And then I slipped down the hall toward Alex’s office.
The door was closed, but unlocked. I slipped in, shutting it behind me, and clicked on the lights, stifling a very un-I-totally-belong-here scream when the buzzing overhead lights illuminated the white board where eight-by-ten photos of both crime scenes were pinned up. Each time I saw the destruction, the spattered blood, the torturous fear that these women must have felt, my stomach dropped lower and I found it hard to breathe. I did my best to avoid the photos and went to work picking through Alex’s things until I found what I needed: the evidence collection kit for the Pacific Heights murder.
I tossed aside Ziploc bags of blood-spattered clothing, a soaked swatch of carpet and sofa pillow, and finally landed on the videotapes. There were six of them, identical, unlabeled.
“What are you doing in here?”
I stood with a start. I had already shoved two of the tapes in my bag and I clutched the others to my chest, my heart hammering against the flimsy black plastic. I licked my lips and pressed my lips into the warmest, kindliest smile in my repertoire.
“Officer Romero! What are you doing here?”
Romero didn’t smile back at me. He simply crossed his arms in front of his chest and quirked a questioning eyebrow.
“Me? Oh, I was, um . . .” I glanced down at the tapes in my arms. “. . . picking up something for Alex.”
Romero took a step in. “Alex asked you to come down here and gather state’s evidence?”
I pumped my head. “Yeah, he meant to do it himself but”—I twirled an index finger a half-inch from my head—“doy! He forgot when he left today.”
Romero shifted his weight, the edge of his lips turning up a quarter-inch. “Why would Alex need the tapes from the crime scene?”
“From the crime scene? Oh!” I barked a completely overzealous laugh. “Now I get it. You said ‘state’s evidence.’ Yeah, these aren’t that.” I hugged the videotapes. “They’re personal.”
“Personal?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of personal videotapes does Alex keep in his office?” Romero took a step into the office, moving closer to me, his hand reaching for the tapes.
I spun, gripping the tapes harder. “They’re sex tapes.”
Both of Romero’s eyebrows shot up, were lost in his dark hair. “You and Alex made . . .” He paused, counted. “. . . four sex tapes?”
Heat shot through me, and I was certain I had gone from my normal day-glow pale to lobster red in three short seconds. “Yes.”
“Alex?” Romero’s eyes raked over me. “And you?”
I was humiliated, but oddly indignant. “I could make a sex tape. I’m saucy.”
Romero paused for a beat, and I nearly thought I was home free. Then he pulled his cuffs from his belt, held out his hand, and said, “Sophie, I need you to bring me the tapes.”
I shook my head. “No.” My voice had more power than I’d intended and I was surprised. I licked my lips. “Can’t you just trust me on this? Or, give me twenty-four hours. That’s it. I’ll have them back to you in twenty-four hours. Please?”
“You know I can’t do that. Look, I’ll compromise. If you drop the tapes and leave right now, nothing has to happen.” He shrugged. “I won’t even tell Alex.”
“How is that a compromise?”
He shook the cuffs. “Otherwise I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m going to have to file a report.” Romero took a step toward me and I sidestepped, letting Alex’s big oak desk block me.
“I’m not a criminal, Romero. You know that.”
Romero looked at me reluctantly. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, please.”
“I’m not. I told you: twenty-four hours. No one has to know.”
Romero’s eyes went toward the white-corked ceiling as if the answer were pinned up there. “Fine.”
I felt the relief crash over me in a tight wave. Deep down I had always been certain Romero was on my side, but he was a good cop and a new cop—deciding to help a newish friend couldn’t have been easy for him.
“Thank you.”
I dumped the remaining tapes in my shoulder bag and it yanked down on my shoulder. I really had no intention of bringing the videotapes back and that little fact nagged at me as I stepped toward the boyish-faced Romero. “I really appreciate this.”
He just nodded.
I reached up to turn the lights out, hearing the cuffs snap on me in the darkness.
“What the—?” I thrust my arm out into the buzzing fluorescent lights of the hallway and jiggled my wrist, hearing the clink, clink, clink of the steel cuff against itself. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Romero said nothing, just gave the cuffs a gentle pull until we were back in Alex’s office. He flicked on the lights and unceremoniously clicked the loose cuff to Alex’s chair.
“I get it,” I said between gritted teeth. “I’ve seen this before. You’re a bad cop.”