Breaking Steele (Sarah Steele Legal Thriller)

Chapter 9

THE POLICE ARRIVED TWENTY-FIVE minutes later, which was exceptionally fast for them. They probably recognized my name. I knew several of the homicide detectives, but not many in small crime.

Detective Ross came with his partner, Detective Monroe. They were professional and thorough, asking me everything about the driver, the man I’d seen in the basement, and all the other details I noticed. Detective Ross kept clearing his throat, as if he had allergies or was nervous. His eyes were full of compassion, though, and he was patient with me as I slowly told them everything I could remember.

Halfway through the interview, I called a locksmith. The kidnappers had access to my keys—I needed new locks and I wanted them in before the detectives left. Luckily, I got ahold of one who was available and he was over within the hour with a new handle and deadbolt. I wished he had installed two deadbolts, but I knew that was overkill.

I also texted Mandy: I need you. Please come.

“I hope you understand the need for discretion,” I said as Ross filled out the report form.  

Ross took off his glasses and ran his hand over his dark goatee. He had olive skin and a full head of black hair. I figured him to be an ex-football player, maybe even for Boise State … Ross … I scanned my memory, trying to remember if I’d ever met him, but came up blank.

“This is a high-profile case and any leak of this kind would start a media frenzy,” I said. “And if there’s a leak, my boss wants to be the one to start it.”

“I understand, Miss Steele. Has anything else happened to you that might have to do with this case?” Detective Ross looked up over the top of his reading glasses with dark, brooding eyes.

I shrugged. “There have been phone calls with no one on the other line, but I can’t say that’s out of the ordinary.”

He wrote something down. “I’ll check your phone history,” he said. He tapped his pen on the paper. “Their threat was very specific. They said it was Williams who was going to kill you—”

“Yes,” I said slowly, not understanding the question.

“It’s just interesting,” he said.

Monroe came up beside me and put his knuckles on the table. “I want you to be careful,” he said. “No late nights out alone, change your phone number, and maybe stay with a friend for a month or two.”

“Come on,” I objected. “I’m not going to stop living my life for this guy. He’s behind bars.”

Ross sighed and leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest. “Fine, Miss Steele, but you might look into getting some mace. And do you own a gun?”

The question caught me off guard. “Uh … yes.”

It was a Lady Glock, a gift from my father before his premature death. He’d taught me how to load it and clean it. I’d shot a few rabbits when I was younger, but I hadn’t done much with it since then. But I kept it close, in a drawer in my bedroom table.

“Do you know how to use it?” Monroe asked.

“Well ...” I’d shot it recently when I went camping with Mandy and Rick, but that was it.

“I know a guy,” Monroe said. “He can put you through a safety course and get you to the top of the list for a concealed weapons permit. I think it might be a good idea in your line of work. Times are not getting better. But you need to know how to use it, how to be safe. The worst thing is an untrained person with a gun.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” I said.

“Why?” Monroe said, standing straighter. “Because I’m a cop? Look, the more people out there—good people—who carry, the better off we’ll all be.”