fell in a heap onto the pavement, Paul wiped off some of the blood with his thumb before picking up his gun and badge.
Before he could reach for the handcuffs in his back pocket, though, Paul felt the barrel of another gun press into the back of his head. The sound of the gun being cocked stopped him in his tracks.
CHAPTER 22
Present day...
The next time Nolan Carter found himself in the interrogation room, he was by himself. And when Detective Stevens kicked the door to the room open and the officer flinched, Stevens couldn't help the smile the spread across his face. He let the door slam shut on its own, hovering just shy of the rusted table as he studied the manila file folder in his hands. Let the bastard sweat it out a little, especially since all of his other buddies were still in Holding. The Fourth’s captain had been calling non-stop wanting to know why the Seventh was holding four of its officers, and more than one high-priced lawyer had called threatening legal action, but to this point, none of them had a leg to stand on.
Especially after the phone call from Gregor
“You're a real sick fucker, you know that?” Stevens started, scraping the chair against the floor so it made a god-awful noise before plunking himself in the seat.
“Nice to see you too, Detective.”
“Look, shitstain.” Stevens leaned in. “You can boast all you want about your buddies at the Bishop. But even they won’t take kindly to you bein’ on the take.”
Carter arched his brows and folded his arms over his chest. He had all the entitlement of those five-star recruit quarterbacks Stevens once earned a scholarship by planting face-first into the turf. “Is that so?”
Without another word, Stevens opened the folder and spread several glossy, high-resolution photographs. Spreading them out onto the table in front of Carter, Stevens watched as the officer's eyes darted downward to take in the pictures -- stills Tech had grabbed from the laptop they had pulled from Carter's apartment once they had finally gotten a warrant. Carter unfolded his arms and straightened his posture, a crease forming on his forehead as he frowned. Grabbing one of the pictures, Carter shook his head and cupped a hand over his mouth.
“Yeah,” Stevens said. “Turns out Ol’ Man Richie Rich was tellin’ the truth.”
“What...” Carter scoffed and tossed the photograph aside; his tough guy act was a thing of the past. “You think that's me ?!”
“We found it on your laptop!”
“Bullshit!” Carter shouted, springing from his chair and pacing around the interrogation room.
Stevens rested his right hand on the Sig Sauer resting on his hip. “Nolan Carter, sit your ass down!”
“That’s not me!” he yelled, pointing at the photographs.
“I said sit!”
Carter fell quiet for a beat, his hands curling into fists. Stevens tightened his grip on his weapon in response, arching a brow as if he were daring the other cop to try something. Not that Stevens necessarily wanted to discharge his firearm -- that was a stack of paperwork he did not want to fill out -- but if the suspect wasn't cooperating, he had to at least consider it.
But Carter did sit, slowly lowering himself back into the chair with a ragged breath. His eyes never left the photographs.
Stevens released his grip on his handgun with a sigh. “Alright, now... deny all you want, but these?” He tapped one of the photographs. “Were on your computer.”
“I don't know what to tell you, Detective, but the man in those shots isn’t me.” The anger and righteousness that had been written all over his face were gone, replaced with a panic normally reserved for those who realized there was no getting out of their predicament. Most of the suspects Stevens saw with that face looked like that once they noticed the cops had discovered everything, that they were looking at a long jail sentence regardless of what went happened going forward.
Long and short of it,
Before he could reach for the handcuffs in his back pocket, though, Paul felt the barrel of another gun press into the back of his head. The sound of the gun being cocked stopped him in his tracks.
CHAPTER 22
Present day...
The next time Nolan Carter found himself in the interrogation room, he was by himself. And when Detective Stevens kicked the door to the room open and the officer flinched, Stevens couldn't help the smile the spread across his face. He let the door slam shut on its own, hovering just shy of the rusted table as he studied the manila file folder in his hands. Let the bastard sweat it out a little, especially since all of his other buddies were still in Holding. The Fourth’s captain had been calling non-stop wanting to know why the Seventh was holding four of its officers, and more than one high-priced lawyer had called threatening legal action, but to this point, none of them had a leg to stand on.
Especially after the phone call from Gregor
“You're a real sick fucker, you know that?” Stevens started, scraping the chair against the floor so it made a god-awful noise before plunking himself in the seat.
“Nice to see you too, Detective.”
“Look, shitstain.” Stevens leaned in. “You can boast all you want about your buddies at the Bishop. But even they won’t take kindly to you bein’ on the take.”
Carter arched his brows and folded his arms over his chest. He had all the entitlement of those five-star recruit quarterbacks Stevens once earned a scholarship by planting face-first into the turf. “Is that so?”
Without another word, Stevens opened the folder and spread several glossy, high-resolution photographs. Spreading them out onto the table in front of Carter, Stevens watched as the officer's eyes darted downward to take in the pictures -- stills Tech had grabbed from the laptop they had pulled from Carter's apartment once they had finally gotten a warrant. Carter unfolded his arms and straightened his posture, a crease forming on his forehead as he frowned. Grabbing one of the pictures, Carter shook his head and cupped a hand over his mouth.
“Yeah,” Stevens said. “Turns out Ol’ Man Richie Rich was tellin’ the truth.”
“What...” Carter scoffed and tossed the photograph aside; his tough guy act was a thing of the past. “You think that's me ?!”
“We found it on your laptop!”
“Bullshit!” Carter shouted, springing from his chair and pacing around the interrogation room.
Stevens rested his right hand on the Sig Sauer resting on his hip. “Nolan Carter, sit your ass down!”
“That’s not me!” he yelled, pointing at the photographs.
“I said sit!”
Carter fell quiet for a beat, his hands curling into fists. Stevens tightened his grip on his weapon in response, arching a brow as if he were daring the other cop to try something. Not that Stevens necessarily wanted to discharge his firearm -- that was a stack of paperwork he did not want to fill out -- but if the suspect wasn't cooperating, he had to at least consider it.
But Carter did sit, slowly lowering himself back into the chair with a ragged breath. His eyes never left the photographs.
Stevens released his grip on his handgun with a sigh. “Alright, now... deny all you want, but these?” He tapped one of the photographs. “Were on your computer.”
“I don't know what to tell you, Detective, but the man in those shots isn’t me.” The anger and righteousness that had been written all over his face were gone, replaced with a panic normally reserved for those who realized there was no getting out of their predicament. Most of the suspects Stevens saw with that face looked like that once they noticed the cops had discovered everything, that they were looking at a long jail sentence regardless of what went happened going forward.
Long and short of it,
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