Jeffery Deaver - XO

Madigan pushed through a swinging door on which was painted a fading sign: DETECTIVE DIVISION.

Detective Gabriel Fuentes, a bulldog of a man who sweated furiously, even in the winter, stood near the reception desk. Unlike deputies in the department who were former military, which was a lot of them, Fuentes had cast aside all trappings of the army and wore his black, shiny hair as long as he could get away with.

Edwin Sharp was here too. Madigan recognized the gangling man from the photos Kayleigh’s lawyers had sent them, though he’d lost a lot of weight. He was standing over Fuentes, who, at five-eight or so, was six inches shorter than Edwin. The stalker also had long arms and massive hands. His eyes were sunken below thick brows, which gave him an ominous look though he was pretty normal otherwise. Those eyes were curious, Madigan thought. They weren’t the least troubled. Hell, children on class field trips to the department looked guiltier than this boy.

His smile was the oddest Madigan had ever seen, a faint upward curving of the thin lips but mostly at the very ends.

Those underpass eyes now turned to him. “Detective Madigan, hi. How you doing? I’m Edwin Sharp.”

I’ve got a name badge but this fellow hasn’t once looked at it. What’s this about?

“I’ll just be a second, son. Thanks for coming in.”

“Just for the record, I’m not under arrest. You’ve asked me here and I’ve come voluntarily. I can leave at any time. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. You want some ice cream?”

“I… what?”

“Ice cream?”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass. What’s this all about?”

“You go by Ed, Eddie?”

The smile. It was damn eerie. “No. I like Edwin, Pike.”

Madigan paused. The fuck is he using my first name for? And how the hell did he know it? A lot of deputies here don’t know what it is.

“Well, then, Edwin it is. Be back in a second.” He nodded for Fuentes to join him up the hall.

“Any problem?” Madigan whispered.

“No. Just asked him to come in and he didn’t hesitate.” Fuentes continued, “And I heard Miguel and a crime scene team found some good evidence at his place, after he left.”

“Looks that way.”

“Good,” Fuentes said. “How’s Kayleigh holding up?”

“Doing the best she can, I’d say. Not great.”

“Son of a bitch,” Fuentes muttered. And they looked back to see Edwin watching the men. He couldn’t hear what they said; they were too far away. But it gave Madigan a chill to see those eyes crinkle with amusement as if he could sense every word.

He sent Fuentes back to the division and stepped into the lunchroom, opened the fridge and scooped himself some ice cream, dropped it into a paper cup. He loved ice cream. No taste for liquor other than a beer at a barbecue, no chew or smokes but he loved ice cream. Not yogurt or sherbet or low-fat. Real, honest-to-God ice cream. He carried an extra ten pounds due exclusively to the stuff but that was ten pounds he was willing to sacrifice for the cause.

People thought he ate ice cream to intimidate suspects, or to win them over if he offered a scoop or two. But fact was he just liked ice cream.

Today he was having mint chocolate chip.

He returned to the Detective Division. “Okay, Edwin. Just like to have a conversation with you, you’d be so kind.”

A couple of big bites from the cup with a metal spoon. He always used metal. Hated plastic. Paper and foam cups were okay but you needed to eat your ice cream with a real spoon.

They’d just started toward the interview room when the door to the division swung open once again and someone else entered the lobby.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

It was Kathryn Dance.

SHE’D TAKEN A cab.

Did they think she wouldn’t?

The chief detective and Crystal Stanning had been gone from Bobby’s trailer for ten minutes when she gave up her futile back-and-forth attempt to free the wide-wheel-base Nissan.

She’d pulled out her mobile, found a business search app and got a cab to pick her up and take her straight to the sheriff’s office.

The stalker seemed the more amused of the two men she now walked up to. “Agent Dance, hope you’re well,” Edwin said, getting her title right-name too-and offering a modicum of respect.

Madigan’s expression said: So much for the improvised detention center at Bobby’s trailer.

She said firmly, “I’d like to talk to you, Deputy,” now using the less impressive of his job titles, because she was really pissed off.

Madigan replied, “I’m pretty busy now, Kathryn. Come on, Edwin. That way. Say, you want a bottle of nice cold water?” He said to the assistant, “We’ll be in number three.”

And they vanished down the hall.

After a frustrating five minutes, Dance noticed Detective Dennis Harutyun, of the solid shoulders, rich complexion and supple mustache, walking up the corridor toward her. He’d left before Madigan’s little game with the cars and might not know she was persona non grata. She made a decision, taking her ID card from her purse, wedging the holder into her belt, shield on display, something she never did, even on duty.

She approached Harutyun.

He didn’t seem to smile any more than his Boss but nothing suspicious glimmered in his eyes. If he seemed awkward it was probably because he hadn’t bothered to drop everything and analyze Kayleigh’s song “Your Shadow” for potential crime scenes.

“Dennis.”

“Hello, Kathryn.”

She remembered how Madigan was referred to by intimates. “The Chief’s interviewing Edwin now. Where’s observation for Interview Room Three? I got lost.”

The bluff worked. Without any reaction, assuming that she was sanctioned to be here, Harutyun guided her up the corridor and even held the door open politely. He flicked the light on in the small, close chamber. There was no worry that Edwin or Madigan might see a flash; observation rooms were invariably light- and sound-proof, even if everyone who owned a TV knew the mirror was fake and there were cameras, cops and witnesses on the other side.

She felt a little bad, using Harutyun like this. But Dance was determined to keep Kayleigh Towne safe, and while she didn’t doubt Madigan’s devotion to that same goal, she wasn’t at all sure of his competence when it came to a perp like Edwin.

And, oh, yeah, she was still pissed off.

She examined the interrogation room. It was austere. In the center were a large fiberboard table, a half dozen chairs and a smaller utility table on which sat bottles of water and pads of paper. No decorations on the walls.

No pencils or pens.

Madigan, she observed, took a professional approach. He sat forward, in a focused but unthreatening manner. He was confident but dropped the authoritarian, imperious attitude she’d seen earlier (apparently reserved for interloping law enforcers). He didn’t engage in overt hand gestures, which can distract the suspect. He was respectful of Edwin, asking if he was comfortable, was the temperature too hot, too cold.

Dance supposed the ice cream had to be prop of some sort. Every single word or gesture by an interrogator tells the subject something more about the questioner. You should never say or do anything that doesn’t further the session. Sipping coffee, scratching your head, frowning… But apparently the confection wasn’t part of the detective’s plan. He finished it with relish and tossed the cup away. Edwin’s eyes followed every motion.

Madigan made a few mistakes, though. One was that he directed Edwin to sit across from him at the table. Better would have been to sit facing each other without any furniture between them. Tables, other chairs, any prop gives the suspect a sense of security.