The Girl Beneath the Sea (Underwater Investigation Unit #1)(25)

“Officer,” I answer.

“Actually, it’s detective,” he replies.

“No. I’m Officer McPherson. Not Miss McPherson.”

Maris looks up at the camera and makes a little smirk.

“I understand,” I say instead of answering his question. My petty display served its purpose.

“What do you understand?” asks Carbone.

“Why you think this is bullshit. Why you’re not taking what happened seriously.”

“Of course we take you seriously,” says Maris.

“There you go,” I reply, “with your clever wordplay.” I point to the camera. “The show you’re putting on for whoever’s watching.” I turn to the camera. “You think I made this up?”

“Why would you think that?” Maris asks in a condescending tone.

“Because you think I know more about the dead woman I found than I do. Because you think I’m somehow at the center of this whole lost-drug-money thing.”

“What drug money?” Maris responds unconvincingly.

“Right. Right.” I sigh. “So, the way I look at it, you’re already convinced that I’m implicated in all this. But when I call the cops claiming I was attacked by people looking for something, it didn’t exactly fit your presumed-guilty theory . . . unless I made the whole thing up in the hopes of making myself look like a victim. Right? Because why else would a crooked cop at the center of a drug investigation bring even more attention to herself? Unless it’s just some dumb, desperate attempt to divert the attention from something else.”

A good five seconds of silence follows, which I take as a sign that I put my finger on it. Maris checks a message on his phone. Probably his friends on the other end texting him a question.

“Did you just call yourself crooked?”

“Unbelievable.” I stand and head for the exit.

“We didn’t say you could leave,” says Detective Carbone.

It’s the kind of cop power move you try on an idiot. I was never under arrest. I can leave any time I want.

I step through the door, take two steps into the hallway, and notice there’s another conference room right across from us. I wonder who’s in there.

Don’t do it, Sloan . . .

I do it.

I open the door and see five men and a woman sitting around a table with a television at the far end showing the conference room I just left.

They’re in the middle of a heated discussion. I only recognize one man from Fort Lauderdale.

They all turn to look at me, faces frozen in surprise.

“Hello. I’m Officer Sloan McPherson. If you have any questions you’d like to ask me, please let me know. Of course, you’ll have to go through my attorney from now on, but I’m happy to assist your investigation in any way I can to get its head out of its ass.”

I turn around and feel their eyes burning through the back of my head as I walk away.

As I walk down the hallway, I hear someone shouting after me. “McPherson!”

I ignore him and keep going, too afraid to find out what’ll happen if I stop.

He catches up with me and touches my arm. I jerk it away and spin around to face him.

He’s shorter than me, bald, and wearing a suit. He doesn’t look like a cop.

“I’m with the district attorney’s office. My name is L Ferguson.”

“L?”

“Long story. Anyway, I want to apologize for what happened back there. I told them to take you seriously, but . . .”

“They already made up their minds.”

He makes a pinched face. “Um, yeah. Sort of. You know how cops are, and their gut instincts.”

“Right. Well, while they’re following their gut, Stacey Miller’s killer is still out there. Nothing’s stopped. Nothing’s changed. And they’re worried about me?”

“We’d love to be able to formally talk to you. Maybe clear some things up.”

“Now you’re telling me this? Are you for real? Two men just tried to murder me, and I have to go through that clown show? Talk to my attorney.” I start down the hall.

“Who’s your attorney?” asks Ferguson.

I don’t have one. I’m tempted to fire off a sarcastic remark, but instead I reply, “I’ll let you know.”

I walk through the double doors, into the lobby, and leave the station.

I sure showed them, I think to myself as I realize I’m in downtown Fort Lauderdale with no wallet, no phone charger, no ride, and people out there that want to kill me.

Ace move, Sloan.

I stand on the sidewalk, trying to decide if I want to walk to the marina or swallow my pride and go back inside and ask to use a phone—and pray that I can remember an actual phone number.

I feel a tingle on my neck as I realize a man in a pickup truck is watching me from across the parking lot. It’s dark out, and all I can see is his shadow, but he’s definitely staring at me.

The truck’s engine roars to life, and the vehicle creeps toward me slowly. I take a step back toward the station, suddenly deciding it’d be much safer inside.

The truck does a loop, bringing the driver’s side closest to me. The window rolls down, and a voice calls out, “Need a ride?”

My heart does a backflip when I realize who it is.