Damn.
Cooper tugs me to a black Charger in the alley and presses on the top of my head as he tucks me in back. Jenkins climbs in the driver’s seat.
We drive, but I can’t focus on our surroundings enough to know or care where we’re going. I close my eyes and tip over onto the seat so I’m lying on my side. I want to die. I am truly too stupid to live.
I’ve so thoroughly checked out that I don’t even know how long later the car rolls to a stop. I don’t sit up. Even when Cooper opens my door, I just lay here. Because the gravity of this is just now sinking in. I’ve been arrested for prostitution. My wheels are spinning, thinking of how to get out of this without anyone finding out.
Mom.
My gut tightens at the thought of her knowing what happened. She threw me out because she thought I was a fuck-up, and just to prove her right, here I am, going to jail. This is a nightmare.
“Come on, Jezebel,” Cooper says, nudging my thigh.
I drag myself to a sitting position and find we’re in a parking garage. “Who the hell is Jezebel?”
He gives me a cynical smile as he pulls me from the car by my arm. “A biblical succubus. She used sex to lure men to their deaths.”
“Great.”
Jenkins follows as Cooper directs me up a hall to a door. He presses his ID against the sensor and the door clicks open to a lobby inside. Jenkins skirts past us and punches the elevator call button. The middle door opens and we climb in, and when the door opens again, Cooper takes my arm and scans his ID at the glass doors, where UNITED STATES OF AMERICA DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENCY” is printed in large gold letters. He guides me through into a reception area with a desk and a few chairs. The only person at the desk now, in the middle of the night, is a uniformed security guard.
We walk toward a door to the right of the desk. “When Special Agent Montgomery comes in, tell him to find us in Interrogation 3,” Cooper tells the guard on our way by.
We march up a corridor and he stops at a door, scanning his card again. The door clicks open and he escorts me into a small white room with a metal table and four chairs. At the end of the table is a tripod with a camera. He drops me into the chair it’s pointing at and pulls off the handcuffs.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.
He slips out the door into the hall, and Jenkins leans his back against it, glaring down at me.
I fold my hands on my lap under the table so he can’t see them shake, because I get the pit bull vibe from this guy—if he senses fear, he’ll go for the jugular. “Are you ‘bad cop’?”
A self-satisfied smirk spreads over his ginormous face. “I am your worst nightmare. Give me five minutes and you’ll be spilling your guts.”
What do they think I know? I open my mouth to tell Jenkins there’s nothing to spill, but then close it again. Maybe, as long as they think there’s something I know that they don’t, I’ve got some leverage. I put up the bravest front I can despite my sweating palms and short-circuiting brain. “I’m not telling you anything.”
The doorknob rattles as someone turns it from the other side, but Jenkins doesn’t move to let them in. A prickle of panic flashes through me. Yep. He’s got “bad cop” down solid.
“Jenkins!” comes Cooper’s irritated voice from the other side of the door. “Move your sorry ass and let me in!”
Jenkins shifts off the door, giving me a menacing smile, and Cooper comes through with a thick manila file folder in his hand, a pad of while lined paper and an iPad on top of it. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asks.
“Just making sure we understand each other,” Jenkins says, settling into the chair near the camera.
Cooper lowers himself into the one across from me and fiddles with his stuff for a minute, opening the cover of the iPad and then the folder. “So, this is a pretty easy concept,” he says, his gaze lifting to me once he’s organized. “Tell us what we want to know and this will all go away for you. Don’t, and you’re looking at jail time.”
“What do you want from me? I’m not a hooker. I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t even be here!” I bite my tongue when I feel myself start to come unhinged.
Jenkins snorts out a laugh and mutters, “Just keep it up and see where it gets you.”
Cooper blows out a weary sigh. “How about we start with the easy stuff? Your full name is . . . ?”
I lean heavily on the table, fisting my hands in my hair and using it to hold up the weight of my aching, thousand pound head. “Samantha West.”
I sound totally defeated, and a smirk curls Jenkins’s mouth as he drums his sausage fingers on the table.
Cooper’s eyes flick to me from the page as he writes that down. “Middle name?”
“Erin.”
He makes a note. “And you’ve worked for Ben Arroyo for how long?”
“Two weeks.”
The pencil in Cooper’s hand flips into the air and clatters to the table in front of me as his eyes flash to mine. “What?”
I swallow hard. “What, what?”
“You’ve only worked at Benny’s for two weeks?” he says, exasperated.
“Yes.”
He plants an elbow on the table and rubs a hand down his face in a weary gesture. “Christ, Blake. What the hell were you thinking?” he mutters.
“I knew he’d screw this up,” Jenkins sneers from across the table. “Don’t know why Navarro thought she needed to bring that sanctimonious prick in from L.A. when I could have gone deep.”
Cooper pulls his face out of his hand and looks me over. “Shut up, Jenkins.”
Jenkins slams his palm down on the table, making me jump. “If Arroyo walks on this because of Montgomery, I swear I’ll rip his misguided dick off and cram it down his throat.”
“Jenkins,” Cooper warns, “why don’t you go see if Blake’s in the house?”
He jerks out of his seat and slams through the door, grumbling something I can’t quite catch, except it still has to do with this Montgomery person and his dick.
“Okay,” Cooper says, opening the folder. “First things first. Did you ever see illegal drugs on the premises of Benny’s Gentlemen’s Club?”
“No.”
His eyes flash to mine. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
His gaze hardens. “Did you ever hear of any transactions between Arroyo or his wife and the other dancers?”
“Never.”
He purses his lips and thumbs past a few pages before slipping a paper out and turning it to face me. “So, as you know, this is Benjamin Arroyo,” he says, tapping the end of his pen on the top corner. The page is a collage of candid shots of men’s faces, and the one he’s pointing to is Ben. In the shot, he’s standing on the sidewalk outside Benny’s, talking to Marcus.
I nod.
“These pictures are of his known associates,” he tells me, sweeping his hand over the rest of the page. “Do any of them look at all familiar to you?”
“What if I say yes?” I ask, knowing if I do, it would be a lie.
“Then I’ll see what I can do to make this all go away for you.”
“And, if I say no?”
He shrugs. “Then there’s nothing I can do to help you. You’ll be held until your hearing, and you’ll go to trial.”