The next morning, North and Shaw waited with Emery in the Wahredua police station. The room was dark, a concession to the one-way mirror that let them observe the attached interview room. On the other side of the glass, Gideon Moss waited with his lawyer, a severe woman with a helmet-like bob. The air was close and warm and smelled faintly like old, engrained body odor, and North felt like a million bucks.
Part of that, he was sure, had to do with getting ten hours of sleep and catching Shaw in the shower, with enough hot water left to get handsy. The other part was that they had Gid on the hook now, and North could feel it, call it whatever you wanted: electricity, energy, a charge. The investigation had legs again, and they were making progress. Plus he’d had about eight cups of coffee.
After discovering the SD card, they’d taken it to Auggie and Theo, who had been both delighted (Auggie) and grumpy (Theo) at their unannounced and late-ish arrival. Auggie, of course, had immediately found the right adapter and connected the SD card to his laptop. The card held only a single video. It was footage from a security camera, and it showed Gid in one of the jail’s private interview rooms, where he proceeded to have sex with a young woman in inmate scrubs. The video ended once the two separated.
No corrections officers had appeared on camera. No deputies. Nobody besides Gid and the unnamed woman. But Adam Ezell was a deputy sheriff, and he’d worked at the county jail, and the SD card had been in his house. And now Ezell was missing, and two men were dead.
On the other side of the glass, Gid shifted in his seat. He hadn’t been charged, not yet, which meant no cuffs and, more importantly, none of the systemic apparatus designed to break you down, to scare the shit out of you in a way that made you compliant and eager to please. The lawyer with the helmet bob looked like four hundred dollars an hour of being a pain-in-the-ass. All of that was the bad stuff.
The good stuff, though, was that Gid looked like shit. He’d dressed for the occasion—a dark suit, a white shirt, a red tie. His rockabilly hair, though, was greasy and lank, and his eyes had that cartoonish look people got sometimes, when fatigue made them big and droopy. Even under the spray-on tan, his color was bad. He’d kept the cross, and every time he moved in his seat, it swung around his neck like a car air freshener. And Gid must have been having a hard time staying still, because he was moving in his seat a lot.
The door to the observation room opened, and John-Henry stepped into the room. He was in uniform again, and he looked better for having caught some sleep and some food and a shower. North didn’t miss the way Emery’s eyes immediately scanned the blond man. It was clearly automatic, some sort of reflexive assessment. Whatever part of Emery was a cyborg (North put the percentage somewhere between fifty and eighty) was clearly doing a biometric scan or some Terminator-level bullshit like that, and it was equal parts cute and annoying. Not that anything Emery did was cute. Not that North would ever—ever—say any of this where Shaw could hear. And it was equally cute and annoying that John-Henry registered it, that he gave back a tiny smile in response, and that it all happened between the two of them like some sort of secret language that nine out of ten people in the world missed completely.
And meanwhile, the love of North’s life had gotten caught inside his own shirt again.
“For the love of God,” North said as he yanked the shirt down, forcing Shaw’s head through the opening. The fabric was some kind of rustling, silvery nonsense that was probably ridiculously expensive. It buttoned up the side, and the aesthetic seemed to land somewhere between technocop and astronaut’s whorehouse. North had never seen it before, and he was one hundred percent sure it hadn’t been in Shaw’s suitcase when they’d left St. Louis. “Quit trying to bite the tag; there’s got to be a hundred pairs of scissors in this place if you want it off so bad.”
“But—” Shaw began.
“John,” Emery said. “Please.”
“Really quick before I go in there,” John-Henry said, “I wanted to tell you again this was fantastic work. Really, really good. I spent the rest of yesterday having Eric Brey’s attorney feed me bullshit by the spoonful, so when you told me you found this—” He grinned. “It definitely turned my day around.”
“And you brought it to John instead of stepping all over your own dicks,” Emery said drily, “which was an unexpected improvement.”
“What did Brey tell you?” North asked.
“Nothing, unfortunately. I mean, he and his attorney had clearly cooked up the statement together. Eric is a passionate supporter of troubled teen intervention programs, he’s forged many lifelong bonds with the teens he’s helped, he hoped that by meeting privately with Welch he could convince him to turn himself in, he understands he made a mistake, and he is, of course, willing to do everything in his power to make things right. On and on like that.”
