Page 84 of Dick

I held his gaze for as long as I could. “No.”

He straightened his posture and nodded his head toward Tribideaux. “Let me introduce Federal Agent Whitmire. You might know him as Tribideaux. Your world is preparing to collapse, little girl. Do you know what they do to girls like you in prison?”

My mouth went dry. I turned toward Tribideaux-Whitmire and tried to swallow, but got nothing but dust.

I took a sip of coffee and tried to force a smile. My face contorted into a drunken smirk.

Tribideaux-Whitmire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You are in the middle of a joint investigation between the FBI, the state of Texas, and US Marshall Service regarding large-scale thefts and the money that is being laundered as a result of said thefts. Life. To the bitter end. That is what we’re talking about, not ten or fifteen measly years. Your cute little ass will rot in prison. Now I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to provide answers, understand?”

I nodded.

“18 USC, section 1001. Lying to a Federal Officer in the course of an investigation. It’ll get you 120 months. That’s ten years, not five. All you have to do is tell me one little lie. Just one. No matter what else happens here tonight, if you lie once to me, you’ll go away for a dime piece.”

He leaned over the table and got so close I could feel his breath. “You look pale, little girl. Are you scared?”

I was. But I trusted Dick. I shook my head in support of my claim. “No.”

“You should be.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I’m scared of mustaches.”

The look on his face confirmed he didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. “Who’s the guy in the Ferrari?”

I shrugged. “Some guy I was wanting to fuck.”

That wasn’t a lie at all.

He shook his head in disgust. “What is his name?”

I glanced at the clock. 10:50. I needed to buy some time. Ten minutes if Seton was on time.

“His name?”

“Yes, god damn it, his name.”

“Dick.”

So far, I was on a roll for telling the truth.

He reached up and twisted his mustache between his thumb and index finger. I glanced at Necktie. His mouth was curled into a perma-grin. My eyes drifted to Porn ‘stache. He was scratching his nuts and staring at the dirt under his fingernails.

Tribideaux-Whitmire broke the awkward silence. “When you snuck outside, you had your purse. Where’s your purse now?”

“I don’t know.”

I did a mental fist pump. Hell, it was easy not lying.

“Did you leave it in the car?”

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t leave it anywhere. I was pushed out into the street and was almost trampled to death by two fucking Clydesdales.”

Also true. The death by slow-moving Clydesdales was a matter of opinion, but I doubted he could prove beyond a shadow of doubt to a court of law that I wasn’t in danger.

I chocked it up as another truthful response.

The door swung open. “Legal counsel for the lady,” an officer said.

I turned toward the voice.