by Rachel Grant
Mark believed her, she reminded herself. The Coho Police Department would be on her side. No newspaper would publish a story if the police investigating the crime were behind her. Breathing became a tad easier. Amy Seaver had nothing to back up her crazy claims.
A police car, with Officer Roth at the wheel, pulled into the lot. This was a first, a visit from the police when she hadn’t called them. She wondered if Mark had sent him to check up on her. She smiled, his protectiveness warming her. She stood and crossed to the lot. “Officer Roth, what brings you here today?”
“This isn’t a social visit, Ms. Maitland,” he said.
Assuming there had been some progress in their investigations, she responded, “Is this about Angela, or my stalker?”
“This is about you.”
She’d always avoided Officer Roth’s eyes, because she’d sensed he didn’t like her, and she’d never wanted to feel his animosity full force. Now she received a blast of loathing. “What do you mean?” A chill went up her spine. “You heard the rumor Amy Seaver started, didn’t you? You can’t possibly think I’m making everything up after what happened on Thursday. You were there.”
His eyes pierced her, an intense blue that reminded her of solid ice, cold hostility. “So you’re denying you are in financial trouble?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you know that’s why I’m here. I find that a stretch, Ms. Maitland.”
Goosebumps spread along her arms. She cleared her throat, which had gone dry. “Archaeology is a small field. Everyone knows everyone else. I know when someone sneezes on another excavation.”
“How convenient for you.”
“Amy Seaver is a competitor who dislikes me. She’s jealous of this project.”
“Why would anyone dislike you, Ms. Maitland?” he said with attitude.
“I’d like to talk to Mark.” She reached for her cell phone.
“The chief sent me to get you. To bring you to the station. I don’t think he’ll take your call right now.”
He spoke with chilling certainty. Her world shifted. “I’ll go to the station later, after I’ve spoken with him.”
“You need to come with me now.”
She straightened her spine and reminded herself that she’d done nothing wrong and had nothing to be afraid of. “I won’t go anywhere with you, officer. Not when you treat me with such hostility.”
He reached for his handcuffs. She recoiled. “What are you doing?”
“I’m under orders from the chief, ma’am. You are under arrest.”
She locked her knees when all she wanted to do was collapse. “Mark wouldn’t—didn’t—order that.”
“Yes. He did.”
“I’ll drive myself to the station. You can’t arrest me in front of my crew.”
“Then you should have stayed at the Shelby house today. You can’t drive yourself. You could just drive off.”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” she snapped.
“I can’t do that. Trust is not part of my job description.”
“Yours and the police chief’s,” she muttered. She knew she was being obstinate, but she didn’t care. Did Mark really order her arrest? She was about to find out.
Luke smiled with unholy pleasure. “Hold out your hands.” He grabbed her arms and cuffed her behind her back.
Across the site, Simone surged to her feet and ran toward them.
“Call Jason,” Libby said. “If he can’t come, ask him to send someone—any lawyer he trusts. Tell him about Amy Seaver.”
“Okay,” she said. “But what the hell is going on?”
“Alex will explain.”
Luke ushered her into the patrol car. Libby caught the shocked expressions on her employees’ faces as the patrol car drove away.
“WHY HAS SHE BEEN ARRESTED?” Jason asked as soon as Simone got a hold of him. “What is she being charged with?”
“All I know is Officer Roth cuffed her and put her in the back of a patrol car. I don’t know why, but this could have something to do with a rumor started by one of our nastier competitors.” She quickly gave him the details.
“Is the project in financial trouble?”
“No. We’re still negotiating with Jack for the cost overruns due to the changes in scope.”
“A rumor alone isn’t enough for an arrest. There’s got to be more.”
She took a deep breath. She had to tell him. “I screwed up big time.”
“What did you do, Simone?” His tone indicated he expected as much from her.
“I was in Seattle this weekend, checking up on Aaron, when a cop who’s been helping Mark investigate Aaron caught me outside Aaron’s place. He asked a lot of questions about the digital camera I’d just bought for the project and had with me in the car.”
“And?”
“He asked if I’d doctored photos of Aaron three years ago, ones that Libby used to get the first restraining order.” She paused. “I admitted I did.”
His cursing blistered her ears. “I don’t know which is worse, doctoring the photos, or admitting you did it. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about my friend,” she answered angrily. “You have no idea what she went through when Aaron harassed her three years ago. And now he’s tried to kill her!”
“You don’t know it was him.”
“Yes, I do. The guy is a total nutcase. I wasn’t doing anything wrong when I sat in front of his apartment building. I was just checking up on him.”
“With a brand new camera?” His tone said he didn’t buy her story.
“Yes!”
“Did you invite the cop to search your vehicle?”
“No. He just opened the door and climbed inside.”
“Good. Anything he saw could be inadmissible if it goes to court. Your confession however, is a different story. Fortunately, the doctored photos would have to be evidence in the current case to be a problem. Today, when he arrested Libby, did Officer Roth indicate he wanted to question you?”
