Sugar Free (9 page)

“Sure,” I say with a nod of acceptance. It wasn't going to matter if we told her tomorrow or a few weeks from now.

Beck disappears into the kitchen, and before it can ring a third time, he answers, “Beck North.”

He's silent for several moments, then I hear him say with resignation, “Sure. I'll be there at two.”

He disconnects without even saying goodbye and I know this because he suddenly appears in the dining room before me.

“That was my attorney,” Beck says in a low voice filled with tension. “The police want me to come in and give a formal statement tomorrow. He's arranged us to meet there at two
P.M
.”

The food in my stomach seems to turn to lead as a heavy feeling of unease settles in. All thoughts of whipped cream and relaxation are now gone.

Tomorrow the police will talk to Beck, and while they certainly may want to just pick his brain about the potential of a bookie killing JT, my gut instinct says they're putting a narrowed eye on Beck because of his close relationship with his partner.

A kernel of fear forms in the center of my chest and I imagine the worst.

Beck going down for my sins.

I don't know this attorney, but he seems more than capable. My buddy Robert Colling, who is a domestic attorney, recommended this guy, Doug Shriver, to represent me in dealing with the police. I'd called Robert not long after the cops showed up at my condo on the night JT died and essentially told him the basics that he needed to know.

That being JT was dead under suspicious circumstances and the cops wanted to talk to me further.

Robert called Doug, and Doug called me.

We spoke for fifteen minutes and he advised me it would be best if we not only cooperated in the investigation but were proactive in setting up the meeting with the detectives as they requested. And so this is where I am now, waiting in a large conference room at the Sausalito PD that isn't what I expected from watching a few episodes of
Law & Order
. The room's brightly lit with large windows letting in sunshine. The opposite interior wall is solid, clear glass with vertical blinds that are open so we can see the hallway that's lined with individual offices with detectives' names on brass plates beside each door. The room almost has a boardroom feel to it, as the conference table is oval shaped and done in cherry wood with eight chairs around it covered in burgundy leather.

Doug and I had met an hour before this meeting at a nearby coffeehouse, along with Sela, who's back there waiting for us. He's an interesting-looking fellow, not one I would immediately associate with a big-time criminal defense attorney. He's probably about sixty with curly hair worn short and completely grayed. He can't be any taller than five five and wears a nondescript navy suit with a smart yellow bow tie. Horn-rims complete the look, which is more retired professor than courtroom shark.

Even though Robert recommended Doug, I'd done research, and the guy had some seriously big cases under his belt and was known for representing high-profile celebrities who got into trouble. He assured me that he wasn't going to let me answer anything that could be construed as incriminating, but that we wanted to be as open as we could so they would be assured we had nothing to hide.

I struggled not to laugh when he said that. I guess poor Doug looks at all potential clients as innocent.

The conference room door opens and Detective Denning walks in, carrying a cardboard tray with three large lidded cups. She kicks the door closed behind her and gives a quick nod to me and Doug as she rounds the opposite side of the table from us and sits down. Pushing the tray toward us, she says, “Coffee if you want some.”

Doug grabs a cup but I don't. It might be paranoid, but I'm not about to leave evidence behind. “Thanks but no,” I say politely. “I've already had my one allotted cup for the day.”

“Would you like some water?” she asks.

“I'm good.”

“All right then,” she says leaning back in her chair, also ignoring the coffee. “My partner is handling some other things in the investigation so it's just us today. And this is just sort of an informal get-together so we can get more information about this theory that Mr. Townsend was killed for a gambling debt.”

I nod with an understanding smile but she's not fooling me. Informal get-together my ass. I didn't miss the mounted camera in the corner with the red light that popped on as soon as Detective Denning sat down at the table. She doesn't have a notepad or computer with her, and I'm sure she wants this to appear as a friendly little meeting so I'll open up.

“I'm sure you've noticed the camera,” she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at it.

Yup. Noticed that.

“We're recording this, and for the record, can you state your name?”

“Beckett North,” I reply.

“And you're represented by attorney Doug Shriver, who is in attendance with us today, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Mr. North, I'd like to know more about this gambling debt you say that Mr. Townsend owed to someone,” she says almost lazily, and I get the distinct impression she really doesn't care about it.

So I tell her everything I know, leaving out, of course, the way in which I orchestrated VanZant to take the fall. I tell her about JT calling me to pick him up at the hospital, and how he told me he was in deep with a Vegas bookie. That he'd lost two million and doubled down on the VanZant fight, who we know as a matter of public record got his ass handed to him. I told her JT seemed panicked and how he begged me for the money, and yes, I even admitted to her that I didn't agree to give it to him at first. I didn't particularly like admitting this, but I knew I had to.

“Did there come a point when you agreed to bail him out?” she asks.

I nod. “I told him I'd give him the money plus an extra million, and he wouldn't have to repay me, and in return I wanted him to sign over ownership of our business.”

She doesn't seem surprised by this at all, and that makes me nervous.

“Why did you want ownership of The Sugar Bowl?” she prods.

“Because he was clearly making terrible financial decisions,” I hedge. She doesn't press me further.

“And did he agree to those terms?”

I shrug. “I have no clue. I was expecting him to call me and let me know his answer the day he died. He only had three days to deliver the money to the bookie and I told him I'd need some time to get some funds liquidated.”

“If they gave him three days to pay the money, why would they bother killing him before the deadline?” she asks as she leans back in her chair.

