Inferno by Cara Bristol

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

“You can’t arrest him! He didn’t do anything!” Geneva cried as Inferno was handcuffed, read his rights, and shoved into the cruiser.

Kelley glowered at her. “Do I need to arrest you, too?”

Uncle Mike put his arm around Geneva. “I’ll call Chuck Winthrop.” He named a parishioner who happened to be a criminal defense attorney.

“Don’t say anything until Mr. Winthrop arrives!” she yelled as Kelley slammed the squad car door. “Remember, you have the right to remain silent.”

“You’re making a mistake.” Tail twitching, Tigre planted himself in front of Kelley.

“You’re the one making the mistake. Back off!” she snarled and stomped around him and got in the squad car and drove away.

“He didn’t do it.” Geneva looked at her uncle pleadingly. A fair and kind man of forgiveness and grace, he’d offered to get legal representation for Inferno, but that didn’t mean he accepted his innocence. But it was important that he believe him as well, because…because…I love him— I love him!

Seeing Inferno’s distraught face as the sergeant hauled him off had ripped away the last of her blinders. What they had was deep and everlasting. He wouldn’t have set the church on fire—it didn’t matter what the circumstantial evidence indicated. She had complete faith in him.

Why wouldn’t the woman listen? He had presented a logical, truthful explanation for everything! Geneva herself confirmed he’d lost the pendant days ago. She pressed a knuckle to her lips to suppress the tears. What would happen to him?

Uncle Mike was already on the phone. “I know it’s late. Sorry to wake you, Chuck. We have a bit of a situation. The church caught fire this evening. They think it’s arson. My niece’s friend was taken into custody—”

“Inferno is my genmate.” She hugged herself.

“He’s being taken to the county sheriff’s station for questioning,” her uncle relayed to the attorney. He listened, uh-huhing, and then said, “God bless you. Thank you.” He shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed up his spectacles. “Chuck is headed to the sheriff’s station right now.” He hugged her. “Try not to worry, sweetheart. God will handle this as it’s meant to be handled.”

Did God mean for the church to burn? Did he intend for Inferno to be arrested for a crime he didn’t commit? She bit her lip to stifle the retort. Thank goodness for Chuck.

Psy motioned to her and Tigre. “Can I speak to you two alone?”

She glanced at her uncle.

He motioned for her to go. “I need to talk to Phil anyway. I’d like to see the damage for myself, but I don’t know if they’ll allow me inside seeing how it’s a crime scene.”

Hugging herself, she followed the ’Topians out of the commotion to a quiet area of the parking lot.

“I might be able to, uh, fix this,” Psy said in a low voice.

“Fix it how?” she asked. What could he do?

“If I can get in to see Sgt. Kelley, I can convince her she’s wrong.”

At the mention of the officer’s name, Tigre’s lip curled, and his tail snapped.

“What can you say that hasn’t been said already?” The sergeant hadn’t been receptive to facts or reasoned argument. Geneva massaged her throbbing temples. This was awful. Awful!

“It’s not what I will say; it’s what I can do. I can erase the suspicion from her mind.”

Geneva rounded her eyes. “You can do that?” He could make the problem vanish? Poof! It’s gone? But she shook her head. “No. That would be wrong. We can’t circumvent the law. We have to allow the justice system to work.” Without the rule of law, society would fall to anarchy. The law applied to everyone. As much as she ached to free Inferno by any means possible, she couldn’t conscience wiping a woman’s memory.

Psy looked to Tigre. “The longer we delay, the more people will become involved, and it will be impossible for me to intervene,” the Verital said.

The artificial light of the streetlamp cast shadows on Tigre’s striped, scowling face. He thrashed his tail. The antipathy between him and the sergeant had been mutual. Would he and Psy veto her wishes and do it anyway?

Tigre rubbed his throat. “No. I can’t allow you to erase her memories,” he said. “That nasty, disagreeable female is my genmate.”

* * * *

Kat hadn’t served on the force for twenty-two years without learning how to read people. She’d been as green as a spring meadow when she’d started, but she’d learned to trust her gut. When instinct whispered something was right or wrong, it was usually dead-on.

Every now and then, her internal bullshit detector got scrambled, and, when that happened, she would rely on procedure until she caught her bearings. CYA. She had taken the alien into custody to cover her ass on the remote chance her hunch was wrong. Her gut said the guy was telling the truth. He might look like the devil, but she could practically see the halo floating over his head.

But the other alien—the one with the striped face—had thrown chaff at her radar. She’d caught one glimpse of him, and her system had gone haywire. Her heart had raced, her breathing had quickened, her muscles had tensed, and a wave of sexual arousal the likes of which she’d never experienced had crashed over her. She suspected he’d been exuding some sort of alien mind-control pheromone to discombobulate her and distract her from focusing on his friend. Until she regained equilibrium, she would do everything by the book.

