Page 157 of Snaring Emberly
“Shit,” she whispers.
“Now, will you go back to the house and get a drink?”
She nods. “Maybe a whiskey.”
No way in hell a potentially pregnant woman will drink alcohol under my roof.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and walk her out of the pool house. “Nah. You don’t want booze.”
* * *
Half an hour later, after I’ve calmed Emberly and talked her out of drinking alcohol, Gil drives me to the gates. My heart still pounds at the prospect of her nearly uncovering my lies. I’m slipping, and I need to keep better track of my own bullshit, especially when she’s so unpredictable.
The floodlights are on, illuminating the small army of cops at the gates. As usual, my men have parked all kinds of vehicles in the driveway and are recording the police on their phones. Social media wasn’t as powerful before I got arrested, but I appreciate any opportunity to make them look like idiots.
I step out of the car and walk past the barricade of vehicles to the gates, where I spot the detective in charge. He’s a mustached motherfucker with a paunch that could rival Saint Nicholas and has the nerve to look me up and down before speaking.
“What do you want?” I ask. “You’re interrupting my evening hot chocolate.”
“We’re here to investigate a murder,” he says.
“And you are?” I raise my brows.
“Detective Stanley Bradford from homicide.” He holds up his badge.
I nod. “Are you finally going to open the murder investigation you guys fucked up? Because I spent nearly five years behind bars while the real killer is still out there, murdering other women.”
Bradford shuffles on his feet. “The body of Detective James Callahan was found an hour ago. We’re here to question you and take a look around.”
I huff a laugh. “You got a warrant?”
He scowls. “We were hoping you’d cooperate on a murder investigation.”
“And why would I do that?” I ask.
“Cut the bullshit. Callahan was investigating you.”
“For kissing his ex-girlfriend?” I ask. “I know it’s been decades since anyone has seen your cock, but since when was it a crime to have charisma?”
My men burst into cheers and laughter, but I keep my face impassive. Bradford glances at one of the detectives at his side for support, but they avert their gazes.
It looks like no one wants to go viral for harassment.
I raise a palm, motioning for my men to be quiet. When the laughter dies down, I ask, “Where did you find Detective Callahan’s body?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” he mutters.
“So, not on my grounds?”
He jerks his head to the side, unable to meet my gaze.
“I’ll take that as a no, otherwise you’d have a warrant. Since I was at home all day, minding my own business, I’ll thank you for not wasting any more of my time and let me get back to my hot beverage.”
Turning around, I walk back to my car.
“Mr. Montesano, we’re not done,” the cop yells. “Where were you seven to ten days ago? We need to confirm your alibi.”
I pause to spare him a glance over my shoulder. “You should know better than to ask such vague questions. If this is part of an official police investigation, you may contact my attorney. Someone give him a card.”