Darby sat alone in the interrogation room, facing the two-way mirror. There was no other place to look. She couldn’t turn her chair around – couldn’t turn her body either, thanks to the wrist and ankle chains that had her conveniently tied down to the bolted chair.
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting here because the room didn’t have a clock. She had no way of knowing if Noel Covington was behind the glass, watching her, along with the other one, the big Fed with the lumpy face named Bradley. She had met him after the two Montana men had escorted her out of her cell. Bradley popped two sticks of Dentyne in his mouth and insisted on checking her restraints himself. He approached her without trepidation and, smiling, began a leisurely exam of her wrist and ankle cuffs. She felt his bicep and then his forearm brush up against her breast, and she was sure she heard his breath catch in his throat when he tightened her handcuffs. She had almost headbutted him right then and there but stopped herself. Better to hurt him later so she could really savour the moment.
Having witnessed and performed dozens of interrogations over the course of her career, Darby had a strong idea about how this whole thing would play out. Covington was going to let her sit here all chained up and feeling uncomfortable, which was the reason why Bradley had given her cuffs an extra, special snap; why they had shackled her in wrist chains and leg cuffs; why they had turned up the heat inside the room to an uncomfortable level. Changing the temperature to hot or cold was an old interrogation trick – and generally an effective one when used against someone who wasn’t accustomed to being locked inside ‘the box’.
The charges, she knew, wouldn’t stick. It was a bullshit threat meant to frighten her into submission. Good luck with that, she thought, and almost grinned. She had played her trump card: Rosemary Shapiro and the incriminating video and photos of the TacOps agent calling himself Kevin Fields. Rosemary was a well-known pain-in-the-ass in both state and Federal circles, and the powers that be knew she would delight in sharing her client’s story and incriminating evidence with the media. The FBI and the other alphabet agencies despised publicity that wasn’t overwhelmingly positive in their favour and something they could fully control and spin for their benefit. When the Bureau was unwillingly kicked into the spotlight or, worse, their investigative methods were exposed, careers were flushed. Arrest her and Covington knew he’d have a major PR shitstorm on his hands – one that would tank his career.
Covington and his partner were the least of her concerns. What had happened to Coop? He had come to Montana on ‘unofficial’ FBI business, and because he was missing the Bureau had, twenty-four hours later, put not just run-of-the-mill agents on her but highly coveted trained surveillance agents from Tactical Operations. Why? Because Coop was here on some highly sensitive or classified matter, and the Bureau wanted to watch her and monitor her phone conversations and emails in case she knew something about what had happened to him. Because they knew she wouldn’t share any information with them if asked.
And the Bureau was right. She didn’t trust them; never had, never would. The FBI played by its own set of rules. She had learned that lesson the hard way and had the physical and mental scars to prove it.
Why did they send you here, Coop? What the hell did you get yourself involved in?
The door swung open. Covington came in alone. No briefcase this time, but he was wearing his jacket, gloves and a scarf.
He didn’t sit. Just stood on the other side of the table and looked at her with this odd, tumultuous mix of sympathy and fear – and anger, yes, she definitely saw some of that too.
‘We found Cooper’s rental car,’ he said. ‘We also found a body.’