|
Scene #21
"If you're done mentally undressing me," she hinted.
Patrick recovered his equilibrium quickly. "There
was nothing sexual in it, Miss..." He glanced at the file folder.
"D'Arcy." She didn't call him a liar, though
the arms crossing under her breasts presented something of a
challenge to his claim. He took a sip of his
coffee, considering the name. There was something familiar...
Probably a younger sister of someone I went to school with. He
abandoned the thought in favor of something germane to the case,
reading the particulars again. "Is there
some reason for this?" she inquired. His
head came up. "Pardon?" Where had that come from?
She sighed. "I said I wasn't talking to anyone until my lawyer
gets here." "You don't have to answer me,"
he reminded her. "But, you're still going
to grill me." Patrick controlled the urge to
laugh. "We don't really call it that."
"Isn't there some law that says you can't harass me while I wait
for my lawyer?" His amusement fled. "You'd
rather be downstairs?" He hadn't meant it to sound like a threat,
but it did. What is wrong with me, today? I can't keep my head in
the game. She shrugged. "I've got nowhere
else to go, it seems," she grumbled. His
heart stuttered. "What?" D'Arcy shook her
head miserably. Her dark hair was mussed,
her midnight blue eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. A foreign ache
settled in his gut, and Patrick pushed it away.
She's a prisoner...a thief. Time to get tough. That's why they
called me, after all. "Well?" he prompted.
"Which is it?" "Down there with the junkies,
the shoplifters, and the burglars or up here with you. Is there
much of a difference in comfort level? Until my lawyer gets here,
I'm not leaving." "Who says you're leaving
then?" I'm akin to a junkie or a thief? His anger spiked at that
comparison. "I didn't steal anything,
officer." "Detective...O'Shannahan."
She glared at him. Patrick
ambled to the table and settled in the chair opposite her, folding
his arms on the tabletop and leaning toward her with the file
between them. "Miss D'Arcy, you don't seem to realize the position
you're in." She rubbed at her eyes, looking
exhausted. Against his better judgment, Patrick felt a twinge of
pity for her. "With the kind of money you
were carrying, there are only a few possible scenarios."
"I didn't steal anything," she repeated.
"There have been no legitimate thefts reported."
She looked up, her expression hopeful. "Then I can
leave?" Was she this naive? Or was she
playing him? "Did you take the money from someone else who had it
illegally? If you help us—" "What do you
think I am?" she asked, seemingly appalled. "Someone could get
killed that way." "And often do." Why he
didn't want her to be one of them eluded him. "If you'll talk to
me, I might get a chance to know what sort of person you are. What
I'm seeing right now..." Makes no sense. It's unbalanced. It's
stupid. How did she get into this mess?
"You wouldn't believe me, if I told you the truth," she replied
wearily. "Try me," he invited.
She stared at him, seemingly on the verge of doing just
that. "It's too complicated. Until my—"
"You're been here all night, Miss D'Arcy. How long will it be
before you let me get you—" "I don't care.
Marcus will send someone." There was an edge of panic in her voice
now. "How well do you know this Marcus?" he
asked, certain that was the weak link. "He's
my godfather." "How...well?" Patrick
enunciated each word, pushing harder than he was comfortable with.
That made no sense. He'd pushed people much harder and not been
squeamish about it. Again D'Arcy shrugged.
"I haven't seen him in a while, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I mean," he agreed. "So, how do you
know he's going to help you?" "He's my
godfather." Patrick scowled at her. She was
too trusting for her own good. "He's left you here this long."
"He—he must not have gotten the message last
night. I was brought in late." "And he
wasn't home at that hour?" She shrugged, a
little more uncomfortably that time. "Maybe the ringer was turned
off in the bedroom." "There are only so many
believable—" "I didn't steal anything."
"I believe that." It wasn't a lie. If anything,
he'd wager she'd been duped by this Marcus person. That might not
save her from jail time, but if she rolled over before the real
guilty party got away, there was a chance of minimizing the damage
to her life in the process. "Then why am I
still here?" Her voice dragged him back to
the discussion. "Because I don't know which government agency to
turn you over to, yet." Her face paled.
"What? Why would you—" "There are only so
many ways you could have gotten that money, Miss D'Arcy.
Forty-eight thousand dollars doesn't grow on trees."
She didn't argue it that time. Finally, he had her
attention. Still, D'Arcy didn't seem to realize what he was saying.
"Am I calling the DEA?" he prompted her.
"I don't do drugs," she replied hastily.
"Most good dealers don't."
"I don't deal them either," she responded calmly.
"ATF is another—" "I hate guns. I
don't even like slingshots." Patrick wanted
to laugh at that observation. "That leaves Homeland Security," he
noted coolly. "If I don't know who to turn you over to, they are
the default." And that was going to happen in the next day, if she
refused to talk to him. Please, just talk to me.
"You think I'm a terrorist?" Her eyes flashed in fury.
He leaned further toward her, challenging D'Arcy
openly. "I don't know what to think about you. Why don't you
answer some questions and give me something to work with?"
| 
