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I did as he instructed and less than ten seconds later I heard multiple people enter the house from both sides, then calls of “clear” as they moved through the house. A female officer stopped by the theater door, gun drawn, barrel angled down. “Angelhart?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where’s Mr. Monroe?”
I gestured to the bathroom door on the far side of the room. “Secure.”
“Okay, I’ll stay here with you.” She looked at the shot-up leather chairs and the destroyed door. “Anyone injured?”
“No.”
She gestured to the gun on my hip. “Did you discharge your weapon?”
“No.” I’m glad I hadn’t. I loved my SIG and didn’t want to have to surrender it for days or weeks or even years if there was a trial. I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Liv Branson.”
We chatted for a few minutes as Branson stayed on the door, then five minutes later she got the all-clear.
I walked over to the bathroom and knocked. “You can come out, Logan.”
He opened the door looking both mildly irritated and very concerned. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but the house and grounds are clear.”
He looked around the room and saw the destruction. “Brad did that?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t realize how much he hated me.”
“I don’t think he was thinking with all brain cells.”
“I need to check my office, see what he took.”
“My guess—he couldn’t get what he wanted, which is why he lost it,” I said.
“Hold off on that, Mr. Monroe,” Branson said. “My sergeant needs to get your statement first.”
“Did you find them?”
She didn’t respond. She was listening to her radio, then she said, “Please come with me.”
Logan and I followed her to the kitchen. Several cops were still outside looking around, and Sergeant Ryan Daza approached. I knew it was him because of his stripes. Six feet tall, fit, mid-thirties.
“We’ve detained Mrs. Monroe and Mr. Parsons at the guard house,” Daza said. “The first responding officer saw the Range Rover on the road, ran the plates, found it was registered to this house and since we didn’t quite know what was going on, we instructed the guard house to lock the gate until an officer arrived.”
“And?” I asked. “You detained, didn’t arrest?”
“Mr. Monroe,” Daza said, “can you please go with Officer Branson and give her your statement? I need to talk to Ms. Angelhart.”
“Of course,” Logan said. “I also need to check my office and computer to make sure nothing was stolen.”
“Go ahead, but take Officer Branson with you.”
Logan squeezed my arm. “Thank you, Margo. I mean it.”
Logan led the officers upstairs to his office, and Daza turned to me.
