THREE

THREE

St. Dismas Parish Sheriff’s Office

Interview Room #2

THE ROOM WAS sparse and smelled of old cigarettes and sweat. A worn table, chipped, with the word “fuck” scratched in its surface an impressive number of times, stood between the hand-cuffed man facing the two-way mirror and the man with his back to those watching and listening. A single dented lamp hung over the table, casting shadows along the walls and on the stained ceiling tiles. The room was supposed to intimidate. The room was supposed to scare those brought into it. For Curtis Jones, the room reminded him of his past.

He smiled at the thought.

The former cop had a dozen cuts and abrasions that had been hastily bandaged. The bump on his forehead throbbed, and he knew he’d have two black eyes by morning, but he had somehow miraculously survived.

Jones rubbed the tangled hair of his goatee. The old man with matted long hair that he watched in the mirror did the same. When did I get so old? He shifted in his seat—one of those cheap wooden chairs that was more uncomfortable than the pews at his church. A lit cigarette with an inch and a half of ash burned in the ashtray, just out of his reach. He looked longingly at the smoldering butt, then at his interrogator.

“You’re in deep shit, Jonesy,” said his old partner, Randy.

Curtis smiled even broader. This was a game he knew only too well.

“Brought you outta retirement for this, partner? How’s Dolores? Send her my best, will you?” Curtis’s voice sounded like gravel even to himself. No doubt due to his two-pack-a-day habit lubricated by bourbon.

“Don’t fuck around,” replied Randy. “This is serious. They found your old service revolver near those two skeletons—the gun you claimed went missing years back. Both skeletons had holes in the skulls indicative of what would be expected from a revolver. One bullet has already been retrieved and it’s been matched to your missing gun.”

“What a load of bullshit, and you know it.” Curtis sat back in his chair, the cheap wood creaking under the strain. Narrowing his eyes at Randy, he asked, “Why you doing this? What’re they giving you to interrogate me?”

“It’s like this,” said Randy, shifting in his own seat, his eyes not meeting Curtis’s as he focused on picking an imaginary bit of dirt from under his fingernail. “I’m not your partner, Jonesy. You went over to the other side. I tried to help you after you left the force—”

“After I was fired, you mean,” said Jones.

Randy slammed a hand down on the table. “We’re not friends. Hell, I’m not even sure we ever were friends. Partners, sure. Maybe. Once. But that was a long time ago. Your rap sheet is as long as my arm now. And now they like you for a double murder. I never thought you’d go that far, man. But you were always a little weird when it came to that girl.”

“You can play the “hurt partner” card all you want, Randy,” said Jones, “but I know you as well as you know me. You know I’m being set up.”

“Do I?” asked Randy, finally looking at Jones.

“You sure as hell do,” snapped Curtis. “But the Major . . . he has you back working here when you should be fishing in the Gulf. Why?”

“Why did you commit murder?” said Randy, eyes blazing.

“You know I . . . ” Curtis started to say when realization finally struck. “What’s the Major got on you, boy?” asked Curtis.

Randy cleared his throat.

“Two men kidnapped Jeannine LaRue off the roof of her house right after Katrina. They took her, locked her in a cabin, and raped her for two months. You found her. You stayed with her in the hospital. You decked that TV psychologist asshole that exploited her story. It’s not a stretch to think you tracked down and murdered the swamp rats that done took her. You always had a sweet spot for that girl, Curtis. You’re also a fucking hothead. So, tell me what happened.”

“Heh. You’ve got it all figured out, don’tcha?” Curtis leaned back in his chair.

“We have enough to empower a grand jury,” replied Randy. “Save yourself some time. Save Jeannine the grief of reliving her experience to a packed courtroom. Help her to avoid all that media coverage.”

“Fuck you, Randy,” said Curtis. This is what he wants. Stop. Think. Curtis’s smile returned. “I know I’m being set up, man. Pretty sure you know it, too. So why are you helping the Major with this bullshit? You know he’s as crooked as a three-dollar bill.”

“He still has a badge,” said Randy. “And a healthy hatred of you.”

“That don’t mean shit in this parish and you know it, boss. Why are you-”

“Your gun,” interrupted Randy, counting with his fingers. “Two dead bayou rats. Like I said, DA says it’s enough, but I want to hear it from your mouth.” Randy slapped the table, the sharp retort probably startling those behind the glass. But Curtis didn’t move. Randy had been his partner for eight years—Curtis knew how the man worked.

