Liars Like Us

18

“Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I hang up and grab my handbag from under the counter. Then I run to my car, barely remembering to lock the front door because I’m in such a rush.

When I get to the apartment, my neighbors are milling around on the street outside, comforting Maude, who’s crying. Two police cars are parked at the curb. Four armed officers stand in front of the building, glowering in the crowd’s general direction.

A barrier of bright yellow crime scene tape crisscrosses the front entrance.

I march straight up to the officers and demand, “What’s going on here?”

“Building’s been condemned, miss. Move along, please.”

“I live in that building!”

“What’s your name?”

“Emery Eastwood. I’m in apartment 101, and I demand to know what’s happening.”

Two of the officers share a look, like they already know I’m trouble. The taller one says, “You have thirty minutes to pack up and get out.”

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t just throw people out of their homes! I’m not leaving! You need a court order for something like this! You have to give proper notice!”

The shorter officer snaps, “Miss?”

I turn to look at him and his silly pointy moustache. “Yes?”

“Are you aware that failure to obey a police officer’s order is a crime?”

I narrow my eyes at him, convinced he’s stretching the truth. “What section of the criminal code is that under?”

He looks like he’s two seconds away from wrapping his hands around my throat and giving it a long, hard squeeze.

Through gritted teeth, he says, “It’s under the section where I tell you that you have thirty minutes to remove your personal belongings from your dwelling and leave the premises before I put you in cuffs, take you to the station, and charge you with obstruction.”

Appalled, I stare at him.

This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. Or I’ve fallen down and hit my head and am lying unconscious on the side of a road somewhere.

What the hell has happened to my life?

At that moment, my cell rings. I take the opportunity to turn away from the hard stares the group of cops are giving me to walk a few feet away and pull it from my purse.

“Hello?”

“Miss Eastwood, it’s Callum McCord. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I think I may have upset you, and that wasn’t my intent.”

He sounds detached and professional, with none of the rip-you-to-pieces carnivore energy he had before.

Giving the policemen a nervous glance over my shoulder, I move a few steps farther away. “You don’t owe me an apology, but thank you. I should actually be apologizing to you for threatening to break your face.”

“Are you all right? You sound anxious.”

“Actually, this isn’t a good time to talk. The police are throwing me out of my apartment.”

Even though he’s nowhere in sight, I feel his attention sharpen. His voice lower, he demands, “Tell me exactly what’s happening.”

I suppose it could be because I’m emotional, or because he sounds so concerned and I need a shoulder to lean on, but I blurt out the entire story, telling him every awful detail.

When I’m finished, he orders, “Give your phone to whichever officer is in charge.”

“Why would I do that? These guys already want to arrest me!”

“Emery. Do exactly what I told you to do. And do it now.”

His voice is so commanding. So soft yet utterly in control. It slides over all my nerve endings like poured silk, smoothing their jagged edges and giving me a little boost of confidence.

At least somebody around here knows what they’re doing.

I take a breath and turn back toward the policemen. “Which one of you guys is in charge?”

Nobody says anything, but the short officer darts a glance toward the tall one.

Bingo.

I walk up to him and hold out my cell phone. “Callum McCord wants to talk to you.”

Speaking that name has an immediate effect on the group of men. Everyone tenses. The air goes electric. One of the cops takes a single step back, looking as if he’s about to turn and break into a run.

The tall officer reluctantly takes the phone from my hand. He lifts it to his ear and clears his throat. “Officer Anderson speaking.”

Then he listens to whatever Callum is telling him with an expression like he’s attending his own funeral.

After several long moments, he hands the phone back to me. He says stiffly, “Sorry for the inconvenience, miss. You can go ahead and go inside.” He turns to his men. “Take down the tape. We’re done here.”

Dumbfounded, I watch as two of the officers go to the front doors of the building and tear down the tape. Then all four of them head to their patrol cars.

Into my phone, I say, “Boy, it must be really great to be a billionaire.”

“Are they leaving?”

“Yes, and I’m deeply impressed. Do you actually own the police force?”

Callum chuckles. It’s a sound so rich and sexy, it sends a tingle down my spine.

He says, “I’ll get in touch with the city inspector to get this all straightened out. The city is notorious for overreacting to small infractions and levying fines so egregious, the building owners can’t pay. The fight usually winds up in court, but in the meantime, they pull some power play like this to put pressure on the owner. I can’t tell you how many times it’s happened to us.”

“Us?”

“My family. We own many rental properties there.”

“I knew the building shouldn’t be condemned!”

He chuckles again. “You were right. Buildings have to practically be falling down before that happens.”