The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly #2)(7)
Once again, she took out her shield. “I’m Special Agent Swanson of the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
This elicited nothing. The man continued to look at her, his face betraying neither emotion nor interest. She waited a moment, mentally going over the course of questioning she’d laid out for herself.
“Your charge is attempted murder of a peace officer, with specific intent. And you did it on our turf, which makes it a class B felony. A federal felony. You did this with a deadly weapon—specifically, a .357 Smith and Wesson—which is an aggravating factor that will be taken into consideration when your sentence is determined. In short, you’re looking at some serious time in prison. And as you probably know, there’s no federal parole system, so you’re going to do the full stretch. I’ve looked over your history, Mr. Rivers. I know you spent a couple of months in county lockup. But where you’re going now is going to make that look like nursery school.”
She paused to see what effect this speech had had on the prisoner cuffed to the bed. As far as she could tell, there was none. The man had run his eyes up and down her body—but that was all.
She took a few steps closer, so he’d know that his silence was not intimidating her. “But there may still be some things you can do to help yourself. Answering my questions, for one. Why were you digging up at High Lonesome?”
No response.
“Was anyone else involved, or were you working on your own?”
Still, silence.
“Did you have any reason to believe that you’d find a body there? Or did you come across it by chance?”
Still, only silence.
“You’ve cleaned up your act these last few years. What was so important about this discovery that it was worth attempting to kill a cop for?”
Rivers used his free hand to eject the contents of one nostril into a cup beside the bed, but otherwise kept quiet.
His cocky silence was becoming annoying. Corrie took another deep breath, careful to keep her tone even and unmodulated, her face expressionless. “You’ve got one chance to help yourself, right here, right now. Otherwise, you’re looking at some hard, hard time.”
At last, the man’s eyes showed a flicker of interest. For the first time, he spoke. “Hard time?”
Corrie tried not to show the excitement she felt at getting even two words out of the suspect. That was two more than anyone else had managed. “That’s correct.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Maybe we can come to some kind of—accommodation.”
“That would be smart.” She pulled a digital recorder from her purse, turned it on in full view of Rivers. “You’ve been Mirandized, but just to remind you, anything you say can be used against you.”
Rivers shook this off as if it were a gnat. “You mentioned hard time,” he repeated, his voice unmodulated, confident.
Corrie nodded, glancing down to make sure the recorder was running.
“Well, that’s a coincidence, because I’ve gotten kind of hard myself—a cute little bitch like you coming in here, me in bed and all. So I’ll answer your questions … after you’ve sucked me off.”
Corrie stared at him, temporarily speechless, mortified that the blood was rushing to her face. She made a huge effort not to show her anger, to remain cool.
“Oh, and uncuff me, so I can work your head with my hand.” And now at last he began to laugh—quietly, provocatively.
He was still laughing a few seconds later when Corrie left the room, gestured for the ranger to lock the door, and strode briskly down the hospital corridor.
5
SOCORRO TURNED OUT to be not as bad as Corrie expected, with the Rio Grande flowing along one side, irrigated fields, and some dry mountains rising at the other end of town. But it was still a flat, hot grid of streets—damned hot, in fact—and as she approached the sheriff’s office the desert wind bounced a couple of tumbleweeds across the street in front of her, as if to remind her where she was. As she picked up her gear bag and got out of the car in the parking lot of the office, the long wail of a train whistle underscored the feeling of desolation. This was exactly the kind of place she imagined FBI agents who fucked up were sent to. For the hundredth time, she reminded herself she’d been given a case that had some promise.
The sheriff’s office, on the other hand, was an attractive adobe building, surrounded by a parking lot of cracked asphalt that had been dribbled on by more asphalt, forming a spiderweb pattern. Even though it was late September, her hiking boots stuck on the tar as she entered the building.
Sheriff Watts came out right away, and Corrie had her first shock of the morning. Instead of the jowly, mustachioed good old boy she expected, Watts was around her age—twenty-three—tall, fit, and handsome as hell, with curly black hair above a smooth brow, brown eyes, and a movie-star smile. Accentuating the look were the two antique revolvers he wore, one on each hip. A fat bandage was affixed to the bottom of one ear. He wore a fancy cowboy hat with a woven horsehair band, and he seemed as surprised at meeting her as she was at him.
As they exited the office, Watts suggested that they ride in his cruiser. He moved to open the Jeep’s door for her, then appeared to think that might not be appropriate and backed off to let her open it herself. It was pretty clear she’d overturned all his preconceptions of an FBI agent.