Loves Me Not

FIFTY EIGHT

AFTER
DETECTIVE BRETT PORTER

I plan it out well this time. I get everything I need in order before I haul his ass into the station again. He thinks this is a game? That he has an upper hand over me? I'm here to prove him otherwise.

Tony sits in the interrogation room with that smug look on his face. I stand in front of him and let him savor this moment for only a second. Then I pull out the papers and slide it across the table towards him.

"What's this?" he says to me without even looking at them.
"You're being subpoenaed," I tell him.
His facial expression changes and he grabs the papers to look them over. Then he glares at me with a look of pure rage on his face. "You can't do this."
"Actually," I say, sliding out the chair and taking a seat across from him. "I can. So would you rather do this now and save us both some time, or later? Because don't think I won't haul you back in here time and time again until you talk. You do understand what a subpoena is, right? That's a binding contract stating that you are required by law to reveal the information about Catalaina Kittridge that you know."
He continues staring at me.
"Okay," I say, clasping my hands together. "Let's begin with the basics. Contacts. Who was she in contact with?"
He leans back in the chair, accepting defeat. "She was associated with a whole bunch of people. I only sent her the friendlier clientele. No one bad."
"I'm going to need names and numbers."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm afraid I am."
"Fuck," he mutters to himself. "This will ruin business. No one will ever buy again if there's no trust. This is an invasion of privacy."
"A woman is dead," I remind him. "I couldn't care less about privacy. One of these people could be responsible for her murder. I need to find out who."
He takes in a deep breath and nods his head. "Fine. Okay. You're right." Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "You ready?"
I pull out my notepad and pen, click it open. "Sure am."
He unlocks his phone and begins scrolling through his contacts, reading out names, reciting phone numbers.
Ten minutes later, once he's finished, he puts down his phone and stares at me.
"That's all of them?" I ask. "Everyone who she dealt with in the past two months?"
"Yes."
I look down and count the names. There are twenty-three people on the list. Twenty-three people that I need to track down and question. Twenty-three possible suspects. This is both good and bad.
"Is there anyone on here that could potentially be dangerous?" I ask him. "Anyone that might be worth looking into?"
He stares at me, debating his next words. "I aint no rat," he tells me. "But there's a man and a woman. They might peak your interest."
"And why's that?"
He waits a moment. "They pulled a gun on her. Took her money."
"When was this?"
"End of May."
"Why didn't you mention this before? This is crucial information. What if they went back for her? Did more than just rob her?"
"They didn't," he says. "She came to me afterwards, told me about it. I made sure to never send them her way again. If they needed anything, they came to me. So I can assure you that they never had contact with her."
"No offence," I say. "But you can't assure me of anything. I'll talk to them myself."