Chapter 4 - The Interview Room
The central lockup facility downtown was quiet on Christmas morning, save for the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional rattle of handcuffs against metal benches. I stood behind the two-way mirror of Interrogation Room B, watching my brother Eric. His tie was gone, his expensive shirt was wrinkled, and he was frantically pacing the small concrete space like a caged animal.
I stepped inside, letting the heavy steel door slam shut behind me. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
Eric spun around, his face lighting up with a desperate, furious energy. "Claire! Finally! You need to tell these idiots to let me out of here. This is an absolute joke. Vanessa is having a panic attack in the women's wing. Our lawyer has been trying to reach us for three hours."
"Your lawyer isn't coming, Eric," I said, sitting down at the metal table and opening a manila folder. "Arthur Pendelton was notified of your arrest at 0200. The moment he heard the charges included a connection to Raymond Torres and an open Major Crimes investigation, he officially withdrew his representation. He doesn't touch dirty deeds, Eric. Especially not ones wrapped in a domestic assault package."
Eric sank into the chair opposite me, his bravado finally beginning to show cracks. "Look... the porch thing... it was an accident, okay? Mom was getting hysterical. She wanted to walk down the road in the snow to find some old cat. Vanessa just shut the door to keep the cold air out. We were going to let her back in after she calmed down."
"Really?" I pulled a printed transcript from the folder and slid it across the table. "Because at 9:32 p.m., while your mother was freezing on the concrete, you made a phone call to a real estate investment trust in North Portland. We intercepted the routing through the local cell tower. You left a voicemail for a developer named Henderson, telling him that the primary title holder was 'no longer an obstacle' and that the property would be ready for a cash buyout by Tuesday morning."
Eric’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked at the transcript as if it were written in a foreign language.
"You didn't want the house to live in, Eric," I said, leaning forward, my hands flat on the cold steel. "You and Vanessa owe three hundred thousand dollars to a secondary lending firm in Seattle. You found out the city is planning to build a new light-rail corridor right through Mom's north pasture next year, which will skyrocket the land value to nearly two million dollars. You wanted to flip the estate before the city layout became public knowledge."
"Claire, please..." he whispered, his eyes darting toward the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. "We're family. You can't do this to me. Think about what Dad would say if he were here."
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"Dad would have been the one holding the handcuffs, Eric," I said coldly, standing up and gathering my papers. "The grand jury is being convened on Monday. The prosecutor is pursuing a maximum sentence of twenty years under the state's vulnerable adult protection statutes. Enjoy your Christmas dinner. The county jail serves turkey loaf on holidays."
I walked out of the room, ignoring the sound of him slamming his fists against the metal door behind me.
