Page 20 of Gilt

He’s either a saint, or the sun temporarily blinded him, because he doesn’t comment on it. “Would it be possible for you to come down to the station?”

“Why?” I’ve been reduced to simple questions. Up next: who, what, when, where. If I don’t get myself together, there’s a breathalyzer in my future.

“We have you on a list of people who attended a party at the West’s private residence last night. Is that correct?” His fingers hook into his belt loops as he sways impatiently. He already knows the answer. I doubt the security cameras all over the resort are props.

But since it’s a good idea to cooperate with law enforcement, I nod.

“Have you been home all day?” he asks.

“No. I met my mom for brunch,” I say slowly.

“Then I assume you heard that a body was found this morning at the West Resort,” he continues, helpfully filling in the blanks as I try to comprehend that a policeman is standing on my front stoop.

“Yes, we discussed it over croissants.” I refrain from rolling my eyes because I doubt he missed the sarcasm in the statement. “But I don’t see what that has to do with me. Most of Belle Mère Prep was at that party last night.”

This time he takes his sunglasses off and stares me down. “Most of them left before dawn.”

“I bet you’ve been practicing that move for years. Did it feel good?”

His stare turns into a glare. Do not get on the bad side of Johnny Law.

“Okay, then. Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?” he asks.

He’s taking this moment way too seriously, but I suppose most cops don’t join the force to hand out parking tickets.

“Look, if you want to call your parents, I can wait,” he offers.

“No!” Calling parents equals my dad finding out that I willingly went to the Wests’ house last night. “Sorry, I’m new to this. I think I’ve been watching too much CSI.”

“Do you need a ride?” He puts his sunglasses back on.

I look past him to the squad car parked in my driveway. Thank God most of the neighbors work weekends. “Do I have to sit in the back?”

“Not this time.”

“Okay, give me a minute.” I back away from the door and attempt to surreptitiously deposit the bottle on the couch. Briefly, I consider changing. Then again, I’m wearing a dress, so I could just take off my panties and rock the whole Sharon Stone bit. This isn’t how I saw my Saturday afternoon playing out, especially not the part where I fulfill some cop’s wet dream.

“Get it over with, Emma,” I mutter, grabbing my purse. As I head out the door, I check his badge.

Officer Mobie.

“It couldn’t have been easy to have that name in school,” I say as he opens the passenger door for me.

He doesn’t respond as he waits for me to get in. Mental note: bringing up childhood bullying might not be the best way to start a conversation with the person putting you into a police cruiser.

I stare out the window, surprised when we pull into a small, residential station only a few blocks from my house. There are no reporters with flashing cameras or hordes of gawkers. Save for a few expensive cars parked awkwardly next to the force’s Crown Vics; nothing’s going on. Since it was a shorter ride than I expected, it didn’t give me much time to prepare for my first official police questioning. I’m sure that living in Vegas means it won’t be my last. Not that there’s much to sort through. Mostly all I feel is unfiltered dread and the need to pound my head against a brick wall. Bad things happen when I attempt socializing. When will I learn?

I study the Belle Mère Police Station before I turn and check the officer’s badge again. Las Vegas Police Department. Is he lost? “I thought they found the body at the resort.”

“They did, but the Belle Mère special crimes unit has been tasked with handling this case. We’re assisting.” Translation: since the situation involves people with money, it would be dealt with delicately.

“I’m guessing the media is camped out at your station, waiting for a press conference that isn’t going to happen.”

“I wouldn’t know, miss.” But this observation earns me the slightest twitch of the lips. I’m right, and maybe Officer Mobie is human after all.

He escorts me inside. The waiting area looks more like the lobby of a nice hotel, complete with nondescript art and carefully selected, stain-resistant furniture. A receptionist with hot-pink hair pulled into a top knot shoots Officer Mobie a warm smile.