“How the hell did this happen?”
“—and resisting arrest. I’ve already quarantined the incident, but I can’t keep it off the police blotter indefinitely.”
“Wait.” Lane pulled the man to a halt. “My sister stole a car?”
“Rolls-Royce. Registered in the Bradford Bourbon Company name.”
“You mean … our Rolls. The Phantom Drophead?”
“Your father called the Metro Police personally and told them to pick her up, stating that she did not have permission to operate the vehicle.”
“You can’t be serious.” Lane dragged a hand through his hair. “What am I saying—of course he can do that. He’s done worse.”
“You got a lawyer?”
“Samuel T. should be here—”
“Lane,” came a shout.
Samuel T. strode through the teeming crowd, standing out for so many reasons. For one, his blue and white seersucker suit made him look like he should have been on the grand porch of his gentleman’s farm, sipping a mint julep with a pair of hunting dogs asleep at his feet. For another, he was too good-looking to be among mortals.
“Thanks for coming quick,” Lane said as they shook hands. “You know Mitch—”
“Certainly do. Deputy.”
“Mr. Lodge.”
With the greetings over, the three of them made fast time to escalators that went up to the open second floor.
“She’s in general.” Mitch led the way to the pedi-way. “But I’ve cleared the delays for her bail hearing. As soon as you’re ready, Mr. Lodge—”
“Call me Samuel or Sam.”
“Samuel.” Mitch nodded. “Soon as you’re ready, I’ll slide her in with Judge McQuaid. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor. His hands are tied, especially with Mr. Baldwine pushing as hard as he is. The only thing I can really do is expedite, expedite, expedite.”
Lane gritted his molars. Gin was a lot to handle, and clearly, their father had had it with her—but this was so damned public. “I’m going to owe you for this one, Mitch.”
“Not the way I see it.”
The deputy got them through the various security points, and then they were in the jail portion of the facility. Although Lane had pulled a number of less-than-legal stunts as a kid, all of his transgressions had been discreetly “taken care of.” So this was his first trip into the county clink, and he couldn’t say he was in a big hurry to ever come back.
The waiting area had cream concrete walls. Cream floor. Plastic chairs in orange and yellow and red. The smell in the air was old sweat, dirty clothes, and Lysol.
Thanks to Mitch, they steamed right over to the registration counter with its bulletproof glass windows and lineups of officers with their various catches of the day. Talk about a wake-up call on the other half. Oily men and stringy young boys … barely clothed working girls … seedy, worn-out older women … all of them stood or weaved in place next to their arresting officers, their faces showing the grind of hard lives lived badly.
“Over here, Deputy Ramsey,” someone called out by a reinforced door.
After going through the checkpoint, they headed by a number of conference rooms that had red lights above the entrances and bars over little chicken-wired windows.
“If you’ll wait in here,” the officer said by one of the rooms, “I’ll bring her down.”
“Thanks, Stu.” Mitch opened the door and stood to the side. “I’ll be out here.”
“Much appreciated.” Lane clapped the guy on the shoulder. “And we’re probably going to need more of your help.”
“Anything you want, I’m here.”
Samuel T. paused by the deputy. “Has anyone talked to the press yet?”
“Not on our side,” Mitch replied. “And I’ll try to keep it that way.”
“My sister doesn’t have the best reputation.” Lane shook his head. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
Mitch closed them in together, and although there were four chairs bolted to the floor around a steel table that was likewise secured, Lane couldn’t sit down. Samuel T. did, though, putting his ancient briefcase to the side and steepling his hands.
The attorney shook his head. “She’s going to be pissed to high heaven you brought me here.”
“Like I’d call anyone else?” Lane rubbed his aching eyes. “And after this, you’re still helping me with my divorce, right?”
“Just another busy morning with the Bradfords.”
At least they let her keep her own clothes on, Gin thought as she was led down yet another concrete corridor painted the color of month-old vichyssoise.
She’d had a terror of undressing in front of some hairy-chested female officer and then getting violated by a gloved hand before being thrown into an orange jumpsuit the size of a circus tent. When that had not happened, she’d then become obsessed about being put in some kind of filthy holding cell with a bunch of drug-addled prostitutes coughing AIDS all over her.
Instead, she’d been put in a cell by herself. A cold cell, with just a bench and a stainless-steel toilet with no seat or toilet paper.
Not that she would ever use something like that.
Her diamond stud earrings and her Chanel watch had been confiscated, along with her LV bag, her phone, and those hundred-dollar bills and useless credit cards she had in her wallet.