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Rubio just stands there, stone-faced in his three-piece suit. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re right.”
“You can’t ignore me forever, McCallum.”
“Really? I thought I was doing a pretty good job up until now.” I make a sweeping motion across the empty garage, and then it hits me. “How did you get the access code to get in here anyway? Oh wait, don’t tell me.” Stepping forward, I lean in and whisper, “It’s classified.”
He doesn’t react to my taunt, offering only a calm smile. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Well, how about this one,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where were you between the hours of seven and ten-thirty p.m. on Friday?”
My danger gauge slams all the way to the right. I’ve known men like Rubio all my life. They like to play the hero role, but they’re just like the rest of us—predatory bastards who look out for number one. And if this asshole thinks he’s going to spin me in verbal circles until I say something stupid, he didn’t do his homework.
“It’s mid-September, Jav. There have been a lot of Fridays. You’ll have to be more specific.”
A flash of irritation in his eyes breaks his calm façade. “This past Friday. The night of Miss Romanov’s party.”
Danger gauge was dead on. This whole routine was just the warm-up for the real show. The one where he goes in with a shovel to see what he can dig up.
Well, game on, motherfucker. I have one, too. Let’s see who can move the most dirt.
“At home getting ready,” I answer, crossing my arms and mimicking his stance.
He rolls his eyes. “For three and a half hours?”
“As they say in Hollywood, magic doesn’t just happen.”
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts? Oh, let me guess…you were alone.” He air-quotes the last word.
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t,” I clarify, air-quoting my own word. “Talk to my producer, Milly Boone.”
He raises a curious eyebrow. “Now isn’t that interesting? Does Miss Romanov know your producer works,” he clears his throat, “overtime.”
There are those damn air-quotes. I swear, if he does it again, I’m going to punch him, badge or no badge. Still, I can feel his confidence starting to waver. He’s grasping at straws, and the one he’s pulling on is the shortest one in the bunch.
“Do you have a point you’d like to make, detective?” I say, air-quoting once more. “Or do you plan to stand here tossing out baseless bullshit all night?”
His patience is wearing thin. I can tell by the involuntary twitch in his eye. This time there are no air-quotes, smirks, or eye rolls. He’s back to being stone faced and stock still.
“You don’t happen to know anything about a missing man named Freddy Wiseman, do you?”
Shit.
“Nope, never heard of him.” I clamp my teeth together.
“Interesting. Because witnesses verify seeing him taking pictures on your lawn two weeks ago.”
“And I’m supposed to know the name of every idiot who stalks me?”
Locking his hands behind his back, he flicks his gaze toward me. “Just find it interesting, that’s all.”
“Get a hobby, Rubio.” I’m done with this conversation. I don’t offer a goodbye as I turn around and push the elevator call button.
“Why are you here?” he asks slowly. “You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with Miss Romanov.”
Losing my patience, I cock my chin over my shoulder and glare. “Why are you here? I’m sure she’s not expecting you, so yet again, that means you’re trespassing.”
