Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Specifically, who?” Rus pressed.
“The deputy guys that day she was found. Then the FBI guy, same day. Then the deputy guys came back again the next day to tell me to keep quiet about it. Then the Bohannan twins showed. Then that guy yesterday.”
Rus went solid and his neck started itching again.
To his knowledge, no one had been sent to re-interview Brad.
“What guy yesterday?” he queried.
“I don’t know. He was dressed like the FBI guy.” He tipped his head to Rus. “Nice pants. Blazer.”
“A reporter?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Brad suddenly looked unsure. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Did he show you credentials? A badge?”
Brad started getting pale. “No.”
“Are you certain it wasn’t a reporter?” Moran questioned.
“I…do they have to tell you they’re reporters?”
“They don’t, but they should,” Moran told him.
“He didn’t say that, and he didn’t show me a badge. I just assumed, you know, with the questions he was asking. It was about, like, you know…he knew. I’ve been following and the press doesn’t know dick, seems to me.”
The itch got stronger.
“He knew? He knew what?” Rus asked.
“He knew…you know…”
Now Brad was uncomfortable.
“We don’t know,” Rus pushed.
“He knew, you know, what Gentry knew.”
Gentry, the maid.
“What does Gentry know?” Rus asked with forced evenness.
“You know, the plastic, like, it was ritual and stuff.”
No one knew that.
Except the cops.
And Gentry.
And apparently, she told Brad.
“Gentry isn’t supposed to be talking,” Moran pointed out.
“I know, man,” he bit. “But, see, she and me are going through it. We can’t talk to anyone. So who do we talk to? Ourselves. Okay? You gonna arrest me for trying to get some fucking sleep? Or Gentry, because that shit was fucked up, man.”
“No, we’re not going to arrest you,” Moran assured.
“Goddamn,” Brad muttered.
“Please, if you speak to anyone else, ask to see a badge if they say they’re law enforcement, or ask them to identify if they’re press, and what outlet they work for,” Moran requested. “But mostly, don’t talk to anyone unless it’s someone you know for certain you should be talking to.”
Moran lifted his hand to Rus, Rus knew what he was asking, pulled out his wallet, got a card and gave it to Moran.
He took out his own and walked them to Brad.
“You have questions, you either call Special Agent Lazarus or me, directly,” Moran instructed. “We don’t pick up, you call the sheriff’s office and talk to Polly or Wade Dickerson. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Brad mumbled.
“What did this guy look like?” Rus asked.
“Older than you. Close cropped hair. Took care of himself. Not as tall as you. A little pudge. Not much. He was fit, for an old guy. But not as fit as you. I mean, he didn’t look like an action film star. He wasn’t a fucking Henry Cavill look-alike, you know, like you. But he was clean-cut. I thought he was a cop. No, I thought he was FBI.”
“White?” Rus kept at him.
“Yeah.”
“Dark hair?”
“Brown. Like, not light or dark. Just brown, going gray.”
“Facial hair?”
“Yeah, a mustache.”
“Eye color?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was weird, he was inside the lobby, it was around this time, so it was dark, and he never took off his sunglasses.”
Jesus, shit.
That itch came stronger, but with it there was a mild bolt of a thrill.
“Rus,” Moran murmured questioningly.
“Can you do me a favor and write down everything you remember about the guy? Call me, I’ll swing by and get it. Give it to me and me alone. Okay? Everything you remember.”
“You’re freaking me out, man,” Brad warned.
“I’m just being careful. You want to be careful too, for Brittanie, don’t you?”
“Yeah. ’Course.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Rus lied. “Just being careful.”
“I can be careful. I work tomorrow night. Come by and get it. Cool?”
“Yes. Thanks, Brad.”
“No problem,” he mumbled.
They moved out to the cruiser.
They were in, Moran had started up and they were moving out when Moran asked, “What was that?”
“What would you do if someone stole your art?”
A silence so total, it felt like it was an entity filled the car.
Moran broke it. “You think the Crystal Killer talked to Brad?”
“I don’t know.” Yes, he absolutely did. “I think it’s a possibility.”
“Brad’s right. We’re getting calls. We’ve had reporters come in. They’ve been antsy for information. But days have passed, and that’s died down. We haven’t given them anything more. We’ve been putting them off. The details have not been published. Which means Gentry and Brad might be talking to each other, but so far, it hasn’t leaked. So how does he know?”
Rus turned his head to look at the sheriff.
“He knows, Harry, because I’m here.”
Moran didn’t take his eyes from the road as he said, “Fuck.”
SIXTEEN
I’m Not Scared
It was good that Lucinda was so damned smart.
He thought this as he walked into his quiet, well-decorated, relaxing room, flicked off his shoes, shrugged off his blazer, clicked on the fireplace and went to the bar.