The suits bob their heads together on that one, then regroup. “Do you live at Chaput Studios in Five Points?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in LoDo?”
“Yes.” I blink and breathe to give them something to think about besides my lie. I can do this all day long.
“OK, Mr. Flynn,” the older man running the machine says. “Let’s get down to business. Are you aware of any human trafficking in Denver?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had a conversation about human trafficking?”
“No.” I blink and breathe again. What the f**k is this about?
“Do you know Rook Walsh’s real name?”
Blink, breathe. “Yes.”
“Is it Rook Walsh?”
“Yes.” Another lie. This is a good one because they don’t know if I know it or not.
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned her husband Jon Walsh?”
Ah, here we go. “Yes.”
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned a safe deposit box in Las Vegas?”
I blink, breathe, and lie. “Yes.” Because this is getting weird and these ass**les actually get a little excited about that answer.
“Did she tell you what was in the box?” Abelli asks hurriedly.
A break in protocol from Agent Abelli is not a good sign. “Yes,” I lie.
“What was it?”
I just stare at Abelli and then ask calmly, “What?”
“What’s in the f**king box?”
“That’s not a yes or no question. Take the straps off and we can talk normally, but I’m not answering any more questions that deviate from the standard test format.”
Machine guy cuts in. “We’re done here. You’re free to go.”
And then I’m being unstrapped and ushered out of the room and over to the elevator where I’m handed off to some bald-headed goon in the FBI uniform.
The next thing I know I’m f**king driving down Speer Boulevard towards home. I cut over on Market and then swing around the building and park the truck. “What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?”
Human trafficking? That’s what this is about?
It’s bizarre, but I’ve been gone almost three hours so I gotta get back upstairs and check shit out with the girls and Roger. I might have to get in touch with Ford tonight and set up a meeting. Vegas. Safe deposit boxes and human trafficking. Yeah, this is not right. This is just not right. Because typically when I’m called in for a polygraph, you know, I’m being questioned about a crime I’m actually connected to. And I don’t know anything about human trafficking or a box in Vegas that may or may not have something to do with Rook.
But I have a very bad feeling that Rook does.
I take out my phone and almost press Ford’s contact, but then I come back to my senses and clear the screen.
That’s what they want me to do. Call my partners and give the Feds another clue.
Fuck.
I get out of the truck and hop the stairs three at a time. Everyone is busy inside the studio. Clare is doing a shoot with Billy, the other girls are milling about in lingerie or getting fixed up in the salon, and even Elise and Antoine are hanging out in the kitchen eating fruit.
“Antoine,” I say in French. “I need a minute.” He follows me out onto the terrace where the roar of afternoon traffic down on 21st Street is enough to layer over our conversation if someone is getting nosy. “I just got back from the police station,” I continue in French. His eyes dart back and forth, a slight panic becoming detectable by the pulsing of his carotid artery in his neck. “Don’t worry, it really wasn’t about me. I think it was about Rook. I think I need to go up North tonight and ask her some questions. Should I go?”
“Do you think it’s safe to involve Spencer and Ford?”
I shrug. “Not sure, really. I’m not sure this is really about us, Antoine. I think it’s about Rook.”
He stares down at the traffic for several minutes and ponders the question. Antoine would never make a good partner in our little private business because he can’t make hasty decisions. He likes to think for a while before committing to things. Most of the time this drives me up a wall but not this time. Rook might be in trouble and I only get one chance to make a move. It’s worth the extra time.
“I think it’s too risky, Ronin. You don’t have enough information yet. Give it one more day, then one of us will go up to the shop tomorrow and see if they’ve heard anything. OK?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
“Yeah, all right.”
“Just go back to work and we’ll talk more later.”
We go back inside and I take my place near Roger, pretending to have an opinion on the shoot Clare is doing or what the f**k ever. But really, all I can think about is Rook.
What if she’s in danger again?
And what if this time I’m not around to help her?
Chapter Thirty - ROOK
Downtown Fort Collins is at the north end of town and even though the main drag is still College Avenue, it’s not wide and busy like it is down south by the Best Buy and PetSmart. It’s one of those old historic Western towns and has cute shops and lots of restaurants and bars. There’s even a trolley that runs down Mountain Avenue from Old Town to City Park. And Spencer has told me numerous times that it’s seriously been voted Best Place to Live in the World or some shit like that. I can see it, actually. It’s got a big university smack in the center complete with veterinary hospital and research buildings, but it’s still old-timey in many ways. Like parking in the middle of the street to shop in downtown. Literally. You pull into the center of the street and park between the north and southbound lanes of College Avenue.
