The detective is quiet, like he’s thinking about how to answer, before saying, “There isn’t one.”
Did I just hear that right? “What did you just say?”
“There is no case,” he says. “We investigated, nothing panned out. Miss Myers was advised to handle it herself, since it’s a civil matter.”
It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but it’s been happening quite a bit lately, and it always seems to have something to do with Scarlet.
It’s blowing my goddamn mind.
“A civil matter,” I say. “Which part? Because I’m just wondering whether murder or kidnapping is the civil matter, legally speaking. I might be interested in partaking in one or the other, if that’s the case.”
“Look, I don’t know what she told you, Gambini, but there was no kidnapping. Aristov has a right to his daughter. Morgan kept the kid from him for years prior to this, and she wasn’t charged with kidnapping, either. So like I said, it’s a civil matter. If she wants us to do anything, she needs to sue for custody and get an order filed with the courts, something that can be enforced. And last time I checked, Miss Myers was still very much alive, which means there wasn’t a murder.”
“Attempted murder, then.”
“There’s no proof he tried to kill her,” he says. “At most, with just her testimony to rely on—if she’d even testify, which she won’t—it gets pled down to simple assault. He pays a fine, takes anger management, and that’s the end of it. She’s also welcome to petition the courts for a restraining order. Again, that’s something we can enforce.”
He’s got an answer for everything, an excuse as to why they’re not doing a damn thing to help her.
“Fair enough,” I say, “but riddle me this: if she gave birth at sixteen, which is under the age of consent, why wasn’t he charged for that? Pretty sure that’s one hell of a cut-and-dry felony.”
“There was never any complaint of statutory rape.”
“Not even when a man over twice her age signed the birth certificate?”
He stares at me in silence.
“Huh, so either you ignored that little fact or he never signed the birth certificate, which means he’s either guilty of statutory rape or he’s guilty of kidnapping her child. Which one is it, detective?”
He still says nothing.
Knowing what I know, I’m betting it’s the kidnapping. Some bullshit piece of paper issued by the government would mean nothing to Aristov. He doesn’t need the validation.
But it also means he’s got no legal right to her.
“Do you like it?” I ask after a moment of strained silence. “Does it make you hard, bending over for the Russians, letting them fuck you?”
He glares at me.
“It’s okay, you can admit it,” I continue. “We’ve all got our kinks. Bet you love it when they come all over your back and treat you like a little bitch.”
“Fuck you,” he growls. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you sold out a grieving mother, and I know you fed her a bunch of bullshit about how you were going to help. I know she let you stick it in, because she loves her kid, thinking you were a good guy that was going to help her with this. But you never planned to do a goddamn thing for her, did you?”
“I’m doing all I can for Morgan,” he says through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to tear me to pieces. Awesome. “You think I don’t wish I could get the kid back for her? If it was in any way possible, I would’ve done it, but my hands are tied. You just don’t cross Aristov.”
“Careful, detective,” I say. “You’re sounding a bit like a coward right now.”
“I’m being realistic,” he says, running his hands down his face. “Unlike Morgan, who seems to think she can go up against him and not lose everything. I mean, Christ... what does she expect? She’s alive. She escaped with her life. She ought to be grateful for that! The kid... the kid is fine. I get that it sucks, but she’s with them, and she’s... fine.”
“And you just took the Russian’s word for that?”
“Of course not,” he grumbles. “I’m not an idiot. I made him prove it. And the kid, you know... she’s fine. He has her. She’s fine.”
I’m beginning to question if he believes his own words. He’s said she was fine so many goddamn times that I think he might be trying to convince himself of that.
“I take it that means you’ve seen her?”
He looks at me, going white again. Uh-oh.
“Where’s he hiding her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
Lying son of a bitch...
I shove up to my feet, towering over the desk. “You wanna know what I know, detective?”
“What?”
Snatching ahold of his shirt, I fist the collar and yank him up out of his chair. He grabs the desk when he slams into it, bracing himself as I pull him to me. I stare him right in his eyes, face-to-face, so damn close our noses almost touch.
“I know if you ever lay another finger on Morgan, I’ll cut your dick off and fuck you with it,” I say. “And then, when I’m done, I’ll shove it down your mother’s throat while I fuck her. You got me?”
Blinking rapidly, he nods.
I shove him back into his chair, and he damn near falls right out of it, alarmed. Man, you don’t even know how much I want to shoot him in the crotch right now, just pump bullet after bullet into the man’s puny balls.
“I’ll be seeing you around, Detective Fuckface,” I say. “Next time, though, you might not like me so much.”
“See, that was a threat,” Seven chimes in, getting to his feet. “I heard it that time.”
I laugh, walking out, leaving the precinct without bothering with anybody else.
Stepping outside onto the sidewalk in front of the precinct, I pull the small tin from my pocket to grab a joint.
“Uh, boss,” Seven says, pausing beside me. “Might not be the best place to light up.”
I shrug that off, lighting it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for a moment before saying, “What are they gonna do, arrest me?”
“Probably.”
I take another hit of it, nodding, before strolling away from the entrance, heading to where the car is parked. I lounge in the passenger seat, steadily smoking, letting it soothe my nerves and clear my mind as Seven drives. The windows are rolled up, so he’s probably getting a bit of a high, but he doesn’t complain about it.
“He saw the kid,” I say after a moment, “which means Aristov kept her around here.”
I can feel Seven’s gaze flicker my way as he says quietly, “His refrigerator.”
His refrigerator.
What the fuck?
“Seriously? You think he’s keeping her in his refrigerator? Jesus Christ, Seven, who is he, Jeffery Dahmer?”
“No, I’m not saying he... you know. But when we were at his house, when I went to the kitchen to wait... there was a picture on the refrigerator. A drawing, stick figures and a house. You know, stuff kids draw.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that before now?”