Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(167)

“Gimp?” I was squinting at the stilled image. Could it be the same dude?

“Yeah, he’s dragging his leg when he walks. Here, babe. Let me.” Erin commandeered my computer. “I’m just surprised so many people listen to that band. Aren’t they like scary metal or something?”

Women.

“They aren’t scary metal. They’re…” The warm rush of shock flowed through when the recognition hit. “No. It can’t be.” I must have rewound and played it over twenty times to be sure. “You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me. That son of a bitch. You know who that is, right?”

Erin moved my screen closer. “Oh my God. He was wearing that coat the night your hand was cut.”

We stared at each other while the betrayal twisted my gut into knots.





“SO YOU UNDERSTAND you’re not under arrest or anything like that? We just want to ask you some questions.” I moved our tabletop microphone closer to him, fumbling with it on purpose.

We’d called all six of the camera crew in and sat them in one big room together, letting them speculate that they were in some sort of trouble. Now it was time to put my primary suspect in the hot seat.

I closed the door behind me. “Thanks for waiting, Scott.”

“Yeah, no problem, Adam.”

“Have a seat, buddy.”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I’m hoping you can tell me,” I joked, needing him to relax for me. “Hey, do you want a can of soda or water or something before we start? I’m pretty sure we have your favorite Pepsi in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”

Scott sat down in the chair. “Nah, I’m good. So what’s up?”

Pressing for info already? All in due time.

“Let me just get this working. We don’t have the sweet technology like you guys have. We’ll be recording our time today both on audio and video.” I pointed out the camera system. “You ever been interviewed before?”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah, for my job with Werner, but I wasn’t videoed.”

“It’s a formality for my protection and yours so that there’s an official record, ya know? Today’s date is May first, 2014. The time is five twenty-nine p.m. Detective Adam Trent interviewing Scott Kirschner.” I filled out the standard interview log sheet we had for all suspects. “So how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve been busy, I guess. Our boss has not been happy at all. No one is telling us where you’ve been or what’s going on.”

I shrugged, keeping it casual. “Police work comes first.” I wasn’t going to let him know that Melissa Werner was on her way from Manhattan after bitching out everyone she could reach by telephone. I ignored her calls.

“So before we get started, I want to review your rights with you. You’ve probably seen them on TV before but we’ll go over each. We’re doing this with everyone on the crew so don’t think this is only being done with you.” I reviewed each of his Miranda rights, getting his documented initials and sign off on our form.

“Scott, just to avoid any confusion… you’re obviously not under arrest here today. The door isn’t locked so if at any time you want to leave or feel you want to speak to counsel, a uniformed officer is out in the hallway and will walk you back to the lobby. If anything comes up during our interview that you feel you want to speak with a lawyer about, you just let me know.”

“Yeah, okay.” His right leg was bouncing.

“Cool. So how’s that new Charger of yours running? I’ve been meaning to ask you and every time I think of it, something always comes up.”

Instantly, he relaxed a bit. Just like with every interrogation, I started with nonspecific chitchat, needing to get his emotional baseline. Everyone had “tells;” it was time to get familiar with his.

“Yeah man. Runs like a champ.”

“So no problems?” I also needed ammo to counter any of his potential denials.

Scott shook his head. “No.”

“Wow. You’re lucky. A friend of mine had one but he got so sick and tired having to fix it, he just traded it.” That was a lie but he had no clue. “I remember he had to replace the alternator, then the exhaust had a leak and he replaced the whole system. Hell, even the rear tires didn’t wear evenly.”

“Wow. No, mine runs great. Haven’t had to replace anything on it.”

Direct eye contact. No fidgeting or signs of deception. Truth.

“You’d try to fix it yourself if you had to? You know your way under the hood?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I can hold my own. Been known to fix up my rides.”

“Yeah? That’s good. I got a buddy selling a sweet Mustang convertible. Shit, he’s practically giving it away. It needs a lot of work though. Interested in a project car?”

“Nah. I don’t have much time. Between school and this, I’m pretty jammed.”

“I hear ya. I remember those college days.” I lived on Raman noodles and drove a piece of shit—not a forty-thousand-dollar new car. “How about any of your friends?”

Scott pushed his hat back and scratched his head. “Nah. Parts for that would be expensive.”