Allison Brennan - If I Should Die

Last year, Callahan spent the full visitor’s hour on a Saturday with Swain ten days before Hendrickson came for his one and only ten-minute visit. Three days later, Browne came for his last visit. The next morning, Joe Hendrickson was found dead of a heart attack.

“Did Swain put a hit on Hendrickson?” Sean wondered out loud.

“Didn’t he die of a heart attack? He was in his sixties, right?”

“Sixty-four. And there was no autopsy. Tim said something about how he’d been under a doctor’s care. If it was the quack who stitched up my leg, I wouldn’t trust him with a Band-Aid.”

Patrick said, “Look here-Callahan came the day after Tim Hendrickson had that town hall meeting, end of last April.”

“When was his last visit? January of this year?”

“January third.” Ten days after Agent Sheffield disappeared. “Sean, you’re going to have to be extra wily with Swain. We’ve got nothing but theories, so the choice is between taking this information and running with it, and attempting to get something more out of him.”

Sean looked closely at the log. “What’s this?” he slid the file back over to Patrick. There was a five-digit number, not a name, on the printout. 19881. “No matter how I slice it, I can’t make a date out of it,” Sean said.

“I have no idea,” Patrick said.

Sean noted the date on the log. December 23. “Do we have phone records, Patrick?”

“They’re still printing those out for us.”

“When you get them, see if there’s anything on these dates.” He circled the meetings. “And maybe you can ask the warden what this number means. Text me when you find out.”

“Do you know who’s not on this list?”

Sean stared at his partner blankly. Then it hit him. “Swain’s brother.”

“Bingo.”

“That is interesting.” Sean remembered that one of Weddle’s stops before he died was at Butch Swain’s house.

“Ready for Swain?” Patrick asked.

“Absolutely.” He sounded more confident than he actually was as they left the assistant warden’s office and walked through additional security.

“I’m confident you’ll get inside his head,” Patrick said. “Ten minutes and I’ll bet he’ll lose his temper.”

“Am I that annoying?”

“You can be.”

Paul Swain was not what Sean expected.

Sean faced the prisoner in a private interview room usually reserved for lawyers and their clients. Patrick and a senior guard were on the other side of the window, unseen, but Sean felt their presence. He had to play this right.

If Swain knew what he needed, he wouldn’t just hand it over. Sean’s only ace was to make Swain think he was looking for something completely different.

Forty-four, Swain had a handsome face and neatly trimmed dark hair. His palms and fingers were rough from labor, and there were scars on the back of his hands from fighting. A faded scar starting behind his ear and ending at his chin looked like it might have been serious at the time. There was a more recent scar at his temple, still red and raised.

Except for the physical scars, there was nothing about Paul Swain’s demeanor that said master criminal . Even his quiet voice was well modulated.

“They told me you’re not a cop.”

“That’s correct.”

“Who are you?”

“Sean Rogan. Private investigator.”

“Cop lite.”

Sean shrugged and acted disinterested in Swain’s approval. “I don’t like cops as a rule. Good cops have their hands tied because of a system that favors pricks like you, and bad cops are worse because they abuse their power under the color of authority.”

“And you’re the noble knight in shining armor?”

He shook his head. “Not noble, and I’m certainly not a knight. But I hate bullies, whether they’re cops or criminals.”

“Applause,” Swain said with a half-smile and leaned back in his chair. “Did you rehearse that just for me?”

“I didn’t know you existed until this week.”

“I have no reason to help you.”

“I haven’t asked for your help.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then you’re wasting my time.”

“I’ve read over the files from your case,” Sean lied smoothly. All he had was the names of the cops on the task force. “Agent Martinelli-what a prick.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I can imagine. They always make themselves look good on paper, but you and I know they fuck with the Constitution when they can get away with it.” Sean leaned forward. “I’ve had my own run-ins with the Feds.”

“Now you’re just playing me, Rogan. Trying to be my friend. Acting all good cop with no corresponding bad cop.”

“I’m not playing cop, good or bad. The last thing I want to be is subjected to arbitrary rules and regulations.” That was certainly the truth. “You knew Joe Hendrickson, right?”

Swain didn’t answer, just shook his head in disgust.

“I know you did. Spruce Lake had seven hundred ninety people at the last census, and we know that has dropped since. Cut in half, in fact. I was hired by his sons-Tim and Adam. Tim is the older one, Adam-”

“I know who they are,” Swain said, impatient. “I don’t need no goddamn family tree drawn for me.” First chink in the armor.

“They want to open a resort. Small scale, a few cabins, a lodge with ten rooms, nature walks, that kind of shit.”

Swain leaned back again. “No one wants to vacation in Spruce Lake.”

“Tourism is far from my area of expertise. Thing is, there’s a group of people trying to shut it down, and guess who they’re using to do it? Your son.”

A bare hint of rage-the tightening of his fists. So small Sean almost missed it.

“To continue with the happenings in your hometown, Tim and Adam came up with a plan for a resort, and they’ve had repeated problems. Equipment destroyed. A cabin trashed. The kitchen set on fire. That’s felony arson. Ricky is seventeen. He could be tried as an adult if some ladder-climbing prosecutor wants to set an example.”

Swain’s anger was growing, his eyes alert, his ears focused on Sean’s every word though he didn’t move a muscle.

“I’m going to lay it all out for you, Swain, because if you’re behind it, you already know. If you’re not behind it, I don’t care if you know.” Sean leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair and pretended he was having a casual conversation, but in fact he was focused completely on Swain’s “tell”-the physical giveaway that told Sean he’d hit a nerve. He was banking that Swain had one redeeming quality-the love of his wife and child. It was an educated guess based on Abigail’s letters, his behavior after she died and Ricky stopped visiting, and the bits and pieces of information Sean had been putting together.

“Here’s what I know. You’re a smart criminal. I saw that right off in your file. No, I’m not stroking your ego, because I also think you’re an asshole for manufacturing drugs. My sister died of a drug overdose. If I thought for a minute that you were part of her supply chain, I’d shoot you now. So we’ll call you a smart prick.”

No man likes being called a prick. Swain’s tell manifested itself. Very subtle-he was good-but Sean was better. He’d played poker with his brothers for years and always won. Even his brother Kane the badass mercenary had a tell, though it took Sean years to figure it out.

Swain’s tell was in his hands. They were cuffed in front of him. When Sean called him a prick, his right index finger tapped once on the table.

“If I weren’t in prison, I’d kill you.”

“You might try,” Sean said smoothly. “So back to the vandalism. It wasn’t smart. In fact, it was amateur hour.”