Tigerman could take his cute overbite, his tousled mane of hair, and growly voice, and go exude on someone else. She had a job to do—figure out who had torched the church.

She peered in the rearview mirror at the suspect who was probably innocent. She’d Mirandized him in the parking lot. “So, tell me again what happened?” she probed. One way to determine if a suspect was lying was to ask a question multiple times and see if his answers deviated.

“As I passed by, I thought someone had entered the building. When nobody answered my call, I went on to the Whitetail.”

His story was consistent. “But you didn’t go inside.”

“No. I looked from the doorway.”

“Did you see anybody else around? In the parking lot? On the street?”

“A man walking a dog. We waved at each other but didn’t speak.”

“Gus Haberman? The owner of the bait and tackle store on Main Street?”

“I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around Argent, but we haven’t met.”

Haberman, whom she’d interviewed, had said the same. The bait shop owner said he was aware of aliens in Argent, and relayed that while he’d seen Inferno just before the fire started, he didn’t think he had set it.

“You see anybody else around, anybody at all?”

“No.”

“What about automobiles? You see any cars or trucks in the vicinity while you were peeking in?”

“Just the one parked at the curb.”

Haberman had reported seeing a white coupe, too. With the partial license number he’d provided, Kat’s partner was trying to get a trace on the vehicle. The car had been gone when they got to the fire.

“So that wasn’t yours?”

“No, it was parked when I got there.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t have a car.”

She arched her eyebrows skeptically. “You arrived on foot?”

He fidgeted. “I rode my hover scooter.”

“A hover scooter. I see. So it, like, hovers.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t see anything like that around the church.”

“It’s invisible.”

“Oh, an invisible scooter,” she mocked, although she didn’t disbelieve him. An extraterrestrial resembling Beelzebub was cuffed in the back seat of her cruiser. If he claimed he’d ridden an invisible hover scooter, he probably had. An image of the alien with the striped face popped into her head. The asshole had growled at her. While a snarl might pass for conversation on his planet, it had sure sounded like a fuck-you to Kat.

Arriving at the station, she parked behind the building, marched Inferno inside, and deposited him in an interview room. She considered removing the cuffs but held off.

Across the table, she straddled a chair and eyeballed him. “So, tell me more about the car at the curb. What else do you remember about it?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “It was white. Or maybe just a light color. The guy’s dog urinated on it.”

Kat sat up straighter. “The dog peed on the car?” Haberman hadn’t mentioned that.

“Yeah.”

“Where on the vehicle?”

“The rear tire.”

“Passenger side?”

“Yes.”

She pushed away from the table. “I’ll be right back. Sit tight.” She chuckled at her joke. He couldn’t go anywhere; he was still cuffed. Stepping into the corridor, she called her partner. “You got anything yet on the partial plate?”

“Found it—I think. The vehicle is registered to Trenton Aaron Walker. From the address, he lives in a rather seedy neighborhood outside of Post Falls. I’m headed over there to take a look.”

“Walker, as in Geneva Walker, the pastor’s niece?”

“Her ex-husband.”

“Do me a favor? Sniff the passenger-side rear tire.”

“What?”

“Smell the tire.”

“What the hell for?”

“Dog pee. Haberman’s dog supposedly took a whiz on the rear tire.”

“That would put Walker at the scene of the crime.”

Yes, it would. Excitement raced through her veins at the possibility of catching the perp tonight—and that her instinct had been verified by empirical evidence. The horned alien wasn’t involved. “If the vehicle is there, and you smell dog pee, call me asap. I’ll get Judge Carolson out of bed and get a warrant to search the vehicle.”

“I’m exiting the highway now. Gimme five.”

Kat paced the hall. She could cut Inferno loose, but she’d wait until she heard from her partner. No suspect released before his time.

Seconds later, her phone rang. It was the front desk. “Yes?”

“You got an Inferno back there?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“Chuck Winthrop is out here. Says he’s the guy’s attorney.”

“Tell him to have a seat. I’ll bring Inferno up in a sec. I’m springing him,” she said, a little relieved not to have to tangle with Winthrop, whose rep had preceded him.

“Will do.”

She’d no sooner disconnected than her partner called. “You were right. Dog pee.”

“You’re singing my song.”

“Dog pee is your song?”

She grinned. “You’re right is my song.” Kat hung up and stepped into the interview room. “You’re free to go.” She unlocked the restraints. “If you follow me, I’ll escort you out.”

She walked him to the lobby and buzzed him through, politely holding the door open.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked.

“Go home.”

“How?”

“Inferno?” The bald-as-a-cue-ball criminal defense attorney stood up from the bench upon which he’d been seated. “I’m Chuck Winthrop. I’m here to represent you.”

“He’s free to go,” she said. “No charges filed.” She left Inferno in his attorney’s capable hands and went to fill out an affidavit to fax to the judge.