Page 63 of Dirty Daria
“Maybe not emotionally to you, but he’s the key to this whole investigation so far.”
I wave a hand in the air and take a seat at my desk, looking around at the mess that I left before the wedding and Maldives. I typically keep a tidy workspace, obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly then. Not like I am now. I’ve come to realize people like David need to be punished in a way that law enforcement can’t administer.
“You get all dressed up for me, Roberts?” the chief asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“It’s no different from what he wears.” I point to Mack, who is dressed in cargo pants, a T-shirt, and combat boots.
“Yeah, well, you aren’t him. Don’t try it again.” The chief throws a file on my desk. “Get through that before you talk to Tremblay. It’s everything we’ve gathered while you were away sunning yourself on the beach. He’ll be here in twenty.”
I refrain from also giving the chief the finger, which would not bode well for my career, and flip open the folder in front of me. It’s not filled with much more than Mack had already claimed to get from afriend of a friendbefore the wedding.
Mack gets the call that David is here and waiting, so I grab a cup of coffee and follow him to the interrogation room. Which is more like a small, windowless conference room with bad lighting. A rectangular table and four chairs are the only things in the room, outside of David.
“My attorney is on his way; can we wait for him?” he asks as Mack and I step in the room.
“We don’t have a choice now that you’ve mentioned it,” I tell him.
Mack pulls a chair into the corner and takes a seat, crossing his arms over his chest, his legs splayed out before him, creating an imposing figure even sitting in a corner. I set my coffee on the table across from David and pull out my own chair.
“Did you have an enjoyable time in Maldives?” David asks with a sneer.
“No.” I don’t ask how he knew we were there; I doubt that it matters. “Did you?”
“Yes. Very enjoyable, very productive.”
He’s baiting me. I know it, yet I’m falling for it anyway. Before I can say anything more, his attorney knocks once and joins us in the room, taking the remaining seat at the table next to David.
“Gentlemen,” he says by way of a greeting.
“David, why don’t you start by telling me what you meant when you said your honeymoon was productive?” I ask, leaving out any added formalities.
David sits back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, as though we are relaxing in someone’s living room and not questioning him in the FBI offices.
“I’m pretty sure we got Laurel pregnant, which was my goal.”
I know that’s not what he meant. He was referring to money. Girls. Trafficking.
“Look, you’ve already told us that you were coerced into helping with the girls because of a debt that you owe,” I start.
“Is that a written confession?” the lawyer interjects.
“No,” I say. “It’s recorded.”
“Transcribed and signed?” the lawyer asks.
“I have it here.” I slide the pages toward David along with a pen.
“What if I don’t sign it?” David asks.
“It’s not a possibility at this point, David. The only way you’re getting out of this is to give us someone more valuable than you. Otherwise, we’re locking you up.”
“And if I don’t have the names of anyone else?”
“What’d I just say?”
“No, Reed, I mean if I don’t know anyone’s name?”
“Which is not to say that he is guilty,” the attorney says.
