His mouth was dry.
They'd been working for twelve hours straight when the phone call came. Dispatch sent them to the Mark hotel where they'd been held up for two hours- interviewing witnesses and taking statements.
A girl was found by a maitre d stumbling out of an elevator, her clothes shredded, bruises on her arms. Her skirt around her ankles, underwear missing. She was disoriented, best guess was she'd been drugged. Then raped. She'd bonded with Munch since he'd been the first to arrive on the scene so he'd ended up going to Mercy with the victim- Emily Hunter.
Emily Hunter. The lawyer. One of the best defence attorneys in the state. Always stayed late. Could be relied on for a crisis. Wouldn't hurt a fly. How could anyone do this to her? No, I didn't see her disappear up to a room. No boyfriend. Married to the job. Got along with everyone in her office- Watson Wilson and Wilcox.
He was getting sick and tired of the perfect answers. Never could trust these sharks for a real answer. They weren't paid to be honest- just to bend the truth until it suited their defense. Lawyers made the worst witnesses.
He shot a glance over at Liv, who gave him the same look he knew he must have plastered all over his face- they weren't getting anywhere. Who knew defense attorneys got together for a Christmas party anyway. He supposed to celebrate how many criminals they put back on the street to commit more heinous crimes that would fatten their pocket. Fuck, probably one of these scum fucks would defend whoever raped Emily. Always about the money- nothing else.
He gave his thanks to the middle aged man he'd been talking to- Bill, Bob, something, for his useless information and proceeded toward the bar.
He needed some water.
"Elliot, find out anything?"
He glanced back to Cabot who strolled over to him. From her pinned up blonde hair and the sparkly red dress, she'd been invited to this hell. "Nothing but the cookie cutter answers I could get from her next door neighbour. No one wants to give me a straight answer. They're covering their own asses. You'd think they'd want to help their own, but what can you expect from soulless scum?"
"Well we need something," Cabot started, following him to the bar. "I got off the phone with Munch. She doesn't remember anything pertaining to the attack. Last thing she remembers was eating dinner, and then waking up naked in a hotel room she didn't recognize. Fin tells me the room was rented under a false name, he paid cash and the security camera on the thirty fifth floor where they traced back to the room to has been cut. It's a pro job."
He smirked, gesturing around the room. "We're in a room full of people who know exactly what we'd need to convict them. Take your pick because right now, these interviews are pointless."
"Someone saw something," Cabot stated, squeezing his shoulder. "You'll find someone."
"Sure." He rolled his eyes, as she just smiled, spinning around and gliding over to Olivia through the thicket of people.
He squeezed himself between two men, leaning over the bar- snapping his fingers at the bartender to get his attention.
"Can I get a water. Now."
He knew he should perhaps display some manners but he was tired. And thirsty. He'd kill to be in bed right now, next to Cathy.
"Can you make that two?" The man next to him blurted out, facing away from him. From the two thousand dollar black suit, he could just guess this was another defense attorney.
"Are we next to be interviewed?" The man next to the one who ordered water asked, facing him. He was older, greying hair, thin face. Beady eyes. An even more expensive black suit on he guessed from the rolex he had on his right wrist, and platinum ring on his left hand.
"Can I get your names?" He asked as he took out the guest list he'd been provided by the hotel when he'd arrived.
"Thomas Whitmore," The man extended his hand as the other, younger man moved away so he was able to reach across him, to accept it. "We're from Whitmore Legal. We sat next to Emily and the partners of her firm. I can't believe someone would do this to her. You're sure it wasn't that boyfriend she mentioned at dinner?"
That was he new he thought as he took out his notebook. "She has a boyfriend? Did you catch his name?"
The younger one of the two chuckled. "I wouldn't say boyfriend exactly. Her and the secretary from our firm were whispering about her latest hook up. Apparently someone from her office- though she wouldn't divulge a name."
They were interrupted when the bartender appeared with the water, and he drank it greedily. "Aren't the partners in her firm all married?" He asked, placing his near empty glass back onto the wood. Perhaps the motive for the attack. "Any guess on who?"
"Don't answer that." Whitmore warned, making his blood boil. For once he'd like the truth. And he was finally getting somewhere with this witness.
"Daniel Wilcox. He's the best looking of the bunch, and the cockiest bastard you'll ever meet."
"He wouldn't ruin his career with any illegal hanky panky," Whitmore interjected as he scribbled the name down. He hadn't gotten to Wilcox yet.
"It's rape, not just a little hanky panky." He snarled, his eyes diverting to the man beside him. They'd yet to face each other. "Can I get your name?"
"Tobias Beecher," The man stated, finally swiveling the chair, a bright smile lit up his face until they were face to face.
It couldn't be.
It just couldn't be.
"Chris?"
Fuck it was.