Thirteen

Page 7

 
“Co-conspirators?” I waved at Jaime. “This is the only person I’ve been conspiring with today. Does she look like a criminal mastermind?”
“You were seen in the company of two men.”
“Two?” Jaime swatted my arm. “Oh my God, you’re so selfish.”
“What did these guys look like?” I asked.
The officers exchanged a look. The woman cleared her throat.
“We have preliminary descriptions, but we’re hoping you can add to those. It will certainly help your situation if you can.”
In other words, the only “description” they had was the one Jeremy heard—two guys covered in mortar dust. Whatever they had on me was bullshit. Yes, I’d been inside that building, but I’d gone in through the roof, meaning no one had seen me enter. I’d exited through the sewer. I had a feeling their “witnesses” were members of SLAM.
“If anyone saw me near this building, there’s an explanation. But I’ll come downtown if that helps.” I turned to Jaime. “You go on, do your interview—”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “This young woman is my publicist, and you can’t treat her like a terrorist. I came here to check out venues for a possible charity appearance. That’s right—charity. New Orleans has been through hell, and if you want tourists coming back, you can’t arrest them on the street …”
She continued her diva rant as Medina started leading me toward the cruiser.
“It’s okay,” I said to Jaime, trying to shut her up. “You stay here. Let Adam know I’ve been delayed. He’ll have to postpone the interview. I won’t be long and—”
“Take your hands off her!” Jaime yelled at the cop.
“She’s not touching me,” I said. “Listen, Jaime—”
She aimed a kick at Medina’s shins. It didn’t come close. Intentionally so—the one thing Jaime can do is kick with the precision of a stiletto-clad kung-fu artist.
The younger officer—Holland—grabbed her. “Cut that out,” he said. “Or you’ll be going to the station with her.”
Jaime wrenched free. “Don’t you dare lay your hands on me!” She feigned another kick, and lost her balance, stumbling. “You tripped me!”
“Get her in the car, too,” Medina said.
As Holland muscled her toward the car, Jaime put up little resistance. Once in the backseat, she slid over, making room for me.
“What the hell?” I whispered as Medina shut the door.
“You’re my backup and I’m yours,” she said. “If they take one, they take both.”
While I appreciated the support, I’d rather she made sure Jeremy and Adam got Bryce to a doctor. Before I could protest, the officers climbed into the front seat, and we pulled away. Jaime handed me her cell and whispered, “Call Paige.”
I didn’t. I called Lucas. After he’d answered, I leaned into the gap between the front seats.
“I’m calling Jaime’s manager to cancel the interview. That’s okay, right?”
Medina looked ready to say no, but her partner nodded. “Just keep it short.”
Lucas was waiting patiently, having realized from my comment to Medina that something was up. “Hey,” I said to him. “Can you call Adam at the Daily and postpone that interview and photo shoot. Jaime and I … we kinda got ourselves arrested. Adam’s waiting for us with the photographer. Bryce something-or-other.”
“Dare I ask what’s going on?”
“Mmm, better not. Seems someone thought they saw me near an explosion, which is total bullshit. I’ve been baby-sitting—” I cast a quick glance at Jaime, who faked a scowl. “Um, keeping Jaime company. Anyway, it’s a big misunderstanding that I’m sure will amuse everyone at the office later. I’m hoping this will be cleared up soon, but tell Adam to wait no more than thirty minutes. I know he has important things to do.”
“All right.” Lucas paused, then asked, “Are you both okay?”
“We’re fine. We didn’t embarrass ourselves too badly, so no emergency intervention required.”
Another silence on his end.
“Really,” I said.
Medina twisted to look back at me. “A short call.”
“Gotta go,” I said.
“All right. Let me know if you need legal help.”
“I’m sure we won’t. It’s just questioning.”
Medina signaled for me to cut it off. I said good-bye and handed the phone back to Jaime.
 
 
TWO
 
As we drove out of the city, I realized these were state cops. I suppose I should have noticed sooner. It seemed odd for an outside department to be involved in a big-city case, but maybe even years after Katrina, New Orleans was still in a state of bureaucratic upheaval.
We pulled into a small station on a regional road surrounded by forest and swamp. Medina got out of the car as Holland made a note in his book. She opened my door. As I started to climb out, Holland opened Jaime’s door, then stopped dead.
“What’s that?” he said.
I turned to see some kind of black powder smeared on my seat.
“Damn it,” I muttered. “Did I sit in that?”
I went to wipe off my butt, but Medina grabbed my hands and yanked me into position so fast I barely had time to snap, “Hey!” before I stood spread eagled against the cruiser.
Jaime yelped, genuine now, and tried to get out, but Holland pushed her back in and slammed the door.
“Is that what it looks like?” he asked as Medina patted me down. “Something from the bomb?”
“Could be,” she said.
 
It wasn’t. Whatever ripped that building apart wasn’t some low-grade blasting powder. But showing any familiarity with what had caused the explosion—or bombs in general—seemed unwise.
Medina patted my back pockets.
“Only thing in there is my wallet,” I said. “But go ahead and check.”
She pulled out the wallet. Then she reached into the other back pocket, stopped, and waved Holland over.
“What?” I said.
I tried to twist and look, but she slammed me against the car again. I craned to see, being careful not to move anything but my head. She was holding a folded piece of paper and a crushed cardboard tube sprinkled with black powder.