“You should have slapped him with aiding and abetting,” Emery said sourly. John-Henry looked at him, and Emery straightened up and mumbled, “But, of course, your best judgment—”
“Uh huh,” John-Henry said. To North and Shaw, he said, “I’m going to interview Gid. Let me know if you see anything I miss. And guys? That was A-plus work. I knew bringing you on was the right thing to do.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Shaw said, “We should get tattoos. Matching tattoos. The four of us.”
“Jesus Christ,” North muttered. “Why don’t you work on that tag some more?”
When John-Henry stepped into the interview room, he was carrying a laptop under one arm. The lawyer with the helmet bob sat up straight and began her spiel: Mr. Moss was only here because he was a good citizen, because he wanted to do whatever he could to help law enforcement, and because of his moral obligations as a Christian. She talked around that point a number of times actually. North had to give her credit; she never actually came out and said, He’s got a shitload of money from daddy’s megachurch, but she did a fantastic job of painting it into the subtext.
Finally, she left enough of an opening for John-Henry to ask, “Gideon, how long have you been having sex with inmates at the county jail?”
Confusion muddled Gid’s features. Then, for only an instant, North would have sworn Gid looked relieved. He sputtered, “That’s—I didn’t—I never—” His lawyer laid a hand on his arm, and he cut off.
“That’s a serious—and offensive—allegation, Chief Somerset.”
John-Henry placed the laptop on the table and opened it. The video was already queued up, and he played it. The lawyer had a good poker face. Gid, on the other hand, did not. His jaw loosened. Sweat beaded along that rockabilly hairline. He glanced around the small room as though someone might have installed an escape hatch.
“How long have you been having sex with inmates at the county jail?” John-Henry asked again.
Gid opened his mouth, but his lawyer said, “Don’t answer that.”
“That’s a mistake,” John-Henry said. “I’ve got video evidence, and before you start spinning me a story, let me remind you that sexual activity is not permitted between inmates and visitors at the Dore County Correctional Center. On top of that, it’s a violation of the city’s public indecency ordinance.”
The lawyer was quiet for several long moments. “Are you charging my client?”
“Was Adam Ezell blackmailing you?” John-Henry asked.
“Don’t answer that,” the lawyer said again. “This interview—”
“Is this what you were looking for when you broke into Adam Ezell’s house two nights ago?”
Gid’s color had dropped even more, and the spray-on tan looked like what it was: a bad paint job.
“We’re leaving,” the lawyer said, taking Gid’s arm.
“Why did you arrange the murders of Dalton Weber and Sheriff Engels?”
“I didn’t!” Gid looked like he was going to pass out. “I didn’t have anything to do with that!”
“Stop talking,” the lawyer said.
“What was your arrangement with Philip Welch?”
“Nothing! I don’t even know him!”
“Really? Why did Welch drive directly to your home after committing double homicide? And why did you, only a few hours later, drive to Adam Ezell’s house to recover this blackmail?”
“That’s not what happened!”
“What is the connection between you, Eric Brey, Philip Welch, and the Cottonmouth Club?”
“Nothing, there’s nothing—”
“For God’s sake, Gideon,” the lawyer snapped, “shut up!”
Gid stared at John-Henry, panic lighting up his face. Then he spun away from the table and vomited on the floor. The lawyer let out a noise of disgust and scooted backwards. John-Henry got to his feet and moved to the door to call for a cleanup.
“Unless you’re arresting my client,” the lawyer said, her gaze moving from the vomit to a trembling Gid to John-Henry, “we’re finished here.”
“You can help yourself right now,” John-Henry said to Gid. “But if you wait until I’m bricking you in with this case, it’s going to be too late.”
Gid wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked like he was about to cry.
The lawyer dragged him toward the door, and then they were gone.
John-Henry collected the laptop, and he passed a man with a mop and bucket on his way out of the room. A moment later, he joined North and Shaw and Emery. He was buzzing with energy that felt like a mix of excitement and caffeine and the dregs of adrenaline. The smile he cocked at Emery reminded North that, his whole life, John-Henry had known he was hot shit.
“If he hadn’t had the lawyer,” Emery said with disgust and shook his head.
“I know, I know. But that was something, right? He was falling apart, and all I did was poke him.”
“You’re lucky it was puke,” North said. “He looked like he was about to shit himself.”
“Did you see him when I showed him the video? Jesus, that was satisfying.”
North thought about the strange moment when, for a heartbeat, he’d thought Gid had been relieved. But before he could say anything, Emery spoke again.