“No idea,” I tell her. “Why did they beat him up so soon after he lost the bet?”

“That is the million-dollar question, isn't it?” she muses, and then flashes a grin. “Or the five-million-dollar question as it may be.”

I don't laugh or smile back.

Detective Denning now leans forward in her chair, placing her forearms on the table and clasping her hands. Gone is the casual cop, and now I'm seeing one who has determination in her eyes.

“Mr. North…you'd actually been having quite a bit of trouble with Mr. Townsend of late, hadn't you?” she asks slyly, and I know she absolutely knows the fucking answer to this question and it's not a stab in the dark. She's clearly been busy looking into JT and me regarding The Sugar Bowl.

“It's not a secret,” I tell her candidly. “He'd been spiraling out of control. Drugs…gambling. I was afraid he'd drag the business down.”

“In fact, you've tried to buy him out on more than one occasion, correct?”

Fuck. I'm guessing she's talked to JT's business attorney. My attorney can't reveal that information because it's protected, but JT's attorney could sure help out the investigation.

“That's correct,” I say, but don't offer an explanation.

“And the way I understand your partnership agreement”—
yup, she's talked to JT's attorney
—“you couldn't force him out unless he did something criminal that affected the actual business itself, correct?”

“Yes,” I grit out, and feel myself starting to get angry at the way she's piecing this all together.

“So the drugs and the illegal gambling debt wasn't something that could get him out, right?”

“Right.”

“In fact, you could almost say that the only way to get him out was for him to willingly agree to a buyout—let's say for five million dollars—or if he was dead?”

I don't answer her question but instead ask her, “Detective…are you insinuating I killed JT to get him out of the business?”

She shrugs, sits back in her chair. “I'm not insinuating anything, Mr. North. I'm investigating all angles.”

“Well you don't seem to be taking it very seriously that his gambling debt probably got him killed,” I retort.

“We've thoroughly checked all of Mr. Townsend's phone records and computers. We can't find any communications whatsoever with anyone remotely related to gambling,” she says.

“He used a burner phone then,” I suggest.

She ignores that and says, “What is interesting though is that there was a call Mr. Townsend made to your girlfriend just a few hours before he died. And she called him back. Any idea what that was?”

I was prepared for this because I knew the police would easily find that information. “Yes. Sela told me he left her a voice mail while she was in class. She called him back and he said that he wanted to talk about the buyout. Wanted her to help convince me not to kick him out.”

“And what did she say?” Detective Denning asks.

“She declined to get involved,” I tell her. “Told JT it was between me and him.”

“And that was it?”

“That was it.”

“We'll want to talk to her about that,” Detective Denning says with a smug smile.

“By all means,” I say politely. “I'm sure she'll be happy to cooperate.”

Then my head is spinning slightly as she changes tactics on me. “Mr. North…our forensics team has already gathered quite a bit of evidence from Mr. Townsend's home. Blood, prints, hair, fibers. The usual. We're rushing the processing on those.”

“Your point?” I ask, but I already know the fucking point.

“Would you be willing to offer a DNA sample so we can exclude you as a potential suspect?” she asks with dead seriousness, leaning forward again and carefully evaluating my reaction.

But before I can say anything, Doug says, “Not without a warrant.”

Now fuck, that makes me sound guilty, so I say, “Detective, I'll have to follow my attorney's advice, of course, but I can tell you, I've been in JT's home many times. I'd be surprised if my DNA wasn't there.”

She nods, knowing that's most likely true. “What about your girlfriend?”

“What about her?”

“She's been in his home too?”

For all the planning and talking Sela and I have done over the past two days, this was not discussed, and I feel like an idiot for not considering I'd be asked this. My normal human reactionary programming wants to deny it, but I force myself to pause. Chances are they are going to find some evidence of Sela being in that house, so I tell my first bald-faced lie to Detective Denning and pray it doesn't bite me in the ass. “Yes. Sela and I had dinner there with JT one night at his invitation.”

“When was that?”

“December twenty-eighth,” I tell her as my mind flies mentally through my calendar. “I believe it was a Monday night.”

That was the week that I had been playing nice with JT, hoping to gain his confidence and trust knowing that he'd be approaching me for money soon. I hope to fuck he didn't have some other plans that Monday night that would show up on a credit card receipt or something.

Detective Denning stares at me a moment, perhaps considering the truth of my words. But finally she nods in acceptance before she says, “Just a few more questions, Mr. North, and I'll let you get out of here.”

“Sure,” I say, feeling some stress coming off my shoulders that this is winding down.

“Mr. Townsend was your half brother, correct?”

Fuck. Detective Denning has been very busy, it appears.

“That's correct.”

“Wasn't common knowledge, was it?” she asks with an almost lecherous smile.

I shake my head. “Just me, my father, and JT's mother.”

“Well, Mr. Townsend knew, didn't he?”

I hope my look of surprise seems genuine. “Now that I did
not
know.”

Well, didn't know that until yesterday when my girlfriend told me that JT told her that, but whatever. Denning absolutely doesn't know that.

“Really?” she asks skeptically.

“Really,” I say firmly. “I only knew because I overheard a conversation between my dad and JT's mom when I was young. I talked to my dad about it maybe twice since, but it was a very hush-hush secret. My dad even told me specifically that JT didn't know.”

Suck it, Dad. You're going to have to fend for yourself on this one when they come knocking on your door to ask you about this.