Chapter 3
1294words
The air hung heavy with cheap coffee, paper, and stale sweat. Phone rings and keyboard clicks created the precinct's endless urban symphony.
Yet amid the chaos, a heavy silence dominated the interrogation observation room.
Ethan Carter leaned against the one-way glass, arms crossed, his knife-edge gaze fixed on the man beyond the glass.
Arthur Finch.
According to tech's overnight investigation, that exquisite "L & H" lapel pin belonged to Arthur Finch, junior partner at Levin & Hopkins Law Firm.
At five a.m., Ethan had personally led the team to arrest him at his Upper East Side luxury apartment.
From the moment the cuffs clicked shut, the impeccably dressed lawyer hadn't uttered a single word.
His face betrayed no panic or anger—just an infuriating, superior calm. Like he wasn't sitting on a cold metal chair in a police station but sipping Earl Grey at his private club.
"Guy's locked up tighter than Fort Knox," Chief Marcus said, stepping beside Ethan with a steaming coffee mug. "Background check came back clean as a whistle. Ivy League grad, stellar career, zero priors. Only connection to Sarah Jenkins is her sister once got free legal advice from their firm on a housing dispute. Arthur handled it."
"Motive?" Ethan asked darkly, eyes never leaving Finch's expressionless face.
"Beats me. Maybe fallout from that consultation? But there's no paper trail. Guy's a ghost until now." Marcus sighed. "Look at him—typical Wall Street type, nerves of steel. Without counsel present, he's not saying jack."
Ethan's knuckles whitened as he clenched his fist. Nothing pissed him off more than these smug, entitled types—using the law as a shield, hiding behind their elite status.
He was about to go in for another round, ready to crack that shell his way, when a knock came at the door.
"Detective Carter, there's a lawyer asking for you—says they're representing Finch."
Ethan and Marcus exchanged knowing glances.
That was fast.
Ethan strode out, cutting through the noisy bullpen. When he spotted the woman at reception, his steps faltered.
She was striking.
She wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that accentuated her confident, elegant frame. Dark brown hair coiled neatly at her nape, clear determined eyes, her entire presence radiating power that seemed alien to the precinct's chaos.
Not delicate beauty, but something sharper—intelligent, formidable.
"Detective Ethan Carter," he said, approaching her with deliberate steps.
She turned, meeting his gaze with cool composure. Between her height and heels, she nearly matched him eye to eye.
"Sophie Bennett." She extended her hand—the gesture precise, powerful. "I represent Mr. Arthur Finch. My credentials."
Her voice was cool and melodious, like water flowing over stones.
Ethan shook her hand—warm and firm, not soft as he'd expected. He took the documents, scrutinizing every word, hunting for flaws. There were none. Every clause stood impeccable.
"I need to see my client now, and I'll be present for all further questioning," Sophie stated, withdrawing her hand. Not a request—a declaration.
Ethan met her gaze, recognizing what he saw there—calculation and wariness. A worthy adversary.
"Of course, Counselor." He returned her documents, a slight smile playing at his lips. "This way."
***
White walls, cold metal furniture, harsh fluorescent lighting—everything in the interrogation room engineered for psychological pressure.
But Sophie Bennett's arrival disrupted that calculated oppression. She sat beside Arthur Finch, spine straight, posture regal—an immovable force. Her presence alone declared: this territory was now contested.
Ethan sat opposite them, sliding a document to the table's center.
"Mr. Finch, let's take another crack at this," Ethan said with unexpected gentleness, like chatting with an old friend. "We found that three months back, you advised Sarah Jenkins' sister."
Arthur's eyelid twitched slightly, but he remained silent, glancing toward Sophie.
Sophie gave a slight nod—permission to stay silent.
Ethan shifted his focus to Sophie with a smile. "Just stating facts, Counselor. That's not a question, is it?"
"Do continue, Detective." Sophie's voice remained unruffled, as if his tactics were beneath her notice.
Ethan's smile remained fixed, but his tone shifted abruptly, turning razor-sharp. He slammed the evidence bag containing the lapel pin onto the table with a loud thud.
"Then explain this, Mr. Finch." Ethan leaned forward, his presence suddenly filling the room. "This pin belongs to you. Found it under the windowsill at our crime scene. What—did it sprout wings and fly to Brooklyn on its own?"
Arthur's expression finally cracked, his lips parting as if to speak.
But Sophie was quicker.
"Detective," her voice wasn't loud but cut like a scalpel through the tension, "my client is exercising his Fifth Amendment right to remain silent. He won't be answering your questions."
"I'm not asking him—I'm asking you, Counselor. How do you explain your client's personal item at my crime scene?" Ethan's gaze pinned her like steel.
Sophie met his stare unflinchingly. Her lips curled into a faint, almost mocking smile.
"My job isn't to 'explain' anything to the police, Detective. My job is ensuring my client's rights aren't violated. As for your 'evidence'"—she glanced dismissively at the bag—"a lapel pin that could be lost, stolen, or forged? If that's your ace, I worry about New York's taxpayers."
"You—!" Officer Wilson started angrily, but Ethan silenced him with a look.
Ethan studied Sophie intently. Her quick mind and sharper tongue exceeded his expectations.
"Counselor, you know damn well that presence at a crime scene isn't trivial," Ethan's voice chilled.
"And I'm aware that naming my client a suspect based on zero direct evidence, no witnesses, and one questionable item is both hasty and irresponsible," Sophie fired back. "Detective, unless you have something compelling, we're done with this charade."
The air crackled with tension. Ethan and Sophie—one wielding the state's power in pursuit of justice, the other the shield of law protecting due process—locked in silent combat.
Finally, Ethan leaned back, recognizing the stalemate.
"We're done for today." He stood, voice glacial. "But Mr. Finch, you're our guest for the next forty-eight hours."
***
Ethan stalked from the room, yanking at his collar in frustration. He poured a cup of coffee, but the scalding liquid did nothing to cool his temper.
This Sophie Bennett was like polished granite—impervious to all his techniques and pressure tactics.
He was heading back to his desk when a voice stopped him.
"Detective Carter."
Ethan turned to find Sophie in the hallway, arms crossed, regarding him coolly. Her client had already been escorted back to holding.
"Something else, Counselor?" Ethan's tone dripped impatience.
"Just a friendly reminder," Sophie stepped closer, standing just inches away. The bustling officers around them seemed to fade away. Her clear eyes locked onto his, carrying a challenge. "Your evidence chain has a fatal flaw. A pin doesn't make a case. No weapon tied to my client, no prints, no witnesses. You're holding him on coincidence—that's illegal detention."
"I'll find it," Ethan said, biting off each word. "I'll find evidence connecting your client to this case."
"Will you?" Sophie's lips curled into that challenging smile again. "I look forward to it. But I hope a top NYPD detective won't waste resources chasing the wrong lead. After all, the real attacker might still be out there, walking free."
With that, she turned and walked toward the exit.
Ethan stood rooted, watching her confident stride until she disappeared.
For the first time ever, he felt genuinely challenged by a woman.
Anger, frustration, and an unacknowledged curiosity twisted inside him.
He had to admit—Sophie Bennett was the most formidable opponent he'd ever faced. Her professionalism, her composure, and those penetrating eyes had left their mark.
This wasn't the end. Just the beginning.
Ethan grabbed his lukewarm coffee and downed it in one gulp.
