Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise by Deborah Brown

were still cuffed behind my back. “Tell me about your relationship with Gage Banford.”
    I didn’t bother to mention I hadn’t been read my rights. I’d save that tidbit for my lawyer. The back of my head banged up my brain stem. A migraine in the works, I needed a nap, which was the only way it would go away now.
    “I’m sure you’ve heard of Chief Harder, call him and tell him I’m here and mention that you’re denying me a lawyer after several requests.”
    He crossed his arms and leaned in. “You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that. Chief Harder’s not going to walk down here for the likes of you.”
    “Dare you.” I almost winced, sounding so immature. “Not one word without my lawyer, who, by the way, is Cruz Campion. I’m sure you’ve also heard of him. I’ll be inquiring if I can sue for being denied counsel.”
    There was a knock at the door. O-whatever-his-name-is cracked it open, stuck his head out, and then banged it shut.
    “Have it your way,” he said as he pulled me to my feet.
    A matronly woman met us in the hall; she gave me a disgusted once over, her face fierce-looking. She made me want to step back, but I had nowhere to move. She hustled me along the hall at a fast pace, not saying a word, up another set of stairs and into another room.
    “Please, this is all a mistake,” I tried to appeal to her. “Would you call Chief Harder and tell him I’m here?”
    “You know how many times I’ve heard that?” She barked her instructions, ordering me to stand on the shoe outline where she snapped my photo. Then she squished my fingers across an inkpad, tossing a paper towel to me to rub off the black ink.
    “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and ushered me into a holding cell.
    I lay on the bed and curled into a ball, trying to stay calm and do the biggest pretend job of my life, telling myself I was sipping a margarita on the beach. I needed to pee but the only toilet sat in the corner, and the thought of someone watching freaked me out.
    I tossed and turned and lay on my back and kept an eye on the crawling thing in the corner of the ceiling, at least it wasn’t a roach. I turned to the wall and started counting the tick marks, wondering where someone had gotten a marker. After losing count three times and starting over, I closed my eyes. Days went by, more likely a few hours, when—at the same time—my name got bellowed by the guard and I heard a key inserted in the cell door. I rolled over and almost started to cry.
    The Chief himself stood in the opening. I leaped up and threw myself in his arms. “I’m so happy to see your grumpy-ass self.”
    He patted me on the back. “If you get any body fluids on my shirt, I’ll lock you up again.”
    I looked up at him and choked back a sob. “Fab’s here, too.”
    He took a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, placing it in my hand. “Come on, you haven’t seen my new office yet. There are perks to being Chief of Detectives. Nice big desk, comfortable furniture.”
    I struggled to get my emotions under control. “How did you find me?” I sniffed.
    “Creole burned up my phone until I answered. He’s not happy with you. Mentioned he might be committing a felony on your person. He blew into the old rubber factory as your Hummer was being loaded on a flatbed along with the Jaguar.”
    “Everyone I asked to call you sneered at me. Your investigator needs personality school.”
    “That reminds me, I have to call Creole. Didn’t take you long to have my best detective mumbling to himself.”
    “I don’t understand what’s going on. No one told me anything. I swear to you we were only there to pick up the Jaguar for your friend , Brick. How much trouble are we in?”
    The door opened and Fab stalked in, looking like a wild mess, her jeans and shirt covered in dirt.
    “Man I hate this place,” she muttered.
    Harder’s eyes turned to steel, looking her over. “You do realize, Miss Merceau, that you owe me––and owe me