CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sterile fluorescent lights of the corridor flickered intermittently, casting an eerie pall over the evening"s proceedings. Finn leaned against the cold, unyielding wall outside the interview room, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on his thigh. Beside him, Amelia surveyed the door with a steely resolve that belied the concern tugging at the corners of her eyes.

"Think Beckett did it?" Rob"s voice cut through the hum of silence, his gaze fixed on the one-way mirror.

Finn straightened, his hand instinctively reaching up to rub the tender spot on his temple where brick had met flesh earlier that day. "Her print was on the gun," he replied curtly, eyes narrowed in thought. "It"s more than possible."

"You don"t look well, Finn," Rob remarked, casting a sidelong glance at the consultant detective.

"Too many late nights," Finn dismissed with a wave of his hand, though the throbbing in his head suggested otherwise. Amelia"s voice, soft but insistent, floated to his ears.

"I"m worried about you," she confessed.

"I'm fine," Finn grunted, more out of reflex than conviction.

"Something else on your mind?" Rob prodded, catching the shadow that crossed Finn"s otherwise impassive features.

Max Vilne"s elusive figure flashed in Finn"s memory, a ghost at the edge of the chaos during Beckett"s arrest. "Thought I saw Max Vilne," he muttered, unsure now if it had been a trick of his beleaguered mind.

"Are you sure?" Rob asked.

"No," Came Finn"s quick reply.

"Let"s say it was him, why would he be there?" Rob seemed willing to entertain the idea.

"At the tree back at the cottage," Finn reminded Rob. "We found an old pocket watch wedged in a hole of the trunk. I got someone to look at it and, at the very least, it was Victoria styled. This entire case seems to revolve around time and the Victorian era, it"s too much of a coincidence. Vilne could be pulling the strings to taunt and punish me."

"I"ll put the word out that he might be in the vicinity of the crime scenes. Maybe you should rest for a bit," Rob offered, but Finn"s resolve hardened like diamond.

"No thanks. We see this through to the end."

With a collective breath, Finn and Amelia turned toward the interview room, its door swinging open with a creak of protest. Maggie Beckett stood defiantly inside, her posture rigid as the antique furniture she peddled. A storm brewed behind her eyes, the kind that had seen centuries of secrets traded for silver.

"Sit," Finn instructed, the word slicing through the tension.

Maggie"s lips curled into a sneer. "I prefer to stand."

"Then I"ll sit." Finn moved to claim the metal chair across from her, its legs scraping against the linoleum in protest. Amelia followed suit, her presence beside him both reassuring and unsettling, for he could feel the weight of her gaze on him, heavy with unspoken worry.

He could almost hear the cogs turning in her head, the way they might have in one of the mechanical contraptions from the past they were so used to piecing together—calculating, deducing, searching for the truth beneath the rust. But today, the machine in question was himself, and Finn wasn"t sure he welcomed the scrutiny.

Finn leaned forward, elbows resting on the cold metal table, his gaze locked onto Maggie Beckett"s defiant stance. Shadows danced across her features, etched by the harsh overhead light. "Ms. Beckett," he began, his voice carrying a razor-sharp edge, "are you acquainted with a Mr. Rajiv Choudhary?"

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion betraying her otherwise unyielding facade. "Why do you ask?" she countered, her tone laced with caution.

"Because," Amelia interjected, her words steady and clinical, "your fingerprints were found on the gun that ended his life."

Maggie"s complexion paled, a stark contrast to the rich tapestries that hung behind her in the interrogation room—a touch of old-world charm in a sterile environment. "That"s impossible," she gasped, her shock seeming to splinter the armor she had so meticulously crafted.

"Is it now?" Finn pressed, skeptically arching an eyebrow. "If you"re as innocent as you claim, why did you run when we found you?"

Her lips parted, hesitating for a split second before the truth—or what appeared to be the truth—spilled out. "I"ve got a friend—she's undocumented—living with me. I thought... I thought you were after her, not me." Her voice wavered slightly, humanizing the statue of defiance she presented. "So I led you on a wild goose chase instead."

Amelia slid the evidence bag across the table with a practiced motion, its contents glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. The antique gun, an incongruous blend of old-world craftsmanship and modern violence, lay within, accusingly still.

"Recognize this?" she asked, her voice devoid of inflection yet carrying the weight of implication.

Maggie Beckett"s gaze fixed on the bag, her eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through the plastic and reclaim a piece of her past. "It"s from my shop," she said evenly, her tone suggesting a mundane connection to an otherwise lethal object.

"Your prints are all over it," Finn interjected, watching Maggie closely. He knew the stress of interrogation often cracked the hardest facades. Hers was polished but not impenetrable.

"Of course, they are. I handle everything in there." Maggie"s chin tilted up defiantly. "I can show you receipts, inventory lists. That gun was logged."

"Can you now?" Amelia prodded, raising an eyebrow.

"Absolutely." Despite the gravity of the situation, Maggie"s response bordered on nonchalant. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, a silent dare for them to challenge her further.

Finn felt a bead of irritation form at the base of his skull, a mixture of fatigue from too many late nights and the nagging doubt that had lodged itself there since the arrest. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table, eyes locked onto Maggie"s. "What about Max Vilne? Know him?"

"Never heard of him," Maggie replied, her facade uncracked.

