Читать книгу The Seventeen - Joel Arcanjo - Страница 11

Chapter 2

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense,” Boyd finished. A perfect rendition. It had to be, he couldn’t let this joker off on a technicality in court.

This was a big fish. His name was Lex Archer, son of billionaire tech mogul Theodore Archer. A huge catch for the NYPD. Archer owned ArchiTech. A company that was so successful that he had built his own tower on West 57th Street. Archer had named it Tech Tower. It couldn’t match the 58 storeys of Trump tower but, at 45, it was impressive to say the least.

Archer’s son was very different to his father. Boyd only had to look at him to see that. He was eccentric, charismatic and lived for the finer things in life. Theodore Archer was a stiff suit who only cared about furthering his company. He annihilated people who got in his way. His motto was famous across the US: “If people don’t like you, you’re doing something right.”

Idiot, Boyd thought. But it was difficult to argue with his results.

Boyd grabbed the kid and led him out of the 17th floor office, every employee gawking at the boss being dragged away by a four man team of fully geared up police officers.

The kid didn’t even blink. He kept his head dead straight, maintaining his composure all the way down in the elevator. Boyd kept glancing back at him. It wasn’t how he expected a murderer to react. No. The sense of calm was unnerving.

“Hey kid, knock it off.”

He said nothing.

Boyd wasn’t even sure what he wanted the kid to stop, but whatever it was, it made Boyd uncomfortable. Boyd hated to feel uncomfortable, but he had to let it go. This self-adoring suit would get what was coming to him. The rich and powerful often forgot they were bound by the same laws as mere mortals. They were soon reminded of that the moment they stepped into federal prison. He wanted to be there to see this wise guy heading for the metal gates. Lex Archer wouldn’t be so sure of himself then.

Boyd dragged the kid out of the elevator by his left arm. The fibers of his suit were probably worth more than Boyd’s house and all of its contents. A sickening thought and one which made him tighten his grip further. Boyd was a big guy. It must have felt like a small anaconda attempting to squeeze the life out of his bicep. His captive didn’t even grimace. The kid wasn’t small himself. Boyd put his height at about 6’1 and noticed he was well put together. A college football player or wrestler maybe. Slender but quite powerful looking.

Boyd marched Archer across the atrium. The whole lobby ground to a halt the moment Archer. was spotted exiting the elevator. Boyd heard a collective gasp followed by hushed whispers. He paid no attention and kept walking. It must have been a bizarre sight, police officers in full raid uniform parading a calm billionaire through a silent lobby that probably contained hundreds of pointing onlookers. Boyd signaled to the officer waiting with security. He fell in behind.

They reached the large glass doors, funneling through two at a time, Boyd still clutching the kid’s arm tight. He thought he saw a slight grimace of pain as they lumbered down the white marble stairs, but it quickly disappeared. He glanced left and right, checking the street for anyone eyeing the kid. It was the middle of the day and the street was bathed in sunlight. But it seemed that no-one on the street could care less about what was happening. New York commuters just trying to get from A to B as fast as possible.

He dragged Archer to the back of the waiting van, opened the door, and stuffed him inside, taking little care he didn’t hit his head. Unfortunately for Boyd, Archer ducked low avoiding a nasty bang. Boyd jumped into the back after him. They sat side by side, saying nothing all the way back to Police Plaza.

The kid had lost his confident smile and was staring blankly out of the window at the blur of color whizzing past. He had a look of naivety and innocence about him. Hard to imagine he had killed someone in cold blood. But from experience Boyd knew looks could be deceiving, and they usually were.

They reached the HQ at quarter past two. Boyd swung the van doors open and jumped out the back. He got one of the other men to lift Archer up and move him to the rear. He grabbed Archer’s arm and dragged him out. They took a moment to congregate before marching Archer straight to the nearest interrogation room. Rooms one through six were occupied but seven was empty. Boyd opened the door and led Archer in. The moment the door closed he took off Archer’s handcuffs and threw him into the chair on the far side of the room. Archer fell into it with a painful thud. The kid objected to this and instinctively jumped to his feet, but immediately composed himself and sat down.

He was smarter than Boyd thought.

“Give me a reason,” Boyd growled, raising a melon-sized fist.

The kid did not look intimidated at all. Far from it. He looked eerily calm. It unnerved Boyd. He’d had a bad day and was hoping this punk would make the mistake of throwing a punch at him so he could lay him out and call it self defense. Not exactly by the book, but it was better than paying hundreds of dollars he didn’t have on a therapist. Why admit you have problems when you could just hit a guy? But Archer didn’t bite. He remained seated.

“Got anything to say for yourself?” Boyd asked provocatively.

Archer leant forward slowly and said, “Yeah I do. Get me Isabella Clements.”