3
Maisie had been expecting to be taken to an interview room, empty except for a cheap table and a couple of chairs.
Maybe even a light bulb swinging overhead.
Instead, she was led to an office. The golden plaque beside the door had Byron’s name on it.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He left, and she wiped her palms on her skirt. She could feel the damp heat of her hands through the fabric.
The office was large and orderly. No seating area, no grandfather clock, no window overlooking the city. In short, nothing like the offices at LB&B. However, the furniture was still tasteful.
There were three chairs to choose from. Thinking it would make her look like she wanted to be helpful, Maisie picked the one closest to the desk. She sat and crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt as she did so.
A few minutes later, Byron still hadn’t returned.
After another few minutes, she started wondering if it was a mind trick, to stress her out.
Maybe she could learn something about him, something to give her an advantage, no matter how slight. She took another look around the office.
It was orderly. Not very personal.
And Byron himself? If she pushed aside how uncomfortable he made her, what was underneath?
She frowned.
He didn’t act like someone whose brother had just been murdered. That was weird, because they’d clearly been close. They’d played racquetball together regularly, and Byron had started raising the alarm the very night of Norm’s disappearance.
Perhaps Byron’s job had hardened him to unexpected, violent death. To the shock and unfairness of it.
Maisie’s phone vibrated.
She shouldn’t look. Her bosses knew she’d be at the station; they wouldn’t be calling now.
But suppose it was an emergency?
Maisie snatched the phone out of her bag.
It was an email from Heather. The previewed first line made Maisie’s heart stop: I have a personal question about your boss, Eth…
That was as much as it showed. Obviously Eth was Ethan. Oh, god. What the hell did Heather want with Ethan? Gossip about his scar?
Information about his relationship status?
Ethan was exactly the kind of guy that Heather would throw herself at. Trent and Raphael, too. Heather had always gone for aloof men, and she sure loved money.
Clicking on the email would be a mistake. Whatever Heather had written would only be a distraction.
But honestly, Maisie was already pretty fucking distracted. If Heather only wanted to know about the scar, then Maisie would be able to relax.
She tapped on the email.
“Ms. Novau, could you come with me?” asked a woman’s voice.
Maisie jumped, guiltily shoving the phone back into her bag.
She twisted in the chair and found herself looking at a woman in her mid-thirties. She was wearing a cheap business suit and comfortable black shoes, stylish on top but with an athletic rubber sole.
The outfit said: I’m pretty, but just try to run away.
“Sure,” Maisie said.
She wondered what had happened to Byron, but she didn’t ask. Let them think you’re not paying close attention.
The woman led her to a room that was more along the lines of what Maisie had been expecting. A rectangular table, two chairs, a small video camera, and all the cheer of the DMV.
“I’ll just take a quick statement, and then you can go,” the woman said, closing the door.
Fantastic. Maisie felt her spirits begin to lift, and she shoved Heather’s email firmly out of her mind.
The woman turned on the video camera and opened a notebook. “Please state your full name and date of birth.”
Maisie gave the ring a subtle twist, then answered.
“Where do you work?”
Ugh. “I’m currently between jobs,” Maisie said.
The detective, who hadn’t even identified herself, didn’t seem surprised to hear that. She asked a few more basic questions, then got down to business. “You know why you’re here.”
Maisie nodded. She could tell she was supposed to say the reason, but she knew to keep quiet.
The woman flipped to a calendar in the back of her notebook. Sliding it across the table, she tapped at a date just over two weeks prior. “Do you remember—”
“Yes,” Maisie said. “It was my first day of work, and it was very memorable.”
“Memorable? Why?”
“Lots of reasons. New job in a fancy office.” Getting down and dirty with the bosses. “Being asked to stay with Mrs. Ballystock that night in the Beaumont Hotel.”
“Who asked you?”
“One of the partners. Raphael Lattimore, I think, but I’m not sure.”
“Is it common for employees to spend the night in a hotel with clients?”
Maisie felt her eyebrows lift. Was this woman implying…
It didn’t even matter.
Maisie answered all the questions. Her bosses had prepared her well. Her confidence notched up incrementally.
But then the detective said, “Mrs. Ballystock told us that three of the partners were at the hotel that night.”
Maisie was already nodding.
This was going to be the most difficult part. Davina Ballystock, who apparently believed that Ethan, Trent, and Raphael really had killed her husband, had lied to the police, saying the lawyers were with her that night.
Her bosses had insisted that Maisie rehearse this until it was perfect.
“No. I mean, yes, because they took us there and got everything sorted. Maybe Mrs. Ballystock got so drunk that she didn’t remember. She was really out of it.”
The detective’s lips turned down slightly. “Not so out of it that she couldn’t send a few nasty messages to the victim. Did you know about those?”
“No,” Maisie said. She felt her brow furrowing in surprise, but she couldn’t get her muscles to relax. “She didn’t text anyone.”
