Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Are you here to make a deal?”

Foyt shook his head. “No, to listen to one. Want to come along?”

“You bet I do,” Ramona replied, pushing open the door. “What’s up with Dean?”

Foyt followed her into the public reception area where three female citizens were waiting to speak to their incarcerated loved ones. “He’s in a holding cell at the courthouse awaiting arraignment.”

“No problem with him, I hope,” Ramona asked.

“Not so far.”

They signed in and got buzzed through to the corridor that led to the interview rooms. Patricia Delgado stood in the hallway by an open door. At five-nine, she towered over both Pino and Foyt.

A former basketball star at one of the smaller state universities, Delgado kept in shape by running marathons, usually finishing in the top five for her age group. Single, still in her thirties, and attractive, she was romantically linked to a state senator rumored to have his eye on the governorship in the next election.

Ramona thought of Delgado as an ice princess, who hid her self-absorbed personality behind a veneer of charm. Today she wore a tailored tan pantsuit that accentuated her long legs. The smile on her face held all the false enthusiasm of a media spokesperson peddling a beauty aid.

“I’d almost given up on you,” Delgado said, nodding at Foyt and giving Ramona a quizzical look. “I didn’t realize you were bringing Sergeant Pino along.”

“Is that a problem?” Foyt asked.

Delgado shrugged and gestured at the table inside the room where Griffin waited. “Not at all. I just hope you don’t have any more little surprises for me.”

“If your client has told you everything,” Foyt said as he sat down, “there won’t be. What’s on your mind, counselor?”

Ramona slid into the seat next to Foyt and studied Griffin. He’d shaved and combed his hair back so that it stood up at his forehead like strands of wispy wire. He no longer looked like a faded country music star. The stress and anxiety of yesterday were gone, replaced by a blase, untroubled expression.

“If you give him a pass on the drug dealing charges in exchange for his testimony against Mr. Dean,” Delgado said, “he’s agreed to cooperate.”

“Mr. Griffin made that same offer to us yesterday,” Foyt said huffily. “I didn’t take it then. Why should I take it now when I’ve got more than enough evidence collected at the pharmacy to nail Dean on drug trafficking without the help of your client?”

Delgado leaned forward in her chair and smiled winningly. “Because he might be able to help you with the murder charges you’ve filed against Dean.”

“I’m listening,” Foyt said.

“Before we get into that, let me tell you that the lab report on Mr. Griffin’s urinalysis came back positive for both alcohol and barbiturates. In fact, he was barely below the legal limit for intoxication hours after his arrest, and the thin layer chromatography and infrared spectrophotometer analysis shows that Mr. Griffin had ingested a significant amount of Seconal prior to being taken into custody.

“You’ll get the details at the preliminary hearing when I move to have the evidence suppressed, the confession thrown out, and the charges dismissed. I also plan to bring along expert witnesses who will testify that my client was in no condition to intelligently understand his rights or give an informed consent to search his premises.”

Clearly irritated, Foyt rolled his tongue around his lips before speaking. “I’m not going to bargain with you based on a report I haven’t seen.”

Delgado flipped slowly through a leather-bound notecase with her long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. She extracted the report and gave it to Foyt. He read through it quickly and passed it to Ramona.

Delgado hadn’t exaggerated. Ramona pushed the report across the table to Delgado. “Exactly what evidence will you ask to have suppressed?” she asked.

“The pharmaceuticals, of course,” Delgado replied.

Ramona smiled. “But not the ten pounds of marijuana we found in the locked contractor ’s truck box on a garage shelf?”

The expression on Griffin’s face turned from smug to stunned. “What?”

“All neatly wrapped in plastic bundles.”

“That’s not mine,” Griffin said. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Regardless of who it belongs to,” Delgado said, putting a hand on Griffin’s shoulder to shut him up, “it’s still part of an illegal search.”

“That’s yet to be determined,” Foyt said, switching his gaze from Delgado to Griffin. “Whose grass is it?”

“Not mine,” Griffin repeated hotly.

“Let me do the talking, Mitch,” Delgado said.

Griffin shook his head and the swept-back hairs on his forehead flopped and waved. “That’s not my toolbox. It was left there by one of my subcontractors last week.”

“Does this person have a name?” Ramona asked.

Delgado held up a hand. “Stop right there. This goes no further unless we have a deal.”

Ramona watched Foyt think it through. If he went for Delgado’s deal, he’d earn bragging rights for nailing three bad guys in one fell swoop and have one less case to prosecute. Faced with the possibility that the judge would rule in favor of Delgado’s motions, Ramona didn’t think Foyt would turn her down.

“Griffin gives us the marijuana dealer,” Foyt said, “tells us what he knows about the Spalding homicide, and pleads out to intent to distribute.”

“Unacceptable,” Delgado replied. “This is his first offense.”

“No, it’s just the first time he’s been caught,” Ramona said.

Delgado sighed as she reached for her notecase. “I’m sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement. We’ll see you in court.”

“But,” Foyt said, “if Mr. Griffin would show some good faith and tell us what he knows about the Spalding murder case, I’ll consider dropping the current charges.”

“Agreed.” Delgado nodded at Griffin.

He looked directly at Pino. “Like I told you, I never slept with Claudia Spalding, but I know this guy who said he did. He works as a wrangler at a horse rescue ranch down by Stanley, in the southern part of the county, or at least he used to. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Go on,” Ramona said.

“Anyway, Claudia was like a big supporter of the program, gave it money and volunteered to tour the schoolkids around who’d come out to the ranch on field trips. This guy tells me that he got pussy action from her, but cut it off when she asked him to help her arrange a little accident for her husband.”

“What kind of accident?” Ramona asked.

“She wanted to bring Spalding down to the ranch, have the guy take them both out on a horseback ride, and then fake a bad fall. You know, the horse spooks, throws Spalding, and he dies in front of two witnesses.”

“When was this?”

“While I was building her house, before she met Kim.”

“Give me a name,” Ramona said.

“Coe Evans,” Griffin said. “I haven’t seen him in two, three years.”

Ramona got a physical description of Coe Evans and the location of the ranch before Delgado stopped the questioning, gave Foyt a toothy smile, and asked him to affirm the agreement.

Foyt met her smile with a cool look. “Only if your client is willing to give us the names of everyone he’s sold to, every dealer and supplier he knows, precise information about this subcontractor he says stored the marijuana in his garage, and agrees to testify against Dean on both the murder and drug charges, if needed.”

Griffin nodded. “That’s cool with me. When can I get out?”

“As soon as you deliver,” Ramona said, getting to her feet. “I’ll have detectives here within the hour. How long it takes is completely up to you.”