Page 1 of Dick

PROLOGUE

THERE were a hundred places I would have rather been than the interrogation room of a police station, but being there wasn’t the grandest of my concerns. My biggest problem was the smile I couldn’t wipe from my face. The two shit-hat cops were irritating – each in their own little ways – but it was the creepy mustache that made it impossible for me to stop grinning. The night had been filled with drinking, exotic cars, a bloody umbrella, foreign diplomats, a million-dollars’ worth of drugs, a Savannah Leopard, an attempted robbery, and plenty of gunfire. But, in the end, it was going to be the smile that got me into trouble.

I needed to play the part of an innocent bystander, but I was still half-drunk, which made hiding my emotions difficult. Cop number one looked like he just stepped out of a 1980’s porn film, and his nasty little mustache had my face covered in a cheesy grin that made it seem like I was lying.

And, for the most part, I was.

The one with the caterpillar on his lip was wearing jeans, boots, and an untucked tee shirt. The other wore a navy-colored jacket over a light blue button-down with a loosely tied polyester tie dangling from underneath the collar. As necktie stared at me and chewed on a wooden match, Mr. Mustache paced the floor. Neither looked like any cops I had ever seen.

“We need something,” the cop with the necktie said. “Something significant.”

My gaze fell to his scuffed loafers. As I lifted my eyes along the length of his wiry frame, I shook my head. “You two don’t even look like cops.”

Cop ‘stache sauntered to the edge of the table, pressed his hands to his hips, and bent at the waist slightly. “We’re detectives,” he seethed.

I shrugged and fought against the urge to smile.

He cocked an eyebrow. “I wonder if I’ll look like a cop when I cuff your skinny little ass and toss you in a cell for obstruction of justice?”

I tried to pry my eyes open, but the four margaritas and three glasses of wine I had over the course of the evening made it close to impossible. I gazed at him through narrow slits. “I didn’t see him that well. It was dark, and I was drunk. Hell, I’m still drunk.”

It wasn’t far from the truth.

He stepped away from the table and glanced at his partner. “You think she’s lying, Joe? I think she’s lying.”

Necktie gnawed on his wooden match. “Prob’ly.”

Mr. Mustache exchanged glances between us. “You know how I can tell?”

“How’s that?” necktie asked.

The porn star locked eyes with me and pursed his lips. “Cause she’s grinnin’.”

I wasn’t intimidated. Not in the least. I’d seen far too much in the last year to let two cops intimidate me. Especially when one of them looked like he should be fucking some chick with a hairy bush while bow-chicka-wow-wow music played in the background.

“Look,” porn ‘stache said. “We’re just trying to put together pieces of a puzzle. We weren’t there, and you were. We know you were part of it, so just tell us what happened.”

It sounded simple, but it wasn’t. Not even close. It was the most fucked up thing I had ever become a part of, and I doubted no matter how long I lived that I’d ever participate in anything half as fucked up ever again.

“I need to pee,” I said.

Mustache pressed his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “Tell us his name, and I’ll have Joe take you down to the bathroom. Hell, we might have a fresh pot of coffee.”

“I’ve watched Bluebloods,” I said. “If I’m not under arrest, I can leave. If I am, I can ask for an attorney to be present.”

I wasn’t worried about an attorney. It was my understanding one was going to show up promptly at 11:00, and I had no reason to doubt it. I was simply trying to stay awake until that time came. Whatever happened until then was going to be nothing but entertainment.

The one wearing the necktie chuckled. “Shit, Tad, we’ve fucked around and apprehended a Bluebloods trained professional. She got her a certificate of criminal justice from watching fucking T.V., maybe we should just let her go.”

The porn star sat down across from me. “Just tell us what happened. And his name, we’ll need a name.”

The smell of cheap cologne and sweaty gym socks crept across the table and found its way into my nostrils. I shook my head, attempted to wipe the stench from my nose, and responded with a blatant lie. “I can’t really remember what happened. The whole night’s a big blur. Especially the part when people started shooting.”

“Okay, we’ll work on what he looked like later. It’ll all come to you as you sober up. For now, what was his name? The one driving the Ferrari?” he asked.

I held my breath and tried to act stupid. “Fer-what?”

“The car you were in, it was a Ferrari,” he said. “Well, the car you were in until he left your ass for dead.”