Heat flushed Finn"s face; he could feel Amelia"s cautionary glance like a physical touch, urging restraint. But restraint was a luxury they couldn"t afford—not with a killer whose identity slipped through their fingers like smoke.

"Easy, Finn," Amelia whispered beside him, her words barely audible.

Finn produced a photograph from the file and placed it before Maggie. The image of Max Vilne was grainy, captured from a distance, but unmistakably the man Finn believed was the puppeteer behind the chaos.

"Look again," Finn pressed, his voice harder than intended. "He might"ve been the one who bought that gun from you."

Recognition flickered across Maggie"s features, a crack in her composure that widened just enough to let the truth seep out. "Him..." she breathed, a reluctant admission. "Yes, he bought the gun. Came into the shop couple weeks back, paid cash."

Finn"s pulse quickened as pieces of the puzzle began to align, forming a picture that was as disturbing as it was incomplete. Max Vilne"s shadow loomed large over the investigation, a specter Finn couldn"t shake. And as much as he wanted to chase down that lead, exhaustion clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to undermine his focus.

"Paid cash, you say?" Amelia jotted down notes, her pen scratching against paper in rhythmic bursts. "Interesting. Very few people deal in cash these days, especially for high-value items."

"Old habits die hard," Maggie quipped, but the lightheartedness didn"t quite reach her eyes.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in as the significance of Maggie"s recognition settled over them like a dense fog.

Finn"s mind raced as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, scrutinizing Maggie Beckett with an intensity that belied his weariness. "The 19th and 21st of January," he began, voice steady but eyes unyielding, "where were you?"

Maggie shifted, her posture rigid, defiance etched into her features despite the vulnerability in her voice. "I was with a friend," she offered hesitantly, a tremor betraying her otherwise firm resolve. "Please, I can"t—she"s here without papers." The plea hung heavy in the room, a silent testament to her desperation.

"Without your friend stepping forward," Finn cautioned, standing up and pushing the chair back with a scrape that echoed off the sterile walls, "It doesn"t look good for you, Maggie." His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, searching for some flicker of deceit or honesty before turning to leave.

Amelia followed suit, her measured steps a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling within Finn. They exited the interview room, silence enveloping them like a shroud until they reached the adjacent observation room where Rob awaited, his expression unreadable behind the reflective surface of the two-way mirror.

"Did you get all that?" Finn asked, eyes not leaving the mirror, half-expecting Maggie"s reflection to reveal some hidden clue.

"Every word," Rob confirmed, his tone flat, the weight of procedure pressing down upon them.

"Vilne"s involved," Finn asserted, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. "Facilitating this somehow."

"Right now, we"ve only got her word for it," Rob replied, skepticism lacing his words. "And without a solid alibi—"

"Trust me," Finn interjected, the memory of his pursuit of Vilne in America searing through the fog of fatigue. "Vilne manipulates. He pulls the strings and puts others in harm's way." His hands clenched involuntarily, the frustration palpable.

"Be that as it may," Rob said, meeting Finn"s gaze with a steadiness that bordered on challenge, "without an alibi, we have no choice but to move against Beckett."

Finn's gaze lingered on the door through which Maggie Beckett had disappeared, her plea echoing in his mind. He turned to Rob, who was already preparing to leave the observation room, the weight of authority clear in his stance.

"Rob," Finn started, his voice steady despite the fatigue that clawed at him. "We need to consider giving Beckett"s friend immunity."

Rob stopped mid-stride, a frown creasing his brow. "Immunity?"

"If she comes forward to vouch for Beckett"s whereabouts during the murders," Finn clarified, leaning against the cold wall, feeling it leech into his bones. "But we"d need to check for reliability, it"s possible the friend could make up the alibi. Either way, I think immunity might be worth it."

"That's not usual protocol, though," Rob said.

"But it is something the Home Office could do for us, isn't it?" Amelia added.

Rob mulled it over, his face a mask of contemplation. "Alright," he conceded with a nod, recognizing the logic in Finn"s request. "But I want her statement first thing." With that, he strode out, leaving the room feeling suddenly larger, emptier.

In the sudden quiet, Amelia moved closer to Finn. Her hand reached up, her touch light as a whisper against his cheek, pulling his weary attention towards her. "That was very kind of you," she said, her voice a gentle murmur amidst the clamor of the day's events.

Finn offered a lopsided smile, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. "Beckett deserves a fair shake if her alibi is true," he replied, trying to shrug off the heaviness that enveloped him.

Amelia studied him for a long moment, her concern evident even as she maintained her professional composure. "I think we should get some sleep," she suggested, her voice imbued with a soft firmness that brooked no argument.

"Sleep," Finn echoed, humor finding its way to the surface despite the gravity of their casework. He wanted to joke about Amelia joining him, but his tired brain stopped him from stepping over that seedy line. "Or we could go for a late-night date somewhere?"

The corners of Amelia"s lips lifted into an amused smile as she headed for the door. "You wish," she tossed back over her shoulder as she exited.

Left alone, Finn let out a breath he hadn"t realized he"d been holding, the shadows of the room creeping around him. Thoughts of the case, of Maggie Beckett and Max Vilne, spun through his mind like a carousel gaining speed, but he pushed them away for now. Sleep was calling, a siren song he couldn"t ignore any longer.