When Blackhawk stepped from the shadow, Debra set her face with the feigned pinkness to her cheeks. She knew how to hold a poker face. A beige file flew onto the metallic table with a thwack and Blackhawk remained stoned as he relaxed on the chair, reversed.
"What can I do for you, detective?" she unruffled.
Her eyes told him about seriousness. The darkness of her pupil gave it away. The dim stripped light hanging from above had not been the stimulant. But the lies that crept beneath the darkness craves the light of the truth. No matter how much she tried to restrain it, he saw her answer. Her lips cornered up into a mild grin that presented a hint to her masked fearfulness. Blackhawk sat with his eyes set to her actions. Her giddy rise to power and she examined him without twisting her head. She didn't hear her heart hammering but the disregarding hesitation.
He quelled an urge to start an argument. "Officer."
Debra put her head backward in a threatening roar. The cold stare was enough to set her edging out of harm's way. She held up for maybe three full seconds before the edges of her mouth resumed their usual crooked grin and her eyes quit staring. She swayed her hips forward with her peeking breast squishing against each other to the lethal stare of the older man opposite her. Then came her hands, resting on the table in a fold.
"Let's make a deal?" Her voice softens in all the finest of ways. "his name is John Whidbey. Denneboom Road, Coupeville. He could whip up your promotion to a deputy. Chief perhaps?"
"How long is my trip?" Blackhawk asked.
Debra smiled across to her cheekbones, as if she'd scored the lottery. "About three hours." She crouched back into the chair. "If sooner he could hook up with the State Bureau of Investigation–"
His hand lifted above and cut her off. Her words hadn't struck him the way she requires them to. Once in his life with women like herself had taught him a lesson to engrave in his mind; Out of the ash. She rises with her red hair and eats men like air. He's got the map of Seattle imprinted in his head. The traffic flows. Water, mountains and evergreen forests and the thousands of acres. Matter of fact, it took him an hour or two to reach Coupeville in his past patrols.
His mouth grew to a smirk, in the corner, peeping out a pair of pearls. "I have a shortcut."
Debra grew an amused smile that danced on her lips. "The fact is. You've got one up your sleeve, don't you?" He stood up.
Her face was one of utmost confidence. "What do you mean?"
Blackhawk rounds the table and sits his bottom on the desk. He slipped the file closer and folded his arms across his chest. "Open it." Wait. Wait. Sounds simple, right? Perhaps the woman wasn't accustomed to losing.
She reached out and opened it. "What's this?"
He dipped his head by a few centimeters. "A woman like you could write the Thesaurus from memory."
She rolled her eyes and slipped down to inspect the document. Inside holds two women that she'd wished were foreign. "What do you want me to say?" This time. She soothes her words.
"What I want? Is for you to confirm that a caliber fired by your dear friend, Richard Costello. Killed The Lava Lounge waitresses under your control."
Debra inspected the document. "I don't know a Richard Costello." Her facial expression was one of absolute disdain.
"So that's not your phone number, and a number registered to that rap sheet.” His thick, lengthy index finger rested upon the document, "—is not Richard Costello?"
"That's not my number."
He fixed his chest with a mass of air compressing his lungs. "And that's not you?" she nodded. He grinned and stood alongside her. "My bad. That must be Deborah Flora,” he chuckled darkly.
Bending down, she felt his warm breath kiss her skin. His right hand slipped onto the table and the other twirling her hair. She closed her eyes briefly as her breath choked her channel. Slowly, his hand slipped down toward her upper back. His rough fingers grazing her skin as they leave hot patches on their way. His mouth came closer to her cheek and she let out the burning ball of air that was searing the walls of her lungs.
"See, there's a Debra I know. She lives in this revolting candy rundown house.” He turned to face her. "A sweetheart with the name of Ganglion."
Debra released the fire from her chest and took a moment to compose herself. "I know what you're doing."
"Oh sweetheart, you're already gasping for air when we're just getting started." He moved away. "Something tells me he's not worthy of your beauty."
She folds her arms and legs cross over the other. "The hell he isn't!"
Blackhawk reclaimed his position at the edge of the desk. "Right. Is that why you killed his mistress? The woman he growled for every time he fed her his seed."
Abruptly, she stood from her seat and dashed to the one-way mirror. "That's preposterous! He can't bear children."
He couldn't believe he'd restrained a laugh that long as it burned in his chest and prickled his mouth for release. The folder in his hands opened. "Right, the Clomifene–fertility pill prescribed by Dr. Lee Anderson. A loan of twenty thousand dollars for a Line of Credit from Seattle Credit Union, borrowed in February 2019 signed under your name." He paused and glanced down at the wrathful woman. “Which is fucking more than I make annually, child support payments and other godforsaken expenses. A thousand dollars for an insurance free vasectomy at Dr. Snips clinic. Which he hadn't bothered going to since he knocked those beautiful women up. All of that has nothing to do with a homicide payment for riding beautiful, innocent, older women because of an infertile wife–and dare I say it—" he slid down to her ear. “Illegitimate son?"
Debra's expression appeared to have her wanting to cry as rage filled her belly. Hatred as she glanced up at the officer's hard, stony eyes. Then laughs only adding fuel to her wrath. Her face duplicated the shade of her hair to her cheeks downward. "Davis didn't need three other bitches to carry his fucked up children!" She pulled at her hair.
Blackhawk hid his impatience and relaxed his tensed muscles as he followed her to her seat. Debra's head hung low in her hands, fingers digging into her scalp as she sails with a song of curses. His hand touched her shoulder and leg over his knee. "Here's the thing.” He soothes her skin as he bends down to her ear. "Did I mention they were three?"
Debra slowly removed her hands from her heated face. Eyes wide and tight-lipped. It had then occurred to her. The white creamy tone of her skin reminded him of nothing but a ghost.
"I want a lawyer."