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“Okay, but then what?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Once you find him and bring him in, what then?” I ask.
Sander leans back in his chair, flattening his hands against the tabletop, and takes a deep breath before speaking.
“Well, we can bring him in on questioning, but without any proof that he had anything to do with the accident, there’s not much we can hold him on legally.”
“Are you serious?” I balk.
“Trust me, I wish there was more we could do, but I have to go by the book, and without any evidence linking him to her accident, we’ve got nothing,” he says, shaking his head.
“What about probable cause?” I suggest.
“You got any?” he asks, eyebrows raised in a way that states he knows I don’t.
“No, but what about the argument we had at that race, when we bet my car?” I ask.
“What about it?” he asks in return.
“We had a confrontation. Isn’t that something?”
“Honestly, no. You would have more cause to retaliate after that night than he would. Which, if I’m not mistaken, you did in leu of a police report,” he says, and I deflate. He’s right; winning my car wouldn’t give him any reason to come after Keaton.
“But getting arrested because of said report might piss him off enough to do something,” I say, and I know I’m grasping at straws here.
“Bodhi, you and I both know he was still at the station during the time of the accident.” Sander says and sighs.
“I know, but maybe he called ToLo—”
“He didn’t. We traced his one call, and it was to his lawyer.”
I sit back in my chair, chewing on the inside of my cheek, wracking my brain.
“There has to be something,” I say to myself.
“At this point, you’d pretty much need a confession to book him for anything,” he says.
“So, let’s get one,” I say, and like a light bulb sparking to life over my head, I sit upright, the idea forming.
“What do you mean?”
“Admitting to threats and scaring Keaton out of money isn’t going to do more than get him a slap on the wrist, right?” I ask, turning to face Sander.
“Essentially, yeah,” he says, shrugging one shoulder.
“What about if he admitted to framing Eli?” I ask, and watch the spark take hold in Sander’s eyes.
“That would get him a minimum of six months. But pair that with the threats on her life, her mom’s life… and mine? That’s a minimum of six months per person. Not to mention extortion, and he’s probably looking at closer to five years,” he says, eyes far off and calculating.
“Five years?” I ask, secretly wishing for more.
“Depending on the judge, it could be more,” he says.
“What if…” I trail off, trying to muster up the nerve to ask. “What if his actions resulted in an accident that killed someone?”
I don’t look at him when I ask, afraid that he’ll see the hate boiling beneath the surface.
