cynical, I guess.”
“A cynic?” Roman snorted. “Sounds more like you’re a quitter.”
Ian’s internal temperature spiked. Sweat collected at the nape of his neck, snaking down his back. “I’m not quitting. I just know when I’m beat. I’m—”
“Quitting,” Roman interrupted.
Ian wanted nothing more than to set him straight, to share his real plans with his operatives. But to what end? Just so they, too, would be compromised—maybe even criminally so? No. He was their leader. It was his job to protect them. This was the best way he knew how to do that.
“As far as the operatives are concerned, RMJ is closed. Katarina, I’ll need you to stay on for the next couple of weeks and help me shut down all the cases.”
Roman slapped the table, a sharp crack that rent the air. “I’ve dedicated my life to this outfit. We all have. Remember when you found me in the hospital, broken both emotionally and physically?”
“What’s your point?”
“You promised a world where justice was pursued and light was shone into the darkest corners of the human heart, or some such crap. And now you’re quitting?”
“I’m not quitting, brother.”
“From where I sit, it looks like you are.” Roman shoved his chair back and stood. “And you aren’t my brother.”
Ian stared at the kitchen table. He slid his hand into his pocket. There, he wrapped his fingers around the flash drive. He hoped that he now held the key that could unlock the last door to Mateev.
If not, Ian had just ruined his life’s work for nothing.
* * *
The interrogation room was a ten-foot-square space with barely enough room for a faux wood table and two plastic chairs. The walls were covered in cheap paneling and the air stank of stale body odor.
Before leaving Joe’s house, Petra volunteered to have her fingerprints taken. Her clothes and purse had been bagged as evidence and she was allowed to wash up. She now wore an extra large white men’s T-shirt and large gray sweatpants, along with a pair of flip-flops meant for a giant—all compliments of the Denver PD. She had also been examined by EMTs, who determined that none of her injuries were life-threatening. Then she had been invited to the police station.
The door opened and she looked up. Martinez entered the room, his bulk making the already small space seem even smaller. He squeezed into the second chair and threw a manila file on the table. Even from her seat, Petra could see the indexed title. It was her name.
Her stomach churned. She hadn’t been arrested or read her Miranda rights, so she hadn’t asked for an attorney of her own. Petra only wanted to be helpful and find out what happened to Joe—no matter the truth. Yet now she couldn’t help but wonder if her decision had been prudent.
“Sorry to keep you so long,” Martinez said. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Something to eat?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“I have some more items to discuss that might help clear up what happened with Joe. First, do you recall anything more than what you already told us?”
“There are a few things that I remember, but I don’t know how much use they’ll be,” she said.
He flipped open the file and took out a pen. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of what matters and what doesn’t.”
“It’s not a memory exactly, but Joe had several video cameras around his property and even a few in the house...” Petra drew in a breath, fearful of what might have been recorded.
Martinez set his pen aside. “The surveillance system was disconnected. Nothing’s been recorded since last night.”
That was odd. Still, Petra continued, “The front gate was open. It’s controlled by an intercom and Joe always keeps it locked.”
“Did you call up to the house when you arrived?”
Petra shook her head. “We had spoken earlier. He said it was urgent and was expecting me, so I didn’t bother. That brings up something else. Someone had stopped by when we were on the phone.”
“Did he say who?”
Petra shook her head again.
“And then?”
“He didn’t answer the front door when I rang the bell.” The disorientation she had felt upon waking was gone, although not all her memories had returned. “I even called his cell phone. When that didn’t work, I went around by the pool and let myself in through the back. I can’t really remember anything after that.”
“Your fingerprints were found on the home alarm,” said Martinez.
Petra had gotten used to his statements that were really questions. “I think I set it off. The first thing I remember clearly is my hand on the alarm and a lot of beeping.”
Martinez nodded and made a note in the file. “How many times did you call Joe?”
“Twice,” she said.
“Do you recall throwing your phone into the pool?”
“Is that where it was found?” she asked.
“It was.”
“Can I have it back?”
“It’s in evidence now. And you haven’t answered my question. Do you recall throwing, or dropping, your phone in the pool?”
A blast of cold air shot from a vent in the ceiling. Petra crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to shiver. “I remember walking by the pool.” She’d been sick with a migraine and frustrated with Joe. Had she done something stupid, something she didn’t remember, then? “I think my phone was in my purse.”
“Is that a no?”
“No,” Petra snapped. “I didn’t put my phone in Joe Owens’s pool.” She wanted to be helpful, but she had almost reached her limit. “Is this going to take much longer? I did come here voluntarily,” she reminded the cop.
“Do you want a lawyer?”
“Do I need one?” she fired back.
“I just have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Petra blew out a breath. “Sure. Go ahead.”
Martinez scribbled a note. “You were on a radio show this morning. Steve Chan’s, Hot Seat.”
Petra wasn’t sure if it was a question or statement. She answered him anyway. “I was.”
“And what was the nature of your visit to the show?”
“Joe Owens.”
“Anything in particular about Joe?”
Petra didn’t like that Martinez kept using her client’s first name—as if the championship MVP and the cop were somehow friends. “And how is my client?” she asked.
Martinez shook his head. “Not good.”
Petra bit her lip. “Any prognosis?”
Martinez looked at the file, flipping through the first few pages. “None that I know of. Let’s get back to the radio interview. Is it true that, on air, you threatened to strangle Joe Owens?”
Her face tingled. Her hands lay on the table, too heavy to lift. Her throat was unbelievably dry. She swallowed. “It was hyperbolic,” she said. “You know, for effect.”
“I understand hyperbole, Ms. Sloane,” said the detective.
She began to sweat. “And besides, Steve Chan made a joke about all of Joe’s recent scandals and asked me if I ever