Of course, Randy probably thought he knew how Curtis worked, too, but that was based on knowing Curtis before he took on his “retirement gig,” back when he was on the right side of the law. Things were different now. He watched Randy’s eyes flick back and forth, a bead of sweat rolling down one temple. He’s scared. What the fuck does the Major have on you, boy?

“Don’t suppose I could have a smoke, man?” asked Curtis. “If I fess up to you, it’s gonna be a long story and we might be here a spell.”

Randy picked up the nearly extinguished cigarette and slowly took a drag. Then he snuffed out the butt. “Tell me the story first, then I’ll give ya the whole pack.” Randy tossed a box of Marlboro Reds and a lighter—Curtis’s Zippo—on the table, just out of the chained man’s reach.

Smug fucker. He’s in for a surprise. Curtis dropped his chained hands into his lap and leaned forward. “Remember when we were little? You used to come over to my house after school.”

“So?” asked Randy, as he leaned back in his chair.

“Mama used to serve us hot treats. Crackers with melted cheese. We used to think we were so rich—a hot snack after school every day.”

“I’ll ask again: so?”

“Remember how disappointed we were to find out the snacks were old Triscuits way past their sell-by date with a sliver of government-issued cheese?”

“Yeah, I do.” The ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

“Disappointment. We got used to it as kids. We expect it as adults. I hope they are paying you well for this, my man. If I was you, I’d ask for a bonus, though. And a big, fat retainer.”

Randy sighed, amused. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Because they’re gonna need you to find me when I break outta here. We’ll split the retainer fifty-fifty. I’ll even make the chase look convincing.”

Randy laughed. “And that’s attempted bribery added to the charges, you arrogant prick. You think you can get out of here? Just get up and walk out the door—a half-dozen cops are watching behind that glass.” Randy aimed his thumb over his shoulder at the big wall mirror. “And another fifty uniforms on the floor. Even if you could get outta your chains, which you can’t, you wouldn’t get five feet before we all shot you dead.”

He leaned in close enough for Curtis to smell his cigarette breath.

“There are a lotta boys who would love to put a bullet in you.”

“They’ll need to take a number,” said Curtis, blowing off Randy’s jab. “Nah. I’m gonna go out the big hole that’s about to appear in the south wall.”

“Oh, really?” asked Randy. “You’ve gotten more delusional in your old age, partner. Besides, you’re still chained to the damn table.”

“Yeah. About that.” Curtis lifted his now unchained hands to show Randy. He shrugged. “Army Ranger training. I recommended the department buy better restraints nearly twenty years ago. But do bureaucrats listen? No . . . ”

Randy’s eyes bulged. He opened his mouth to call for backup as he went for his personal gun, when the side wall of the interrogation room buckled with an ungodly crash, shattering the two-way mirror.

Distracted, Randy never saw the right cross that flattened him.

Cops screamed instructions at each other. Dust and curses flew. An alarm blared. As men and women picked themselves off the ground, they raised their hands slowly.

Curtis held Randy’s revolver on them.

“I also mentioned moving the interrogation rooms away from the outside walls and building barricades between the parking lot and the building,” said Curtis, addressing them all. “Guess that recommendation fell on deaf ears, too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Curtis caught movement as a young policewoman reached for her gun.

“Now, I’d hate to shoot a woman,” he said, not looking directly at her. “But I will if you don’t stop fussin’.”

The policewoman froze in place.

“Jonesy,” called a surly voice from the gaping maw that had been the southern wall of the station. “You owe us a new truck.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Curtis as he picked up the smokes and the lighter. “Get the rest of the krewe together and meet at the safe house. I’ll be there shortly,” he called to the faceless voice.

Shadows melted away from the destruction. Not far away, doors slammed and tires spun on pavement.

“I know how much you love your old guns,” Jones said to Randy, who sat with the rest of the police officers, rubbing his jaw. “I’ll get this back to you.”

The Louisiana summer humidity rushed in through the new hole in the building, and Curtis began to sweat. The Major had one of those new Mercedes. Bet it had primo AC. And besides, Curtis needed a getaway car.