CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time they arrived at the station, Missinger had already been there for ten minutes. Hernandez had called ahead and ordered the desk sergeant to have him taken to the family room, which was intended for crime victims and families of the deceased. It was a little less sterile than the rest of the station, with a couple of old couches, some curtains on the windows, and a few months-old magazines on the coffee table.
Jessie, Hernandez, and Trembley rushed to the family room door, where a tall officer stood guard outside.
“How’s he doing in there?” Hernandez asked.
“He’s fine. Unfortunately, he demanded his lawyer the second he walked through the front door.”
“Great,” Hernandez spat. “How long has he been waiting to make the call?”
“He already did, sir,” the officer s