“No.”
“Good. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“I don’t think so.” She’d be damned if she volunteered anything else.
“There’d better not be.” He hung up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FIRST, LIBBY WAS FINGERPRINTED. The moment was hazy, unreal. This couldn’t really be happening to her. Then an officer had her stand in front of a height chart and took her mug shot, and the full horror of what was happening hit her. Her legs wobbled until she locked her knees and straightened her spine. She stared into the camera lens with steely determination and went through all the motions required of her, not really seeing, not really hearing.
Officer Roth led her into an interrogation room, which was largely what she expected from television crime dramas. A table, chairs, and a two-way mirror. He recited the Miranda warning to her. She’d never in her life expected those words to be directed at her. A rational thought worked through the haze in her mind. “What am I being charged with?”
“Attempted arson.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“We could add attempted murder. Be happy we’re starting with the lesser charge.”
Attempted murder? That was insane. “I was the intended victim, so I don’t see how attempted murder applies.”
“The kitchen could have blown up with cops inside. For all we know, that’s what you planned.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Is that the defense you’re going with?”
She wanted to respond to his bait, but didn’t. She might be upset, but that didn’t make her stupid. “I want my lawyer. In fact, the only person I’ll talk to without my lawyer present is Mark Colby.”
She had to see Mark. This must be some horrible mistake.
Luke left her locked in the interrogation room. She sat ramrod straight in her chair, staring toward the mirror and wondering whether Mark watched her from the other side.
At last, the door
opened and he entered. He shut the door and then faced her, his expression stone cold. He didn’t even remotely resemble the man she’d made love with. In that moment, she knew.
He believed the worst of her.
Part of her soul shattered, triggering a raw ache in her belly. Pain surged to the surface. She was going to cry. No, dammit. She crushed the urge down. Not now.
She stood and walked around the table to him. “Did you order my arrest?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her voice broke on the single word.
“It’s my job to arrest criminals.”
He’d tried and convicted her already. She sucked in a deep breath and took refuge in anger. “You mentioned handcuffs earlier, but left out the part about an interrogation room with a two-way mirror.”
His gaze raked her with chilling detachment that cut to the bone but said nothing.
She pointed to the mirror. “Who is listening?”
“This conversation is private. This isn’t about us, Libby. This is about you. There is no us.”
“Oh, you’ve made that abundantly clear. Now let me make something clear,” she spoke slowly, measuring out her words. “I will never, ever, forgive you for this.”
He let out a peal of harsh, humorless laughter. “You break the law, you get treated like any other felon.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” She felt as if she bled from a thousand invisible cuts. “Nothing except screwing you, that is.”
His gaze hardened. “At least you were a magnificent fuck.”
Her hand connected with his cheek. The slap echoed in the small room.
He didn’t flinch.
Slapping wasn’t enough. He needed to hurt as much as she did. She curled her fingers into a fist.
He grabbed her hand. “Assaulting an officer is a felony.”
She broke away from his touch as though it burned. “That’s the only thing I’m guilty of.” She held out her wrists. “If the big, bad, officer is afraid of me, you can put the cuffs back on.”
At the knock at the door, Mark opened it without taking his eyes off her.
“Her lawyer’s here,” an officer said.
Before Mark could speak, Jason entered, a white knight if ever there was one. He calmly sat. “Sit here, Libby,” he said, indicating the seat next to him. “Before I speak with my client in private, I’d like to know exactly what we’re doing here.”
“Ms. Maitland is suspected of filing several false police reports and faking the attack on Thursday night. For now, we’re charging her with attempted arson.”
Ms. Maitland. He hadn’t called her that since he walked away from her on the night they first met. The coldness in his voice as he said her name opened yet another wound. Don’t let him see how much every tiny denial of their connection hurts. Be angry, not pathetic. “Oh come on, Mark,” her voice dripped equal parts venom and honey. “No need to be so formal.” She turned to Jason. “You should have heard what he called me when his dick was in my mouth.”
Jason stood abruptly; his chair toppled over with a crash. “What the hell are you doing in this interview room?” he said to Mark. “Your relationship with my client is prejudicial.”
“I had another officer ready to question her. Libby requested me.” Mark’s eyes glinted cold and metallic. “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you about us.”
She’d worried about adding to the rivalry between them, but Mark saw her prudence as a sign of guilt. “Sorry, Jason. I guess you should know that I spent the weekend getting screwed by the police chief.”
“Your anger is noted, Libby. Now shut up.” He turned to Mark. “I need to speak with my client in private.”
Mark’s eyes swept over her. His look was dismissive. Insulting. “She’s all yours,” he said and left.
She slumped back in her chair, feeling her energy drain away. With Mark gone, she had no focal point for her anger, leaving her with nothing but debilitating pain. But now wasn’t the time to wallow. She gathered her composure and faced Jason. “I should have told you about my relationship with Mark, but it was new and personal. What a joke…”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she pressed her fingertips against her nose to stop them.
