Page 152 of Family Affair
As he drove back to the hotel, his temporary residence, Cade called Willis’s number several times without success.
“Pick up, dammit,” he swore into the voicemail and hung up. Ross’s revelations about Alex dominated his thoughts. Alex. Obsessed with the Sheffield family name, with a chip on his shoulder because he was second best at managing Sheffield Investments. Alex had a lot to prove to the world. And Cade’s appearance in Atlanta promised nothing but a shitshow at the time of crisis, knowing what Alex knew about him.
“What have you done, Alex,” Cade whispered in the confines of his truck, regret over his brother’s actions mixing with potent rage over losing Ward in such a violent, senseless way. He was also not on board with being cast as a scapegoat. Again.
But most of all, he stressed over Coco. His gut felt tight from the feeling that things were heading to hell in the hand basket fast, and he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason.
Christ, why was he so darn twitchy?
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Alex would be in the office now, which should give Cade enough time to track down Willis and come up with a plan of action. Coco had been correct, they might need the Pollock drawing yet, to lure Alex out, to get him to admit going to Ward. They needed a solid confession.
Preoccupied, he was pulling up at the hotel before he noticed the tail, and by then it was too late. Not that it mattered.
The unmarked sedan spiked with antennae rode up his ass and pulled up right behind, effectively corralling him in the narrow parking slot. In perfect accord, a police cruiser appeared from the opposite end of the street and parked on the other side of his truck, giving a single howl of the siren.
“Shit.” He had officially run out of time.
The sedan’s doors popped open and two plain clothes emerged, weapons drawn.
Smirnoff’s pregnant-looking stomach and bushy beard were unmistakable. “Out of the truck! Hands up where we can see them! Now!”
How could he refuse such a fine invitation?
Slowly, without making any jerky moves, he opened the door and got out holding his arms wide and away from his body.
“A gun, Detective? Is it really necessary?”
Smirnoff only gripped his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson tighter. “Stay where you are! Don’t move!” He motioned with his head, and two uniformed officers approached with caution.
The rotating blue flashes of the cruiser’s lights bounced off Smirnoff’s benign face making him look like an evil clown in a horror movie.
Cade’s legs were kicked wider apart, and a swift body search liberated his own weapon and his switchblade. He didn’t struggle.
Despite his docile demeanor, he was grabbed from behind and slammed face down on the hood of the unmarked. Cuffs tightened over his wrists wrenched behind his back. The cops’ hands were rough, and his cheekbone started to fry where it was pressed to the hot metal.
The raised voices of the officers, the manhandling, his uncomfortable position bent over the hood - all was terribly familiar, bringing forth a host of memories from his misspent youth. He felt nothing but regret.
I’m so sorry, Coco. The sense of failure flooded him.
A piece of paper was shoved under his nose for inspection, presumably his arrest warrant, and promptly removed.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Reverend Ward Williamson,” Detective Santa Claus wheezed from above his head. “You have the right to remain silent as everything you say or do may be interpreted against you… You have the right to an attorney… Do you understand your rights as I stated them?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause during which he heard a telltale click of the safety mechanism being turned back on.
“Alrighty then. Let’s go get him to his new quarters.”