“That you saw.” The detective tilted her head, studying Maisie. “You know what I find interesting?”
No, and she didn’t want to know. “What?”
“Davina used to text her husband a lot, but after that night, she stopped.”
Maisie kept her mouth shut. She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but she knew better.
“Why were you fired?”
Maisie crossed her arms over her chest before she could help it. “I made a few mistakes.”
She almost mentioned that she’d still been on probation, but stopped herself at the last second. The less she said, the better.
“Ok.” To Maisie’s surprise, the detective closed her notebook and stood. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Novau.”
Maisie also stood. She felt lightheaded from hunger and stress.
The woman opened the door. “If you think of anything else, please call me,” she said, handing Maisie a business card. Soma Wilder. Detective.
Maisie nodded and walked out.
The second she was in the hall, relief flooded her. The interview hadn’t gone perfectly, but it had been easier than she’d expected.
The important thing was that it was over, and she hadn’t let her bosses down.
“This way.” Detective Wilder led Maisie to the tan doors and pushed a square panel. The doors unlocked with a click. “Drive safe, Ms. Novau,” she said.
Maisie nodded. Kept her mouth shut. Continued walking.
By the time she reached her car, her hands were trembling. She felt giddy, maybe even high.
She had just tossed her purse into the passenger’s seat and was about to slide behind the steering wheel and deal with Heather’s email when a hand grabbed the top of her door and opened it wider.
“Ms. Novau, one second.”
4
Maisie looked up into Byron’s face. In the sunlight, she saw that his skin was suspiciously smooth for a
man who had to be in his fifties.
“I haven’t eaten yet, and I’ve got a lot to do,” she said.
“This will only take a few minutes.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Of course, if you’d prefer to come back at another time, we could work something out. I’m willing to swing by your apartment. I’m often in that area.” A malicious sneer rolled across his face. “Whatever’s convenient for you, Ms. Novau.”
Was that a threat?
She didn’t know.
Her bosses had prepared her for being harshly questioned by two detectives, but she didn’t know the protocol for this.
But the general rule was to be cooperative.
“A few minutes? Ok.”
Byron stepped back. “Could you come inside? You said something to Detective Wilder that I’d like to follow up on.”
What had she said? Maisie’s blood ran cold.
She locked up her car, and couldn’t help noticing that Byron’s gaze was all over her vehicle. It was a green sedan, nothing fancy. An older model but in good shape, and utterly unremarkable.
He’d probably already looked her up in some database and knew what she drove. Obviously he knew where she lived. Maybe he was trying to send a message, letting her know that he was paying attention.
If so, it was working.
Her lips and fingers felt cold, but her torso was overheating. That numbed, disassociated feeling from the limo was back.
Ballystock set off for the station at a fast clip, and Maisie followed him. She squeezed her necklace. She rubbed her thumb over the ring’s band.
Nothing made her feel better.
He took her to his office. This time, he stepped in behind her and closed the door.
“I’m going to level with you,” he said. “Davina killed Norm.”
Maisie shook her head vehemently. That, at least, she knew was untrue. “I was with her all night. The hotel must have security footage—”
“And I know she had help.”
“I really don’t believe—”
“Your bosses went to see Norm the night he died.”
Maisie thought her jaw might have dropped, but she couldn’t be certain; her face had gone numb with shock.
Don’t react. Don’t say anything. It might just be a guess.
But if so, it was a damned specific—and accurate—one.
Byron snorted. “I thought so,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her shrewdly. “Which one was slipping it to you?”
Slipping it to me. Her bosses had prepared her for that question, but she hadn’t expected it to be so crude.
Or to follow on the heels of a major revelation.
The room seemed to tilt, and her mind went blank.
“You have a degree from a good school and experience as an assistant. But you only lasted two weeks? I’m not buying it. Wouldn’t you like to make that bastard pay for what he did?”
“I don’t understand.” She could barely follow the conversation. A dull buzzing sound seemed to have invaded her brain.
Byron’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking about suing them, aren’t you? Getting yourself a chunk of that law firm money.”
“I—”
He snorted. “You’re not the only one, you know.”
Keep your damned mouth shut. But it was getting more difficult by the second. Not the only one?
Past tense? Present tense?
Oh, god.
She swallowed hard. One of her hands found the back of the chair. She squeezed it, trying to draw strength.
“I haven’t eaten,” she said. “I think my blood sugar is plummeting.”
Byron laughed. It was a rude sound, full of contempt and arrogance.
“God save us all from stupid girls,” he said. “Stupid girls and the sociopathic rich men who use them.”
He thought she was stupid?
Good. Finally, something positive.
He suddenly took two steps and was right in her face. She blinked up at him and tried to look blank.
“I know what happened that night,” he said. “I’ve got the receipts. The law firm put you in the suite with Davina, then took a second room on another floor. You went to your boss and fucked him. You weren’t with Davina.”
