Page 15

chapter

fourteen

Stella

F ifteen minutes after leaving the Harrison estate—or whatever they were calling it—I was still shaking. I diverted through a Starbucks drive-thru as much to get the coffee as to give myself some time to calm down.

The last thing I’d expected was Seven Harrison to be so damn cooperative. Didn’t change the bout of nerves that hit when I doubled the asking price. I half expected I was going to vomit while waiting for his refusal. Then he agreed .

A very small, practically minuscule part of me struggled with the guilt from basically making him pay me to sign that piece of paper. I didn’t need a legal document to prevent me from being some pervert cunt who sold out the guy I’d actually enjoyed a night with…Then again, I’d have happily told TMZ what an overbearing prick Seven was in real life.

Throwing Seven’s ass under the bus was no skin off my nose. I gave the woman on the speaker my order, then leaned my head back against the seat. My bank account was flush. I could afford to replace all the stolen camera equipment. It wasn’t going to be an overnight process, but I’d already called Paulie down at the shop to order the specific camera I wanted.

He promised it would be there in two days. Then I’d need lenses—a whole list of things rattled through my head. I’d keep a tally. Two days of sitting idle wouldn’t kill me, but I could do some other work in the meantime. Once I had my coffee and nerves in hand, I headed for my second unpleasant task of the day.

I needed to sign the report about Dillon’s attack. It would help clear Olivier of any wrongdoing. While I was there, I could file a report on the break-in to my car. The broken window was a lot of evidence. But without the police report, I couldn’t file with insurance.

Somehow, I doubted insurance would cover enough of the equipment to replace it. It had to be done though. The last thing I wanted to do was tell Dad that his very best camera was just gone along with my most expensive one.

Baby steps, I reminded myself. Dad didn’t need to know this part. I’d killed half of the coffee by the time I got to the police station. Parking the car, I eyed the glass still on the floor. I needed to find someone to replace the window. Not an easy task for a car this old.

Again, one problem at a time. Bag strap over my shoulder and phone in my pocket, I headed into the station with my coffee. There were three people in line ahead of me. It wasn’t a long wait before it was my turn.

“I’m here to sign a report from Sergeant McBride and I also need to file a report about items stolen from my car last night.”

The officer behind the desk eyed me. “I’ll call the sergeant, but you’ll need to see a different officer about the robbery.”

“That’s fine.”

“Driver’s license?” He needed to see ID because of course he did.

I passed it over; he studied it before he ran it through a scanner to add it to his screen.

“Address still valid?”

“Yep,” I answered. He acknowledged the response with a nod as he continued to type into the computer.

After he handed me my license back, he waved me to where there were three rows of hard, ugly, little plastic chairs. “Have a seat. An officer will come out to get you.”

The officer wasn’t in a hurry apparently. I was almost done with the coffee entirely when a man stepped out from the heavy, secured door.

“Stella Charles?”

“That’s me,” I said, standing. It was better to just get this over with.

“I’m Detective Doogan,” he said, introducing himself, and I shook his hand. “You’re here to sign a complaint and to report another crime?”

“Yes,” I said, then tacked on a belated “sir” at the end. Detective Doogan was a tall, somewhat rounded man with white hair and a receding hairline that seemed to be in a full rout.

“Come on back with me. I’ll take the report and we can go over the complaint.”

“Should I wait for Sergeant McBride?” That was who’d taken all the information.

“He’s on a call at the moment, but I have the report. We’ll go over it and make sure all the facts are accurate. It will also give you a chance to correct any errors before you sign it.”

“Great,” I said, making sure my bag strap was secure over my shoulder. The detective went back to the door, scanned a card, and then entered a number before the lock released. “Thanks,” I said as he held it open and waved me in.

I’d been in a police station before, but the last time had been about ten years earlier when I’d been joyriding with a boyfriend. Only then, I’d been stuck out front waiting for Dad to come get me. That had been a date that started out great and ended terribly.

The institutional beige wasn’t that soothing to any nerves, but I just followed the detective to a little narrow, windowless room that boasted a table and four chairs. He waved me inside.

“Give me a minute.” Then he headed down the hall and left me to go in and take a seat. Hopefully this visit ended better than my last one. I wasn’t the one in trouble, right?

I sat down in the chairs closest to the door. He hadn’t indicated there was a proper side, but I didn’t like the idea of him being between me and the exit. There was a camera up in the corner, the little red dot on it a declaration that it was recording.

The detective returned with a couple of dirt-brown-colored file folders. He put one down on the corner of the table before he flipped open the second one. He removed several sheets of paper before he passed it to me.

“This is Sergeant McBride’s report and complaint compiled from your statements. If you can read through that and verify that it’s all true to the best of your knowledge?”

I blew out a long breath and nodded. The report was pretty straightforward. McBride had written in short, direct sentences a sequence of events that included Dillon’s assault at my car, his strangulation, and the blows I’d taken to the head.

It was more than a little unsettling to see it laid out so clinically. The report also included Olivier’s arrival and subsequent interference with Dillon’s assault— interference . Such a little word for the ass-kicking he’d given Dillon.

Dirtbag.

My nose itched, but the report concluded with both myself and Olivier leaving the scene after the assault, and at that time, Dillon was fine and capable, not in need of any assistance.

I mean, that was mostly true.

He was still breathing when we left.

“This looks right,” I said, glancing at the detective. He slid a card with six photographs on it over to me.

“Do you see your assailant here?” The photos were terrible and taken in terrible light. But none of them were Dillon.

“No.”

“Take your time. It’s always good to be certain.”

“I don’t have to take my time. I know who attacked me. He’s not a stranger.”

The detective studied me for a long moment, then he slid another card over. More photographs. There was Dillon. He was definitely younger in the picture, but the belligerent expression and cold eyes were all him.

