Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

“That Nate,” Lester muttered, looking at the door, “he’s meat. Oh, that boy’s gonna pay.”

“Enough of that talk,” Ed said. Then: “We’re going downstairs for five minutes, see the Commonwealth’s Attorney. He’s gonna wanta talk to you. So you just cool your heels in here and don’t cause a ruckus.”

They stepped outside and locked the door. Boz cocked his head and heard the shuffle of chains moving toward the table. He gave Ed a thumbs-up.

At the end of the corridor, thick with August heat and moisture, they found Nate Spoda by the vending machines, sitting at a broken Formica table, sipping Pepsi and eating a Twinkie.

“Come on down here, Nate, just got a few more questions.”

“After you, sir,” Ed said, gesturing with his hand.

Nate took another bite of Twinkie and preceded them down the hall toward the interview room. Ed whispered to Boz, “He’ll scream. But we gotta give Lester time to finish it before we go in.”

“Okay, sure. Hey, Ed?”

“What?”

“You know I never shot anybody before.”

“It ain’t anybody. It’s Lester Botts. Anyway, we’ll shoot together. At the same time. How’s that? Make you feel better?”

“Okay.”

“And if Nate’s still alive, shoot him too, and we’ll say it was—”

“—accidental.”

“Right.”

Outside the door, Nate turned to them, washed down the Twinkie with the soda. There was Twinkie cream on his chin. Disgusting.

“Oh, one thing—” the kid began.

“Nate, this won’t take long. We’ll have you home in no time.” Ed unlocked the door. “Go on inside. We’ll be in, in a minute.”

“Sure. But there’s something—”

“Just go on in.”

Nate hesitated uncertainly. He started to open the door.

“Nate,” a man’s voice called.

Boz and Ed spun around to see three men walking up the hall. They were in suits. And if they weren’t federal agents, Boz thought, I’m Elvis’s ghost. Shit.

“Hi, Agent Bigelow,” Nate said cheerfully.

He knows them? Ed’s heart began to race. They interviewed him while we were gone?... Okay, think, goddamnit. What’d he tell ’em? Whatta we do?

But he couldn’t think.

Wood for brains...

The agent was a tall, somber man, balding, his short blond hair in a monk’s fringe just above narrow ears. He and the others flashed IDs — yep, FBI — and asked, “You’re deputy Bosworth Peller and you’re deputy Edward Rankin?”

“Yessir,” they offered.

Boz was thinking: Lord, failure to secure a prisoner is a suspendable offense.

Ed, thinking pretty much the same, turned to Nate and said, “Tell you what, Nate, let’s us go back to the canteen. Get another soda?”

“Or Twinkie. Those’re good, ain’t they?”

“It’s cooler in here,” Nate said and pushed inside the room where Lester and his well-honed knife awaited.

“No!” Boz shouted.

“What’s the matter, Deputy?” one of the FBI agents asked.

“Well, nothing,” Boz said quickly.

Both Boz and Ed found themselves staring at the door, behind which Nate was probably being stabbed to death at this moment. They forced their attention back to the federal law officers.

Wondering how they could salvage it. Well, sure... if Lester came out in a rush, all bloody, holding the knife, they could still nail him. The agents might even join in.

Damn, it was quiet in there. Maybe Lester had slit Nate’s throat real sudden and was trying to get out through the window.

“Let’s go inside,” Bigelow suggested, nodding toward the door. “We should talk about the case.”

“Well, I don’t know if we want to do that.”

“Why not?” another agent said. “Nate said it was cooler.”

“After you,” Bigelow said and motioned to the two deputies.

Who looked at each other and kept their hands near their service revolvers as they stepped through the door.

Lester was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, cuffed hands in his lap. Sitting across the table from him was Nate Spoda, flipping through a battered copy of the sheriff’s department Procedure Manual. The knife was just where Boz’d left it.

Thank you, Lord in heaven...

Boz looked at Ed. Silence. Ed recovered first. “I suppose you’re wondering why this suspect’s here, Agent Bigelow. I guess there was a mix-up, don’t you think, Boz? Wasn’t the Commonwealth’s Attorney supposed to be here?”

“That’s what I thought. Sure. A mix-up.”

“What suspect?” Bigelow asked.

“Uhm, well, Lester here.”

“You better charge me or release me pretty damn soon,” the man barked.

Bigelow asked, “Who’s he ? What’s he doing here?”

“Well, we arrested him for the robbery tonight,” Boz said. His tone asked, Am I missing something?

“You did?” the agent grumbled. “Why?”

“Uhm” was all that Boz could muster. Had they jeopardized the case with sloppy forensics?

A fourth FBI agent came into the room and handed a file to Bigelow. He read carefully, nodding. Then he looked up. “Okay. We’ve got probable cause.”

Boz shivered with relief and turned a slick smile on Lester. “Thought you were off the hook, huh? Well—”

Bigelow nodded his shiny head and in a flash the other agents had relieved Boz and Ed of their weapons and belts, including the overpriced, made-in-Taiwan billy club Boz was so proud of.

“Officers, you have the right to remain silent...”

The rest of the Miranda warning trickled from his somber lips and when it was through they were cuffed.

“What’s this all about?” Boz shouted.

Bigelow tapped the folder he’d received. “We just had an evidence response team go through the getaway car. Both your fingerprints were all over it. And we found dozens of footprints that seem to be police-issue shoes — like both of yours — leading down to the water near Mr. Spoda’s house.”

“I backed the car out to search it,” Boz protested. “That’s all.”

“Without gloves? Without a crime scene unit present?”

“Well, it was an open-and-shut case...”

“We also happened to find over ninety thousand dollars in the back of your personal car, Officer Rankin.”

“We just didn’t have a chance to log it in. What with all—”

“The excitement,” Boz said. “You know.”

Ed said, “Check out those bags. They’ll have Lester’s prints all over them.”

“Actually,” Bigelow said as calm as a McDonald’s clerk, “they don’t. Only the two of yours. And there’s a chrome-plated thirty-eight in your glove compartment. Tentative ballistics match the gun used in the robbery. Oh, and a ski mask too. Matches fibers found in the armored truck.”

“Wait... it’s a setup. You ain’t got a case here. It’s all circumstantial!”

“Afraid not. We have an eyewitness.”

“Who?” Boz glanced toward the corridor.

“Nate, are these the men you saw walking by the river near your house just after the robbery this afternoon?”

Nate looked from Boz to Ed. “Yessir. This’s them.”

“You liar!” Ed cried.

“And they were in uniform?”

“Just like now.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Boz snapped.

Ed choked faintly then turned a cold eye toward Nate. “You little—”

Bigelow said, “Gentlemen, we’re transferring you to the federal lockup in Arlington. You can call attorneys from there.”

“He’s lying,” Boz shouted. “He told us he didn’t see who was in the bushes.”

Finally Bigelow cracked a smile. “Well, he’s hardly going to tell you that you’re the ones he saw, is he? Two bullies with guns and nightsticks standing over him? He was terrified enough telling us the truth.”