The King I Can't Arrest

Chapter 3

Desrianna

I never thought I'd see Onyx again.

Not after the trial ended.

Not after his brother was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Not after I watched him break down in that courtroom, realizing he'd never see his brother on the outside again.

And now here he is.

Standing in front of me.

At the scene of another f*****g homicide.

For a second, I don't even know how to react.

I just stand there staring at him like an i***t instead of an officer who should definitely be more concerned about the way he just popped up behind me.

"Hands where I can see 'em!" Dustin barks, stepping slightly in front of me.

Onyx lifts his hands.

Slow.

Calm.

Completely unbothered.

Like this kind of s**t happens to him every day.

As Dustin moves in to pat him down, Onyx's amber eyes stay locked on mine.

Burning into me like he's trying to look straight through my soul.

Good.

Maybe if he looks hard enough, he'll see the hatred I'll always have for him and his punk-ass brother.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Dustin demands.

Onyx tilts his head slightly over his shoulder.

"Bathroom."

My gaze flickers in that direction.

A dark hall stretches across the back wall, the glowing "Restrooms" sign hanging above the door.

My suspicions spike immediately.

There's no way in hell he was in the bathroom this entire time.

He had to have heard the shots.

And if he didn't—

he damn sure heard the stampede of people running for the exits.

I drag my gaze back to him just as EMS pushes through the front door.

While Dustin fills them in, I start moving the witnesses toward the bar so I can question them one at a time.

That way, I can catch it if somebody's story doesn't add up.

I'll know if they're lying their asses off.

I always know.

"Spread out," I tell them. "Nobody talks to each other until this is over."

They hesitate, but they listen.

One drops onto a stool at the far end of the counter, staring blankly at the floor.

Another leans against a pillar with his arms crossed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

Jace sinks into a chair near the wall, his face buried in his hands.

Two officers near the entrance keep watch.

The first statement I'm taking?

Onyx.

Might as well start with the potential suspect.

I jerk my chin toward one of the empty stools.

"Sit."

For a moment, he doesn't move.

Just stands there looking at me.

Those amber eyes slide slowly across my face.

Like he's trying to remember something.

Then he steps forward.

Unhurried.

Like the asshole's got all the time in the world.

He pulls out the stool and sits, slouching back like this is some casual discussion.

Not a homicide investigation.

From his demeanor, I can't help wondering how many times he's sat across from a cop like this.

I pull out my notepad.

"Name."

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

"Pretty sure you already know that, Officer Banks."

My jaw tightens.

Yeah.

He definitely remembers me.

Doesn't mean I'm skipping procedure.

"Name," I repeat, my patience thinner this time.

For a beat, he just watches me.

Then he sighs like I've asked him the most exhausting question he's ever heard.

"Onyx Robinson."

My pen scratches across the page even though that name's been burned into my brain for twelve years.

"Date of birth."

He gives it without hesitation.

"You were in the bathroom when the shots were fired."

It comes out more like a statement than a question.

His expression doesn't change.

"Yeah."

I arch a brow. "And you didn't hear anything?"

"Heard plenty."

Frustration bubbles up inside me.

"Care to elaborate?"

He shrugs once.

"Gunshots."

"No s**t," I mutter.

His mouth twitches.

Like he knows exactly how much he's irritating the f**k out of me.

My pen taps once against the pad.

"How do you know the victim?"

For the first time since this conversation started, something flickers in his eyes.

"He's one of my boys," he says. "Same label."

My pen pauses over the page.

So he's a rapper too.

Interesting.

I've never heard either of their music.

"What's his full name?" I ask, schooling my expression.

"Javon Thompson."

I jot it down.

"So you just happened to be in the bathroom while someone opened fire on your friend in a packed club."

His steady gaze meets mine again.

"Guess so."

I stare at him for a long second.

People who just found out someone they care about got murdered don't usually look this calm.

Unless—

they already saw it coming.

Or they were part of it.

"You said it wasn't random," I remind him. "Why?"

His gaze drifts past me.

To the dance floor.

To the sheet covering the body.

Then it comes back.

"Javon ain't the type of dude somebody shoots by accident."

The air between us goes still.

"Meaning what?" I ask.

He leans in closer, his voice lower now.

"Meaning somebody came here lookin' for him."

My instincts start buzzing immediately.

"You got a name?"

I study his face carefully.

Looking for a tell.

Anything.

He shakes his head.

"Nah."

I feel my eye twitch.

"You really expect me to believe somebody walked in here, shot your boy twice, and you've got no idea who might've wanted him dead?"

His jaw ticks.

Just once.

"I said somebody came lookin' for him," he replies, calm and measured. "Didn't say I knew who."

Convenient.

I scribble a few more notes.

"Javon have any problems lately?" I question. "Rival artists? Money disputes?"

"People always got problems with somebody."

"Yeah," I respond dryly. "That's why I'm asking."

His gaze flicks toward the covered body again.

When he speaks this time, something darker sits beneath the words.

"Javon was blowin' up."

I wait.

"And when somebody start climbin' like that..."

His eyes return to mine.

"Folks get jealous."

Jealousy.

Money.

Fame.

All perfectly good motives for murder.

But something about the way he said it sets off alarm bells in my head.

Because it didn't sound like a guess.

It sounded like he already knows exactly who pulled the trigger.

And he's lying straight to my face.

I slam my notebook closed.

"You know something, Mr. Robinson."

It's not a question.

Onyx doesn't react right away.

He just watches me.

Quiet.

Then he leans back.

"Everybody knows somethin', Officer Banks."

My jaw tightens.

"Cute answer."

I lean forward, crossing into his personal space.

He smells like rum and sandalwood.

A combination that shouldn't smell that damn good on a man like him.

"Try again," I say, my voice low and edged with warning.

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm the interesting one now.

The tension between us hums like a live wire.

His gaze drifts briefly over my face.

Then lower.

Slow.

Not disrespectful.

Like he's cataloging every detail.

Just when the silence starts stretching too long, he finally speaks.

"I ain't got nothin' else for you, Officer."

Fuck.

Of course he doesn't.

Which means this conversation is done.

For now.

I flip to a clean page and write down my number.

Then tear it out and hold it toward him.

I don't like the idea of this man having any way to reach me.

But it's procedure.

A way to build trust.

"Call me if you remember anything."

I keep the edge out of my voice as best as I can.

Onyx takes the paper.

Glances at it.

Then folds it once and slips it into his pocket.

"I got you."

His tone remains quiet.

Flat.

Giving away absolutely nothing.

But whatever he's hiding, I'll find it.

Like they say—what's done in the dark always comes to light.

And I plan on dragging his secrets into it.

I stand and tuck the notebook away.

Three more witnesses to question.

A bathroom to search.

And a killer somewhere out there who still needs to answer for what happened tonight.

But something tells me this won't be the last time I see Onyx Robinson.