“You could have held him on the public indecency charge.”
“And he would have bailed out before I closed the cell door,” John-Henry said. “I want that hanging over his head.”
“Have you tracked her down yet?” Shaw asked.
“The woman in the video?” John-Henry shook his head. “We’ve got a name, and Emery’s working on finding her. We’re going to have to interview everybody in that jail a second time. Jesus, the hours on this are going to bankrupt us. But if he did it once…”
“He didn’t just do it once,” Emery said. “And he definitely didn’t like it when you brought Welch into the equation.”
“I wish we had something more solid on him, but until we talk to that woman—”
“Assuming you can find her.”
“—I’m going to start by telling his lawyer he’s lost visiting privileges at the jail.” John-Henry shook his head. “It got me thinking about Brey, though. He and his lawyer had cooked-up some serious bull about the shooting at the hot springs. I thought maybe the smokescreen was to cover the fact that Brey had lured Welch out to kill him.”
“And almost got his own ass capped,” North said. “Welch was pissed. If we hadn’t shown up, he would have plugged Brey and walked away.”
“The sniper,” Shaw said.
John-Henry nodded. “Exactly. I thought maybe Brey had a buddy out there, somebody to take care of Welch once Brey got him in the open. But after what I saw in there with Gid, I’m starting to think things are more complicated than they seemed.”
“You mean somebody else was cleaning house,” North said, “and Brey got caught in the crossfire.”
“Technically, you got caught in the crossfire.”
North scratched his temple with his middle finger. “I get that Ezell was blackmailing Gid; that’s pretty clear. But why was Gid at the jail in the first place? He wasn’t on any of the records.”
“He does a ministry,” John-Henry said. “Once a week, conducts a service.”
“And gets laid,” Emery said. “We’ve got the pieces: Gideon Moss is a regular at the Cottonmouth Club. So is Brey. Dalton Weber can identify Moss as the man who hired an underage teen to perform sex acts. He’s preying on female inmates at the county jail and, in the process, manages to make an arrangement with Welch to kill a witness and a troublesome deputy.”
“You think Ezell’s dead?” North asked.
“I think if I were Gid and I’d contracted one killing to cover my ass, I wouldn’t stop there. What I don’t like is the coincidence, Gid happening to meet someone during his ministry who’s willing to do murder for hire. In supermax, ok. In a county jail, a kid picked up for possession? And he just happens to be in the isolation unit where a key witness is being kept? And Brey knows him?”
Shaw opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his phone buzzed. North followed him out of the observation room as he took the call on speakerphone.
A woman spoke. “Someone said you’ve got money for Philip Welch.”
“And with whom am I speaking?”
The speaker hesitated. Then she said, “Maleah Donaldson.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Donaldson. I need to speak to Mr. Welch or someone with his power of attorney—”
“What if he owes me money?”
“I’m sorry?”
“He owes me money. A lot of money. And I can prove it. So, I want to know why I can’t have that money, since he owes me.”
Shaw went for doubtful. “Well, we’d need to see documentation…”
“I’ve got documentation. I’ve got anything you want to see. I’ve got IOUs, I’ve got this letter he sent me when he was in jail—”
“I’m sorry, did you say he was in jail?”
“That’s another thing. I bet you didn’t know he’s in jail. You can’t give him that money, can you? Not like that.”
Shaw let the pause draw out. “I’m so sorry. I need to talk to my supervisor—”
“Why? You told me you needed to see documentation. I’ve got the documentation. I told you I’ve got it. Where do I bring it?” And then some of the eagerness slid into her voice. “How much are we talking, anyway?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that without establishing protocol.”
Whatever that meant, North thought as Shaw gave him a shit-eater grin.
“If you could provide an address and times when you’re generally available, I can have a treasury representative visit you to see about your case.”
He’d barely finished speaking when Maleah rattled off an address and told him she’d be available every day after four.
“Well?” North asked.
“It’s better than nothing,” Shaw said.
When they returned to the observation room, Emery shot them a questioning look.
“We think we’ve got a line on Maleah Donaldson,” Shaw said. “The potential girlfriend. She wants to know if she can collect the money, seeing as Welch is in jail and, more importantly, owes her money.”
“She didn’t know he escaped?”
“It didn’t seem like it, but she sure seemed like she wanted to talk.”
Emery made an interested noise.
North grinned. “How pissed is that fuck Cassidy going to be when we stomp all over his backyard again?”