“Yes.”
“Do you live in LoDo?”
“Yes.” I blink and breathe to give them something to think about besides my lie. I can do this all day long.
“OK, Mr. Flynn,” the older man running the machine says. “Let’s get down to business. Are you aware of any human trafficking in Denver?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had a conversation about human trafficking?”
“No.” I blink and breathe again. What the f**k is this about?
“Do you know Rook Walsh’s real name?”
Blink, breathe. “Yes.”
“Is it Rook Walsh?”
“Yes.” Another lie. This is a good one because they don’t know if I know it or not.
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned her husband Jon Walsh?”
Ah, here we go. “Yes.”
“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned a safe deposit box in Las Vegas?”
I blink, breathe, and lie. “Yes.” Because this is getting weird and these ass**les actually get a little excited about that answer.
“Did she tell you what was in the box?” Abelli asks hurriedly.
A break in protocol from Agent Abelli is not a good sign. “Yes,” I lie.
“What was it?”
I just stare at Abelli and then ask calmly, “What?”
“What’s in the f**king box?”
“That’s not a yes or no question. Take the straps off and we can talk normally, but I’m not answering any more questions that deviate from the standard test format.”
Machine guy cuts in. “We’re done here. You’re free to go.”
And then I’m being unstrapped and ushered out of the room and over to the elevator where I’m handed off to some bald-headed goon in the FBI uniform.
The next thing I know I’m f**king driving down Speer Boulevard towards home. I cut over on Market and then swing around the building and park the truck. “What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?”
Human trafficking? That’s what this is about?
It’s bizarre, but I’ve been gone almost three hours so I gotta get back upstairs and check shit out with the girls and Roger. I might have to get in touch with Ford tonight and set up a meeting. Vegas. Safe deposit boxes and human trafficking. Yeah, this is not right. This is just not right. Because typically when I’m called in for a polygraph, you know, I’m being questioned about a crime I’m actually connected to. And I don’t know anything about human trafficking or a box in Vegas that may or may not have something to do with Rook.
But I have a very bad feeling that Rook does.
I take out my phone and almost press Ford’s contact, but then I come back to my senses and clear the screen.
That’s what they want me to do. Call my partners and give the Feds another clue.
Fuck.
I get out of the truck and hop the stairs three at a time. Everyone is busy inside the studio. Clare is doing a shoot with Billy, the other girls are milling about in lingerie or getting fixed up in the salon, and even Elise and Antoine are hanging out in the kitchen eating fruit.
“Antoine,” I say in French. “I need a minute.” He follows me out onto the terrace where the roar of afternoon traffic down on 21st Street is enough to layer over our conversation if someone is getting nosy. “I just got back from the police station,” I continue in French. His eyes dart back and forth, a slight panic becoming detectable by the pulsing of his carotid artery in his neck. “Don’t worry, it really wasn’t about me. I think it was about Rook. I think I need to go up North tonight and ask her some questions. Should I go?”
“Do you think it’s safe to involve Spencer and Ford?”
I shrug. “Not sure, really. I’m not sure this is really about us, Antoine. I think it’s about Rook.”
He stares down at the traffic for several minutes and ponders the question. Antoine would never make a good partner in our little private business because he can’t make hasty decisions. He likes to think for a while before committing to things. Most of the time this drives me up a wall but not this time. Rook might be in trouble and I only get one chance to make a move. It’s worth the extra time.
“I think it’s too risky, Ronin. You don’t have enough information yet. Give it one more day, then one of us will go up to the shop tomorrow and see if they’ve heard anything. OK?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
“Yeah, all right.”
“Just go back to work and we’ll talk more later.”
We go back inside and I take my place near Roger, pretending to have an opinion on the shoot Clare is doing or what the f**k ever. But really, all I can think about is Rook.
What if she’s in danger again?
And what if this time I’m not around to help her?
Chapter Thirty - ROOK
Downtown Fort Collins is at the north end of town and even though the main drag is still College Avenue, it’s not wide and busy like it is down south by the Best Buy and PetSmart. It’s one of those old historic Western towns and has cute shops and lots of restaurants and bars. There’s even a trolley that runs down Mountain Avenue from Old Town to City Park. And Spencer has told me numerous times that it’s seriously been voted Best Place to Live in the World or some shit like that. I can see it, actually. It’s got a big university smack in the center complete with veterinary hospital and research buildings, but it’s still old-timey in many ways. Like parking in the middle of the street to shop in downtown. Literally. You pull into the center of the street and park between the north and southbound lanes of College Avenue.
