Part 8 (1/2)
”You couldn't follow his trail?” Emilie asked.
”What trail?” Avery snorted. ”The two inches of standing water washed away any footprints, and police aren't exactly equipped to go trolling in the tunnels. We don't know the system very well. We focused the search on the culverts and washes-the drainage ditches-in hopes of catching him or finding a witness.”
”And you found nothing?” Emilie couldn't keep the anger out of her voice.
”I promise we're exhausting every resource to find this man,” Ronson said. ”The sketch is the first step. I'll go get Officer Mallory.” She left, and Emilie was stuck alone with Avery.
He hefted the crystal paperweight off his desk and rolled it around in his hand like a squish-ball. ”Let's talk about past acquaintances. Is there anyone you can think of that made you feel uncomfortable? A customer that acted inappropriately? A date you refused?” The detective's gaze slipped to Emilie's bare calves. ”A man you may have shunned at some point?”
”No.” She stood up and walked to the window. ”There's no one like that.”
”You weren't seeing anyone? What about the bank president? Lisa Craig said you two are close.”
”Excuse me?”
”What's your relations.h.i.+p with Jeremy Vance?”
”We're friends.”
”That's not what Ms. Craig thinks.”
”She's a vindictive b.i.t.c.h.”
”So you're not having an affair with your boss?”
Emilie couldn't believe the detective's brazenness. She snapped her head back and forth, unable to speak.
Avery set the paperweight back down and folded his hands in his lap. ”We need to know about your relations.h.i.+ps.”
”Jeremy's a good friend. So is his wife, Sarah. I'm not sleeping with her, either.”
”We can't help you if you don't cooperate. Acting like a smart-a.s.s isn't going to get you anywhere. Is this part of your psychosis?”
”What are you talking about?” Emilie ground her teeth in an effort not to shout.
”We got a warrant to pull your financial and medical records yesterday. Protocol since you were in charge of the bankyou could have been an accomplice. You had a stay in a psych ward shortly after your divorce. Care to elaborate?”
”I spent three days in a psychiatric ward, self-admitted.” Emilie felt violated. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She loosened her clenched fists. ”And no, I don't. It's none of your business and irrelevant to the case.”
”On the contrary, it's very relevant. You were in a psych ward exposed to individuals with serious disorders. Any one of them could be a suspect. And of course, we have to consider your mental health now. Are you currently seeing a psychiatrist?”
”No.” Emilie barely got the words past her pinched lips. ”But you already know that since you've no doubt scoured my charts. And I wasn't in the part of the facility where they were treating the most serious patients. I was depressed, not psychotic.”
”Doesn't matter. You were there. We'll be tracking down as many people as we can, but you need to think about the people you came in contact with there.”
”Easy. The staff. A therapist and I talked about my divorce. That's it.”
”I'll need the therapist's name. You didn't fraternize with any other patients?” Avery tapped his index finger on the desk, his raised eyebrows matching the smug slant of his mouth.
”No.” Emilie fumed. ”Why are you treating me like I'm suspected of some wrongdoing?”
”Just doing my job. I don't think you're telling me everything. You sure none of your cohabitants in the psych ward could have come looking for you? Maybe you got close to someone, they misunderstood. Nothing to be embarra.s.sed about, but you need to come clean so I can find this man.”
”I have been honest. And Agent Ronson had better be good, because I don't think you'll find him at all.” Emilie imagined choking Avery with his designer tie. He glared back at her, nostrils wide enough to jam a large black olive in.
”Everything okay?” Ronson stood in the doorway.
”Perfect,” Avery said. ”Emilie was just answering a few more questions.”
Emilie's skin was hot with anger. ”Detective Avery is a pompous a.s.s.” She brushed by Ronson and stomped out of the office. ”Where's the sketch artist?”
Agent Ronson led her past a row of closed doors. ”What did Avery say to you?”
”He accused me of deliberately holding back information. I've got no reason to do that.”
”I'll talk to him about it.”
”Don't bother. Just find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who tried to kidnap me.”
The young sketch artist waited in a conference room. Emilie sat down across from her. Ronson took the seat to Emilie's left.
”I can't tell you much,” Emilie said. ”All I saw were Creepy's eyes.”
”That's fine.” The artist brushed her wavy, brown hair out of her face and slipped on a pair of gla.s.ses. ”What did his eyes look like?”
”His brows were kind of thick, but feminine. They had a nice arch. Dark eyes, but they had another color in the light. Green, maybe. I couldn't see his nose. His skin had some color to it, but I couldn't tell his ethnicity.”
She looked at the half-finished sketch. ”No, his eyes were more oval-shaped, and his eyelids were a bit darker than the rest of his skin. No, no, that makes him look lazy-eyed. He was the opposite. His eyes were wide and alert at all times. He saw everything.”
The artist erased and began again, leaning over her work with intense concentration. ”Like this?”
Gooseflesh erupted on Emilie's arms. Creepy's strange eyes stared back at her from the white sketch paper. ”Yes, that's good.”
”Get copies out immediately,” Ronson said.
The sketch artist nodded and hurried out of the room.
”We're bringing in all current and former bank employees today,” Ronson said. ”Anyone who worked in the new building and could have possible knowledge of the door.”
”I doubt any of them knew. Jeremy and I didn't even know about it.”
”Last night you immediately thought of Lisa Craig.” Avery snapped as he entered the conference room. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Emilie. ”You listed all the issues you've had with her and explained why she's a viable suspect. Have you changed your mind? You realize that wastes our time, right?”
”I said you should start with her.” Emilie wanted to punch Avery in the neck. ”I also told you I didn't know if she was capable of such a thing.”
”And you sound even less sure this morning.”
”Well you see, Detective Avery, there's this thing called shock. It happens when people have had a traumatic experience. I have to admit that while Lisa is a grade-A, first-cla.s.s b.i.t.c.h, I'm not sure she would do such a thing. Make sense?”
”That's great. Now we start from scratch-again.”