Chapter 13
Chapter 13: The Interrogation
Downstairs, the atmosphere in the manager’s office was suffocating.
Graham sat in a leather chair, his tailored suit now wrinkled, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He checked his bare wrist—Miller had confiscated his phone and his smartwatch.
The door clicked open. Detective Russo, a seasoned LAPD investigator with tired eyes and zero tolerance for wealth-induced arrogance, stepped into the room. Charlotte walked in right behind him, holding a thick file.
"This is outrageous," Graham spat, standing up. "I demand my attorney. You cannot hold me here against my will. This is a private dispute."
"Sit down, Mr. Vale," Russo said, his voice flat. "Your driver didn't make it very far. Security locked the perimeter gates before he could hit the highway. We found him in the black SUV with a crushed front bumper and traces of Owen Mercer's paint on the fender."
Graham swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I have no idea what my driver does on his personal time."
Charlotte tossed a printed sheet of paper onto the desk in front of him.
"This is the burner phone log we recovered from the driver's vehicle," Charlotte said, her voice dripping with ice. "Four calls were made to your private line in the last three hours. The last one was exactly two minutes after Owen was run off the road."
Graham stared at the paper. The walls were closing in, but his narcissistic survival instinct kicked in. "Circumstantial. You can't prove I ordered anything."
"I don't need to," Russo replied, leaning over the desk. "The driver is currently sitting in an interrogation room at the precinct. He’s looking at twenty years for attempted murder. How long do you think it’ll take before he trades your name for a plea deal?"
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Graham sank slowly back into the leather chair, the fight rapidly draining from his eyes.
"Keep him here until morning," Charlotte told the detective, not breaking eye contact with her uncle. "I want him to watch me take everything away from him."
