“That wasn’t—”

She shoved me against the car again, then unfolded the paper. Holland leaned over to read it. He swore. His gaze lifted to mine, lip curled in disgust. “So you knew nothing about the bombing? Then why is the address in your pocket?”

“What? No. That wasn’t in my pocket. Not the paper or that powder. Look at my wallet. Notice anything odd? It’s soaked. Like my pocket. That paper and tube are dry, meaning it couldn’t have been in there.”

“Okay, so how did you get wet?” Holland asked.

“I … it’s kind of embarrassing, okay? I fell in a puddle. Landed on my ass.”

“Yes, that is embarrassing,” Medina said. “But not as embarrassing as the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your wallet was in your back pocket. It probably fell into the toilet. I lost a cell phone that way once.”

“No, my jeans are soaked—”

“Then I guess that bathroom accident was even more embarrassing. Or maybe you put these things in your pocket after you got them wet.”

“I’ve been sitting on them, in wet jeans—they’d at least be damp!”

Medina gave me another shove, hard enough that my chin hit the car. My teeth caught my tongue and I tasted blood.

Holland took over, holding me still as Medina tugged my ID from my damp wallet.

“Savannah Levine,” she said. “You’re under arrest for …”

Medina arrested Jaime, too, despite the fact that they had no evidence to suggest she was involved. That’s when I really knew this wasn’t kosher, especially when Holland seemed surprised by Medina’s decision. He didn’t argue. She was the senior partner. But when we got inside and someone yelled that there was trouble with a guy in the holding cell, Holland volunteered to help and got out of there fast.

Medina called over a second officer, a guy barely old enough to be shaving. He took charge of Jaime, who hadn’t said a word since we left the car. When I glanced at her now, she was blinking hard, eyes unfocused.

“Jaime?” I said.

She managed a weak smile. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t look okay. The officer had led her halfway down the hall when I heard a clatter and turned to see her doubled over, emptying her stomach onto the linoleum tiles.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I can’t believe I did that.” Her voice came out thick, words slurred.

“Partying a little early today, were you?” Medina said.

“Wh-what?” Jaime struggled to look up at her, eyes refusing to focus.

I tried to get to Jaime, but Medina yanked me back. “Your friend is fine. She just needs to lay off the booze.” She called to the young officer, “She’s one of those Hollywood types. Probably spent the night on Bourbon Street.”

“What?” I said. “No, we—”

“Should I send the mug shot to the tabloids?” the young officer asked with a grin.

“No, that’s exactly what these people want. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. I’ll handle the processing. Just stick her in the drunk tank.”

“Is that the charge then? Public drunkenness? For both of them?”

Medina nodded. I opened my mouth, but her look made me shut it.

She pushed me into the next open doorway and shut the door behind us as the other officer led Jaime to the cells.

“What the hell is going on?” I said, spinning on Medina. “First you question me about a bombing. Then you arrest me for it. Now you’ve switched to public drunkenness?”

“Would you rather the bomb charge?”

“There is no bomb charge. You—”

“There still might be.”

She cuffed me to a chair, then sat across from me and took out her cell phone. After a minute, I realized the beeps I heard weren’t from texting or e-mailing—she was playing a game.

I yanked on the chair. “You aren’t processing me.”

“Do you want me to?”

Part of me wanted to insist she charge me, just to see if she would, so I could confirm what I suspected was happening. But the rest of me said that was a very stupid idea.

So I seethed and writhed inside while she played her game.

“I want to make a phone call,” I finally said.

“You did.”

“That wasn’t my official call. You’re holding me, so I’m entitled to—”

“You’re entitled to a call if I charge you.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated. Find the core of stillness, then focus all my energy on casting—“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Medina said.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

I leaned forward. “And what would that be?” I met her gaze.

“Oh, wait … You know, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

Just as I suspected. “Who are you working for? The moronic liberation movement that bombed their own building?”

Her head jerked up. “Are you accusing me of being a terrorist, Ms. Levine?”

“Is that what you think they are? Good, then we’re on the same page. Either way, holding me is a very bad idea. I’d suggest you reconsider and let me cut you a deal with the Cortezes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

She leaped up and slammed me and my chair against the wall. As she shoved, she grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging in as she leaned down to my face.

“I don’t know who the hell these Cortezes are, but I can promise you that I’m not afraid of any gang. They can’t buy me and they can’t threaten me. Neither can you. I was giving you a break, Ms. Levine. Holding you on a lesser charge until I could consult with my superiors on the evidence we found in your back pocket. But if you want that charge—”

“No. I don’t. I—I made a mistake.”

“A very big mistake.” She shoved me again, the chair clattering against the wall. “And it’s not going to help your case. Since you don’t seem to like it here, let’s see if you prefer being in the drunk tank with your friend.”

THREE