Free Fight by Sarah Masters Page B

glanced up, and those deep brown eyes met mine.
    "Ready?"
    I shook my head, knowing all my desperation showed in my eyes. Carl always said I was too easy to read.
    "I know.” His voice had gone soft. “I know. I wish there was another way.” He glanced over to the door of the station house, then back to me. “I'm not going to let them railroad you. Promise.” He wrapped gentle fingers around my arm, just above my elbow, and the absolute lack of force struck me as odd.
    "You'll—you'll stay with me?"
    "Right beside you. I'll process—” He clamped his mouth shut and frowned. “I'll do the paper work and things."
    "Process me.” We were mounting the stairs by then, and the building loomed, dark and slightly rundown. “You'll process me.” One thing I was beginning to understand about my life; it was just easier to call it what it was.
    "It has to be done."
    I nodded. “Then I want you to do it."
    He pulled open the door then and manoeuvred me inside ahead of him. It felt like procedure at that point. Hubbub inside made it hard to focus, and I held back, hoping for the reassurance of his bulk behind me. He grunted and gave me a light shove, just to keep me ahead of him. Was I supposed to act like a criminal? I wasn't anything but scared shitless.
    "Over there."
    He pointed past me to a desk in the far corner. Partial walls delineated the space, and as we approached I realized there were two desks, facing one another, and the other was occupied. The man sitting at it turned, stood, his eyes flashing.
    "Where the hell have you been?"
    "Calm down, Chewy."
    I stifled a hysterical giggle. The guy was slightly more hairy than average, and taller than Lil.
    He made a low rumbling sound to go with his frown as he plopped back into his chair. “You should have called in. Who's this?"
    "Mind your own homework.” Vic pointed to the guy's desk, strewn with piles of forms and reports. “I'll put him through."
    "You bring some punk in without calling for back-up, not even your own partner, and I'm not supposed to ask?"
    "You're not supposed to ask,” Vic agreed.
    "That's him!” this exclamation, from behind Vic, brought the big cop back to his feet and turned Vic's head, but not before I saw the resignation on his face.
    "Sit down, Colly,” Vic snarled at the speaker. “I got it."
    "Leave him,” someone else said quietly, though the look I got from that cop scalded. “This is his collar."
    I glanced at Vic, but his back was to me. “This isn't a collar,” he said. “Not yet."
    "Yet?” My voice might have squeaked. In fact, it did, and Vic spun back to me.
    "Sit."
    He pointed to the chair by his desk, and I sat, perched on the front edge to give my shackled hands room. From there, I had a good view of Vic glaring the rest of the room down. He was playing his role of partner to the dead cop right to the hilt, but I could see the strain in the set of his shoulders and his tight grip on the back of his own chair. No one spoke.
    Vic shifted his stance, spun his chair around, and turned his back on them. His gaze met mine. “I got this.” Smooth, spare motions got him into his seat and the computer monitor adjusted and turned on. The questions came at me then, just as smooth. His tone was calm, cold, completely business, and he didn't once look away from his computer screen.
    The questions were of the simple, name, rank, and serial number variety. I answered them in tones I'm sure Vic couldn't hear, but he appeared to know enough about me. He didn't ask me to repeat myself, and I found a fair amount of time to sit there and wonder why his intimate knowledge of my life didn't disturb me as much as it should have. It didn't even seem to be the right thing to be worrying about. Then again, I'd never been arrested before, or accused of murder. I had no idea what should have been bothering me at that point.
    I suppose I knew it was only a matter of time before someone else took an interest. Still, someone shouting Vic's name