take four to five years with no guarantee that the request will be granted despite the evidence against you.”
Icarus volunteered to drive back to the hotel to get my passport and bring it back to the station, and then it was another two hours before I was officially released. Exhausted, enraged, and terrified, I walked out of the police station just in time to experience another glorious St. Matean sunset.
Following Octavia and Icarus down the steps and to the wide sidewalk, I glanced about at the throngs of pedestrians, tourists, and locals, smiling and laughing, caught up in animated conversations, and felt a stab of envy and longing. Everyone seemed so frivolous and jovial, enjoying life, and I was a few steps away from running into the street and in front of one of the jitney buses that sputtered along, backfiring and belching exhaust.
Octavia announced that she would get her car. While Icarus and I waited for her to return, he said, “I’m sorry about that passport issue.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
“But if you had your passport,” Icarus said, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Then you could leave the island and then you wouldn’t have to worry about this bullshit murder charge.”
I stepped back as a group of European tourists, led by a guide speaking what sounded like German, or maybe Polish, ambled past us, and then said, “Maybe the murder charge isn’t bullshit.”
“What do you mean?” Icarus looked at me, obviously confused and a little skeptical.
“We’re not sure that I didn’t kill Henri,” I reminded him.
“I’m sure that you didn’t kill him,” Icarus said.
“What if I don’t remember killing him?” I looked up at him, searching his gaze. “I remember picking up the knife when Henri came at me. I remember thinking I had to do whatever it took to defend myself, even if whatever meant killing him, so maybe I—”
“You didn’t kill him.”
Shaking my head, I said, “But, what if—”
“There’s my cousin,” Icarus said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the little hatchback that Octavia had parked next to the curb.
DAY NINE
Chapter Twenty-Three
“We need to clear Quinn’s name, Tavie,” Icarus said, the next day. “How do we do that?”
“Well, you could look for clues to prove that you didn’t do it,” Octavia said. “But, of course, that’s easier said than done.”
“That’s more like damn near impossible,” I complained, trying to temper my rising fear and frustration. Nine in the morning was too early for a spike in my blood pressure, but it was impossible to stay calm.
“Then we do the damn near impossible,” Icarus said. “We’ll find the evidence we need to prove that Quinn didn’t kill Henri.”
“Actually, you’d be better off looking for another suspect,” Octavia said. “Right now, the cops are convinced that Quinn killed Henri because they don’t have any other options. They need someone else to consider. Find them someone else who could have killed Henri.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked, anger overtaking the fear. “How am I supposed to find out who else might have wanted Henri dead?”
“I actually have an idea of who we should talk to,” Icarus said. “Henri’s sister, Doris. If Henri had some kind of beef with somebody, she would know.”
After grabbing a yellow legal pad from a cabinet in the bamboo wood credenza behind the desk, Octavia took a seat in her big, leather chair, uncapped a pen and said, “Okay, Quinn, tell me everything.”
Alarmed, I said, “Everything.”
She nodded. “Henri was blackmailing you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you paid him?”
I nodded and then explained about the video of the money drop. Octavia seemed excited about the video until Icarus told her it showed him removing the blackmail money from the locker at Golden Lizard Beach. As an explanation for his actions, Icarus gave his cousin the same story he’d given me—he’d planned to use the money as bait to lure Henri into confessing he’d blackmailed me.
“Why was Henri blackmailing you?” Octavia asked, scribbling furiously on her yellow legal pad. “What did you do?”
“It’s my fault,” Icarus said.
&n
bsp; I shook my head. “Icarus, don’t—”
“Your fault?” Octavia frowned at her cousin. “I don’t understand.”
Icarus said, “Henri had a video of me and Quinn … together.”
“A sex tape of you and Quinn?” Octavia asked. “Hmmm … we need to make sure it doesn’t get leaked. Ish, do me a favor? Go tell my assistant I need a Motion to Suppress, like the one she did in the Valencia case. Please?”
“Motion to Suppress?” I asked, the attorney in me wondering if Octavia was employing the correct strategy. Of course, I couldn’t throw stones, especially since my strategic efforts had failed my clients.
“If this case goes to trial,” she started, “and we’re going to make sure it doesn’t, but just in case, I like to file a motion to keep the details of my cases out of the newspapers. Don’t want potential jurors making up their minds months in advance, you know?”
Thankful for Octavia’s foresight, I nodded. The last damn thing I needed was someone accidentally seeing the story of my arrest online.
Octavia said, “I’ll file a motion, today, for a gag order.”
“Will that stop the cops and the prosecution from talking to the media?” Icarus asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “But, it will stop them from talking to the press until the judge can rule on the motion. Let me get my assistant working on that. I’ll have it filed before noon.”
“How long will it take for the judge to rule on the motion?” I asked, making a mental note to do some research on the Palmchat Island judicial system.
“Depends on how many cases he’s got on his docket,” she said. “But, a week or two, at least.”
“That gives us time to prove that you didn’t do this,” Icarus said. “And then there’ll be no need for them to talk to the papers.”
Octavia cleared her throat. “Ish, can you do that favor for me now?”
After Icarus stood and walked out of his cousin’s office, Octavia leaned back, eyeing me shrewdly. “So, I’m wondering …”
Wary, I asked, “What?”
