Page 41 of Parting Shot

The call ended abruptly, and I was left to stare at my phone.

When I walked back to Jimmy, he seemed confused. “Everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” I growled.

“Yeah, it sounds peachy.”

I flipped him off, and we at least made sense.

After lunch, I went with him to talk to a couple of witnesses from the party, who both put themselves across town at the time of the murder. Back at the station, I made calls, checked their alibis, and then added them to the growing case file filled with dead ends.

I was going through the surveillance video from the club again when Jimmy’s throat clearing made me glance up. He tipped his head, and I saw Cohen and Benoit leading Max Sutter back toward the interrogation rooms. He had a man with him in a bespoke suit, topcoat hanging over one arm, a briefcase in his other hand.

“Oh, he lawyered up fast,” I groused at my partner.

“Yeah, he did,” Jimmy agreed. “They must have—oh.”

My attention went back to Jimmy, who wasn’t focusing on me, but instead on Cohen as she crossed the room to me.

“Hey,” she began. “Max Sutter says he’s only talking to you.”

“Sure.” I gave her a trace of a grin and got up to follow.

“There’s a mob of reporters outside,” Benoit relayed when he joined us. “TV, newspaper, magazine—you name it and there’s somebody out there.”

“Have his driver come around back to where the jail transport normally picks up.”

“Will do.”

“Let’s get Max back out of here without any pictures.”

“We’ll do our best.”

“No,” I insisted. “Not our best. Let’s just make it happen.”

“Yes,” they both answered at the same time.

It was strange how the sounds bounced off the walls in the hall, how I noticed the cracks in the concrete floor, the rust on the vents, and the chipping paint on the doors. On the walls, I saw the framed pictures of police academy graduating classes, Medal of Honor recipients, and the current police commissioner and various other officers. All the things I normally passed without notice suddenly came into sharp focus as I was reminded how much I still missed Aaron Sutter.

In the room, I took a seat across from Max Sutter and his lawyer. I didn’t even glance at the little brother; my attention went first to the lawyer.

“Vaughn Holtz of Holtz and Maitland,” he said as he eyed me.

“Okay.”

“Against my better judgment, my client wants to share with you what he knows about the incident in the club, Detective, but I need assurances that⁠—”

“No,” Max cut him off, and I saw him take a shuddering breath.

“Max—”

“No!” he informed Mr. Holtz, staring at one of the best trial lawyers in the city, as well as probably the most expensive. “I’m innocent, but I have a name for him, and I need to do this before I’m completely disowned by my brother.”

I couldn’t focus on the words; only Max was important. And I thought good things about him. He was a stand-up guy, and also, he looked good in a suit. The way whatever designer he was wearing fit. The jacket accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, the way the sleeves rose to reveal the silver monogrammed cuff links, and the pale blue shade against his golden skin—all of it was stunning. But he was not his brother, and so, even dressed up, he was a poor substitute once you had seen the original.

I got why Max couldn’t really be the Sutter brand. Something was missing.

Max was so very pretty, but the smirk wasn’t there, the rakish tip of the head, the wicked gleam in the eyes, made even more noticeable by deep laugh lines and dimples. Max’s hair fell forward into his face; Aaron’s only did that after he’d been tumbling around in bed for a while. Even sitting completely still, Aaron radiated a sort of crackling vitality that his little brother simply didn’t have. Yes, they were siblings, but people wanted to be in business with the mover, with the shaker, with the man who kicked down doors and knew how to wheel and deal. Max was not the dealmaker; his big brother was.