Cause of Death Laura Dembowski (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

“The paramedic,” I say hesitantly.

“We’ll check you out at the station,” she says. That sounds less than official. Did girl cop go to medical school since the last time we spoke?

“Do I need my lawyer?” I ask, dreading having to tell Stanley about this latest incident.

“No, you’re not being charged with anything. But if you want to call him, you always have that option.”

I say nothing and get up. I grab my purse and walk to the door, checking to see if Kate is following me. She is. I don’t think she’s going to let me out of her sight for now, though I don’t really know where she thinks I could run. One wrong move and officers would be all over me. I’ve already lost one of my nine lives today; I’m not really up for running full speed with no end to this marathon in sight.

Once we’re outside, I strut to the car, having slipped on some fancy high heels that were by the door instead of the flats I should be wearing. Then again, why should I go down looking anything other than fabulous?

There’s no way on earth I’m opening the door to the backseat of Kate’s car myself. No way on earth. I’m not letting myself into the seat where a few hundred true criminals have sat. I don’t belong there, and I’m not making it any easier for her to put me in this position.

We look at each other. It’s not necessarily glaring, just looking. We’re in a standoff. I see her passion for her job. She thinks she’s going to get me. Not on this, but on Lana’s death, because she knows it all intertwines. Her hair is pretty, shiny when the sun hits it. Her blouse is probably a little sheerer than she realized, but we’ve all done that once or twice. If we met under different circumstances, maybe we’d be friends. Not best, lifelong, call-me-in-the-middle-of-the-night friends, but friends all the same.

Kate finally gives up, knowing I’m not opening that door. She reaches for it, one eye on me the entire time. Does she think I’m going to trip her or pull out a wrench and smack her right in the cranium? I’ve got enough blood on my hands for one day.

I get in and pray silently: “God, let this bitch screw up. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

God knows the whole truth, I think. Maybe that’s not such a good thing, since I pushed the little angel off my shoulder a long time ago.

Now it’s just me and my bitter demons.

Chapter 19

Kate

I wish Ryan wouldn’t have fucked up so much. He could be here getting ready to interrogate this ruthless bitch with me. I can’t do it alone. I won’t do it alone.

I locked her purse up before putting her in an interrogation room, telling her it was just a formality. It’s not, but I don’t know what kind of weapons this lady could have on her. Patting her down and telling her to bend over and cough wouldn’t exactly have seemed routine considering we’re not taking her overpriced, newly purchased designer clothes and swapping them for an orange jumpsuit just yet. But this woman could have a knife hiding in places I don’t really want to think about, so I will not be in a locked room without someone at the ready to save me. I’m probably just getting paranoid.

Will’s been helping me a lot with Ryan out of commission, so he’ll sit in the viewing room and watch the action, ready to pounce and assist me should the need arise. He can’t come in during questioning. Margaret Moore would eat him alive. Look what she did to Ryan. Sure, some of it was his own fault, but the lady framed him, and I’m going to prove it.

Oh, and if she calls me Kate one more time like she did during the ride over, trying to be all friendly and break me down, catch me off guard, bad cop Kate is going to come out. It seems like Ryan always did all the dirty work, but I get things done when I need to.

“You ready?” Sarge asks. He takes me by surprise and I jump like I just saw a spider.

“Yeah, can’t you tell?”

“You’ll be great. You can handle her.”

“I know. We’re just talking.”

“And then we’re charging her with Dave’s death.”

“Seriously,” I say.

“She wanted to kill him. She had the fucking knife on her.”

I nod my head, almost unable to believe that after chasing this case so long we actually have a shot at getting a conviction and putting her away for a long time. The DA and I had a long chat about this the other day. She’s not getting off with just probation, or that godforsaken ankle monitor.

“Self-defense is bullshit,” I say. “There’s barely a scratch on her, no strangulation marks on her neck.

“Take a deep breath,” Sarge tells me, his hand on my shoulder.

I do as he says and walk confidently into the interrogation room where Margaret sits, cool as a cucumber, even though the room is stuffy and hot, the air thick with late-summer heat. I will not let her shake me.

“How’re you holding up?” I ask, starting slow.

“Well,” Margaret says, “considering that I just killed my husband, the day’s not exactly in my top ten.”

She came to play. I have a feeling Margaret has woken up every day of her life ready to play. I’m sure she’ll say otherwise during our time together today, as well as during any subsequent conversations we have, but I swear it’s as if she was planning this. Like my dream was to be a ballerina and Sarge’s was to play in the NFL, and Ryan’s, to be a detective, I think hers was to be on the front page of the newspaper, the top story on CNN, the topic of conversation around the watercooler. Maybe she was okay with Dave and