Jason handed her a handkerchief. “Here. Now tell me what’s going on.”
Tears successfully suppressed, she told him everything she could about Amy Seaver, Aaron Brady, and her current stalker. She pointed out Amy had nabbed Aaron’s brother as a client three years ago, and she still worked for the man, and she told him about the doctored photographs.
“I’ve heard about the photos. Simone admitted she doctored them.”
“She told you? When?”
“Just before I came here. She’s worried and she has reason to be. A Seattle cop—a friend of Mark’s—caught her stalking Aaron this weekend.”
“Oh, crap. Simone…” What would have happened if Aaron had caught her? When angry, Aaron turned violent. She’d never warned Simone, so she had no idea how dangerous Aaron could be. Libby had never told anyone, and now it was too late to tell the truth. Even to Jason.
“Her stupid need to play detective hasn’t helped.”
“She’s only trying to protect me.”
“And instead you get arrested. I want to post bond and get out of here.”
“Wait. I want to know what evidence they have. I want to be questioned. Maybe I can convince them they’ve made a mistake.”
“Once you’ve been charged, it’s out of police hands. Now it’s a matter for the prosecutor.”
“Is it a problem if I let them question me?”
“Not as long as I’m here.”
“Then I’d like to get this over with.”
“Okay. I’ll stop it if I don’t like the way things are going.”
To Libby’s great relief, Officer Sara Eversall conducted the interview. If Luke Roth had been sent back in, she would have agreed with Jason about posting bond and leaving.
When questioned about her project finances, Libby let out a humorless laugh. “I underbid the project? Jack would be shocked. He accused me of taking him to the cleaners.” She felt Mark’s presence on the other side of the mirror with every breath she took. Watching. Judging. That thought revived her anger, which gave her the strength to continue. “Listen,” she said to Sara. “You want proof I didn’t underbid the project? You go to three archaeological consulting firms—any three with the exception of Seaver and Associates. Have them read my scope of work. You tell them to come up with a cost proposal. Not just money, but man-hours, broken down by each task outlined in the scope. Have them give you a low and a high range for every task. Then look at the hours I’ve allocated to each task. I nailed that bid. I risked nothing with my cost proposal. I knew what Jack could afford. If anything, I padded the hours.” She turned to Jason, smiling wryly. “Could you please not tell him I said that?”
He winked at her. “Attorney-client privilege.”
Sara said, “I understand that a week and a half ago, the Corps of Engineers increased the requirements for your background report. Significantly. Who’s paying for the additions to the scope of work?”
Libby looked to Jason, not sure whether she should answer. She leaned over and told him she hadn’t finished negotiating that task with Jack; he was using a loophole to try to get her to eat the costs.
“My client isn’t going to answer that,” he said.
Sara questioned Libby about the gas jugs used at the site.
“Two weeks ago, I purchased two red five-gallon gas jugs because the one we had leaked.”
“A witness says he saw you place two gas jugs on your back porch on Thursday afternoon.”
“That’s a load of bull. The jugs are used at the site. They’ve never been near the Shelby house. You think I faked my own assault and attempted to burn down my home and office with my own gas jugs? Wouldn’t that be stupid?”
“I’m not here to judge your IQ. I’m just askin
g questions.”
“I’m obviously a little slow, so let me get this straight. I took my gas cans home from work on Thursday and put them on my back porch—in full view of some witness, because, as we’ve established, I’m not too bright—and later I poured the gas all over my own kitchen and myself. Then I shot myself with a Taser and taped up my own wrists.”
“Yes,” Sara said.
“Have you considered the possibility the witness is wrong?”
“I’m asking the questions, Ms. Maitland, not you. How many times were you zapped with the Taser?”
“I think he kept pressing the trigger. I know the pain stopped three times.”
“How long do you think it went on, total?”
“It felt like forever. But if I had to guess, I’d say a few minutes.”
“What did the pain feel like?”
Like I feel, right now, knowing the man I gave my body and heart to ordered my arrest. “Like I was being ripped apart from the inside by a thousand forks.”
Sara paused and looked at her. Sympathy passed over her features but was quickly replaced by cool reserve. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to explain. Can you explain how your fingerprints were on both the Molotov cocktail bottle and the adhesive side of the duct tape?”
She was speechless. Hostility, anger, and fight left her. Now she was scared.
Jason sat up straighter. “Which piece of tape had her fingerprints? The first piece from the roll, or all of them?”
Sara looked at him coolly. “I’m conducting this interview, Mr. Caruthers, not you.”
“Then we’re done.” Jason stood and crossed the room to the sound switch and turned it off. “I’d like a moment alone with my client.”
Sara left the room.
“You did well,” Jason said. “Their motive is weak. The eyewitness could be a problem. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“How could my fingerprints be on the adhesive side?” Horror washed through her at the answer: the whole thing had been meticulously planned. “I’ve been perfectly set up. My attacker Tasered me and put my fingerprints on the tape. But why would someone work so hard to frame me?”