“That’s not true,” Maisie said. She hadn’t gone out all night. “We were in a suite, though, so I guess she could have sent some texts. But I would have heard if she’d left, and I didn’t leave.”
She was talking too much, on the defensive.
“You fucked him while his wife and kids were asleep at home. They had no idea what he was doing, but he did. You did, too. And now, to protect yourself, you’re lying for him. You didn’t see Davina texting Norm because you weren’t there. You’re a filthy slut, and you lied on the record.”
He picked up a video camera sitting on the edge of his desk and pushed the record button. “Is there anything you want to add to your earlier statement?”
Disjointed fragments raced and collided through her mind. Was Byron just making all this up?
Byron hit the stop button and laughed.
“You didn’t know he was married, did you? Well, doll, maybe you should get to know a man before you open your whore legs for him.”
The amusement drained from his face, and Maisie found herself looking into eyes so cold and flat that the room temperature seemed to drop below zero.
“You tell your lover that he and his partners can either meet with me, or I’m coming for them. My family might not be one of the richest in the world, but I’m the assistant chief of police. I’ve got enough money and more than enough power to take them down. Tell them this: I won’t rest until they’re in prison and their assets have been seized. Did you hear me?”
She nodded.
“They have until the end of the week.”
Maisie nearly plowed into a stopped trash truck on the way home. Her stomach was so unsettled that she tasted acid on the back of her tongue.
One of her bosses was married?
“Fuck,” she moaned.
How had she missed it? It had to be Raphael. He’d been her direct boss. He was the only one who didn’t seem to exist online. Frankly, he was the only one who seemed the type to ever settle down.
Though maybe it was Ethan. There were a few articles about him, but nothing recent.
She doubted it was Trent…. unless he was married to one of the women she’d seen photos of him with. But there were so many.
No, probably not Trent.
Ethan or Raphael. Ethan didn’t seem the sort to pretend he was someone he wasn’t. But then again, neither did Raphael.
Maybe Byron had been making shit up. Maybe he was misinformed.
“Maybe you should think about something else,” she muttered.
Like the fact that some man she didn’t know had called her a stupid slut.
How did he know her bosses had gone to see Norm that night?
She turned off the car and slumped over the steering wheel.
Byron had to be full of shit about the married thing. He’d said it to throw her off her game, and it had worked like a charm.
Why, then, did she feel so uneasy?
Because you don’t know them. Not really.
They were rich and powerful. They broke the law when it suited them. They liked tag-teaming submissive women.
Was that the sort of behavior that normal men indulged in? Or was it a kinky sex game on the side for a bored married man?
Her gut twisted and cramped.
Byron was an ass, but his accusation—her gut said he hadn’t been lying.
And now her fate was linked to these men. They’d all lied to her to cover this secret. Byron was right: she was stupid. She never should have trusted them.
She glanced at the time on her phone and remembered Heather’s email.
Fuck Heather.
In about thirty minutes, one of her bosses would be calling her.
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Maisie wanted to swap her business clothes for a T-shirt and jeans. At the moment, she didn’t want to wear anything sexy.
But she was too hungry, so she grabbed a bag of chips and a lemonade and went into the living room.
The formerly purple-grayish walls were now a gleaming white. She’d finished the last of the painting yesterday and had moved the furniture back into place. With the sun slanting through the window, it was the perfect time of day to relax, to surf the web.
She collapsed into the armchair and ate the chips with trembling hands. When the bag was empty, she licked her salty fingers.
“Let’s see what the witch wants,” she murmured as she opened Heather’s email.
I have a personal question about your boss, Ethan. I ran into him at a fundraiser last night. He’s so funny and smart. Is he seeing anyone? I want all the info.
She sent the email to her spam folder.
Funny and smart? Ethan Brennbach?
He was, but he took great pains to hide it beneath a callous exterior. Unless, of course, the condescending behavior was something he reserved for people he thought were beneath him.
Like Maisie.
Heather, though… He might see her as a peer.
Maisie’s blood was up now. The attacks just didn’t stop coming.
Through the anger, a useless thread of hope glimmered. Heather would have known if Ethan was married. After all, gossip was Heather’s stock in trade.
Well, great. Ethan wasn’t married. Big fucking deal, Maisie.
Angrily, she tapped out an email to Trent.
Trent, because she knew for a fact that he was working in the office today, and he always kept his cell phone turned on and nearby, and he was less likely to ignore her.
She fussed with the email, then deleted a rant about Ethan flirting with Heather. She kept trying and deleting until she had one line.
Is Raphael married?
And before she could think better of it, she tapped the send arrow.
Then waited for the immediate denial.
And waited.
Then waited some more.
Too bad she hadn’t picked up something to replace the bottle of wine she’d polished off the day Ethan had fired her. Maybe the message hadn’t gone through…
Willful Violation (Lawyers Behaving Badly Book 3) Page 2