“This one,” I tapped it. “His name is Dillon Paget.”

“Okay.” The detective took the card back, drew a line next to the image and then passed it to me. “Initial here that this is the one you identified.”

I did that. Then he nodded to the complaint.

“Sign that as well. Remember, signing it is a sworn oath in front of an officer of the law. You are swearing that what you are reporting is the truth to the best of your knowledge and recollection.”

I got that.

After I signed it, he took the sheets back and collected them together in the folder.

“Why didn’t you report the attack last night, Miss Charles?”

“Last night, I was a little out of it and more than a little upset.” It wasn’t a lie. “Olivier didn’t want to let me drive so he took me back to his place.”

“You and Mr. Griffiths are dating?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“Also no.”

“How do you know him?”

“I don’t really. Last night was the first time I’d met him.”

The detective favored me with a long, skeptical stare. “You’re saying the famous actor, Olivier Griffiths, came across you being allegedly assaulted by Mr. Paget. He intervened, then took you home to his mansion—and he’d never met you before?”

I shrugged. “Yes. That’s what happened.” The long pause as he considered me had me rethinking my own answer. The facts were facts. Olivier didn’t have to help me; he could have just turned around and not involved himself.

The thing was, he hadn’t .

“You didn’t call the police and you didn’t go to a hospital or see a doctor after the assault?”

I sighed “No. I didn’t want to go the hospital or go see a doctor.”

“You can understand how this looks, right?” There was a kind of gentleness to the question, like he was asking me to help him out here. “You say Mr. Paget was fine, but you were allegedly assaulted to the point someone else had to intervene, then you needed help afterward but didn’t go to a doctor.”

When you put it like that, it sounded pretty damn shady.

“Detective, I don’t have any insurance. Any visit I make to a hospital or to a doctor or even a doc in the box is going to be a few hundred just to have them sit there and tell me I’ve got some bruises, take some pain relievers, ice it, and have a nice day.”

I spread my hands as I shrugged. “I can’t really afford that.” Not right now. Not with Dad’s medical expenses. “So, no, I didn’t want to go to a hospital or see a doctor. Olivier—Mr. Griffiths tried to convince me to go but I refused. When I wanted to just leave, he refused to let me drive under my own steam because he wanted to make sure I was okay.”

Fuck, now even I sounded doubtful of my own story.

“You have to admit, it’s unusual for a complete stranger.” The skepticism practically dripped from his voice.

“Maybe,” I said. “Most people are raging assholes. Apparently, Mr. Griffiths isn’t. The point is, Dillon Paget attacked me. He tried to strangle me…” To make a point, I tugged my shirt collar to the side and tilted my head. “I have the bruises to prove it. He also banged my head against the trunk of my car. If Mr. Griffiths hadn’t done something, you might have a medical report from the ambulance that picked me up or the coroner.”

Okay, that was a little dramatic. Even for me.

The detective, however, seemed to take it in stride. “All right. You said you had a robbery to report as well? Was it directly related to the incident with Mr. Paget?”

“Yes—and no.” I gave him a faint smile as he raised his brows and then I explained. It took me about ten minutes to sum up everything from my equipment being locked in the trunk to what I found when I returned to my vehicle. The broken glass from the window of my car was still in the floorboard of the car.

He took notes all the way through my statement then slid me a sheet of paper and another pen. “Can you make a list of everything that was taken?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you have any photographs of the items or serial numbers?”

“I might have one for the camera, but I never took any photos of the camera equipment.”

“Everything can help. We need to see if it shows up in any of the pawn shops, so give us as much detail as you can.”

My headache had returned full force by the time I finished filling out the list. The increasing desire to pee had also invaded, but I just wanted to get this done so I could leave. The detective left me for a few minutes and typed up the report. When he came back, he had me read through it again.

The whole time the door to the room had been open, which had been nice.

“Snow,” the last person I’d expected to see said from the open doorway.

Speak of the devil himself, Olivier Griffiths stood there, looking cool and suave as he glanced from me to the detective. “What are you doing here?”

A man stood right behind him, dressed in an expensive three-piece suit.

“I’m just signing my statement,” I told him. “I told the detective what happened. I’m surprised you’re here. I explained everything to Sergeant McBride… Why are you here?”

“I came in to answer questions as I was requested,” he said, then narrowed his gaze as he glanced from me to the detective. “Why don’t you have an attorney here?”

“Because I don’t need one.” I wasn’t the suspect.

“That is not how this works, Snow,” he said in a tone that made me think he was scolding a child. “You never speak to law enforcement without an attorney present. Don’t you know they can lie to you? But you can’t lie to them?”

“I heard that somewhere,” I said, trying not to notice the fact that the detective drilled holes into the side of my head and Olivier’s.

“Peter,” Olivier said. “Would you mind staying with Miss…”

Olivier slid me a look and I just stared back at him. I was not telling him my name.

“Keep your secrets then, Snow,” he murmured before he looked at his attorney again. “Stay with Snow and just make sure the cops are doing everything aboveboard?”

“I can, Mr. Griffiths, provided it’s not a conflict of interest.”

Olivier grinned widely. “Not going to be a conflict at all.”

“Your attorney doesn’t have to stay,” I said. “I’m almost done.” I waved the report. “I just need to sign this.”

“Then it won’t be a problem at all for me to review any statements that you’ve made before you sign them.” The attorney slid around Olivier into the room. Olivier winked before he strolled away, smug as hell.

“And you still insist that you and Mr. Griffiths aren’t dating?” The detective gave me a bland stare that all but shouted I was nuts.

“Mr. Griffiths doesn’t even know my real name.” Not that it seemed to matter a damn to Peter, the attorney, who took the statement and went over it.

So much for almost being done.

Dammit, I still really needed to pee.