The bag was larger than the one that held the ring. Almost twice the size. It was larger because inside it had to fit a Boker Kalashnikov automatic knife with a black stonewash finish.
Detective Sutton tapped a finger at the bag.
“We had a dozen officers scouring the mall, trying to find this thing. My partner told me it had looked like you’d pulled something from your pocket while you were running, but it was unclear where you unloaded it. And the security cameras at the mall weren’t as much help as we would have liked. But here it is.”
Yes, there it was. Right here in front of me.
I closed my eyes. Remembered finding the knife I’d carried with me these past four days covered in blood. Only inches away from the woman whose name I hadn’t remembered but who I now knew was Elena Vargas.
Had she told me that was her name last night? I still couldn’t remember. There was a chance she might have given a different name. Because a young woman like that knows meeting a guy—a much older guy—at a club in Vegas isn’t going to turn into anything serious. No long-term relationship. No wedding bells. So why give your real name and open yourself up to potential cyberstalking or whatever else when it’s just as easy to make up a name on the spot?
I realized that several seconds of silence had passed. And that a guilty mind abhors silence, so I should just let the silence continue. But as I stared down at the knife, I knew that both detectives were watching me. Testing me. Waiting to see my reaction.
Swallowing, I looked up at them and spoke as calmly and evenly as I could.
“That isn’t mine.”
Detective Sutton shook his head sadly, then glanced back at his partner.
“He says it’s not his.”
Detective Ortiz, nodding: “I heard him.”
“I guess there’s nothing more we can do, then.”
“I guess there is not.”
“Ah, well. At least we tried.”
“That we did.”
“Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless there’s some, I don’t know, evidence on the knife. Like Mr. Walker’s fingerprints, for instance.”
“Huh,” Detective Ortiz said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Silly me.”
“Goddamn it, kid”—faux anger in Detective Sutton’s voice now, really playing it up—“how many times do I need to tell you our job relies on evidence?”
“I know, I know. I keep forgetting. I’m sorry, okay?”
“I’m sick and tired of having to keep reminding you.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying a fingerprint on that knife would be considered . . . what did you call it again?”
“Evidence, kid. We call it evidence.”
“Right, right. Evidence. Okay, so a fingerprint on the knife . . . if it matched Mr. Walker’s, that would be considered damning evidence, wouldn’t it?”
“Well,” Detective Sutton said, “it’s certainly a start. What do you think, Mr. Walker? Are we going to find your fingerprints all over this knife? And at least somewhere in that hotel room?”
Swallowing again, my voice less calm and even than before: “I didn’t kill her.”
“You keep saying that. And yet, as I keep telling you, we have a dead body that says otherwise.”
I leaned forward and took off my glasses and set them aside, placed my elbows on the tabletop and rubbed my temples.
“This isn’t happening,” I murmured.
“Oh, it’s happening,” Detective Sutton said. “Tell me, Mr. Walker, are there any other dead bodies we should be looking for? You have been in town for a couple days, after all.”
I paused to look up at him.
“That isn’t funny.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
He didn’t. Neither did his partner. What they looked like, in fact, was a pair of detectives who had caught their man. To them, they had all the evidence they needed. An open-and-shut case.
“I met her last night at a club. I’ll admit that. But I didn’t kill her.”
“Who did you meet?”
“Her. The . . . the deceased.”
“Say her name, Mr. Walker.”
I wet my lips, which were suddenly dry, as I realized that the easygoing look in each man’s eyes had vanished. No more good cop, bad cop.
“Her name,” Detective Sutton said slowly, “is Elena Vargas. Say it.”
“Elena Vargas,” I said, though my voice was almost as low as a whisper and so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Elena Vargas.”
“That’s right. Her name is Elena Vargas. And you used that knife in front of you to cut her throat.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“You can keep denying it all you want. But as I told my partner, evidence doesn’t lie. Whether it be your fingerprints or DNA or something else, you will be tied to that young woman’s death eventually.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Detective Ortiz said. “Now, you said you met her at a club. Which club?”
I had to think about it for a long time before the name came to me.
“Club Blue. It’s one of the clubs located in the—”
“Yes, we know where it’s located,” Detective Sutton said. “But you don’t strike me as the club-going type.”
“I’d just won several thousand dollars playing craps. I was feeling good.”
“Feeling so good you wanted to kill someone?”
I didn’t answer.
Detective Sutton said, “So you went to the club and saw Ms. Vargas on the dance floor, is that right?”
“It’s not like that. I was just there, having a drink, enjoying the crowd and the music and . . . and I spotted her across the room. She kept looking over at me.”
“Kept looking over at you.”
“Yes. And, well, it’s been a long time since I was on the dating scene. I mean, not that long ago, but even then, I had always been shy. Some guys can go up to a beautiful woman without any hesitation. Me, I’ve always second-guessed myself. Always found reasons not to do it. I just . . . I was never really confident. At least, not until I met Christine.”
“Who’s Christine?”
“My wife. My ex-wife.”
“Uh-huh. And so keep going. You were at the club, and you claim Ms. Vargas kept looking over at you.”
“She was. I’m not making that up.”
“Sure, okay. And?”
“There really isn’t much more to tell. I was at the club. So was”—I paused to wet my lips again, to swallow—“Elena Vargas. She eventually approached me, and—”
Detective Ortiz cut me off.
“Wait, hold up. She approached you?”
“Yes. She approached me and said something about the music, and I was too stunned by the fact that she had come up to me at all that I wasn’t sure what to say at first. And she . . . she sort of liked that, I guess. She thought it was funny. Or cute. And she told me that it was my job to ask her if she wanted a drink, so I asked her, and she told me what she wanted and I ordered it from the bar, and then . . . I don’t know, I thought she was just playing me for a free drink and that she would eventually wander away. But she didn’t. She kept talking to me. And then she finished her drink, and I asked if she wanted another and she said she did, and so I bought her another. And then . . . after that I can’t really remember what happened other than this morning I woke up in some random hotel room and—”
But I didn’t say the rest. I couldn’t.
Detective Sutton said, “And?”
I shook my head. Wasn’t going to say anything else. But then knew I had to say something else because otherwise my silence would confirm my guilt.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Uh-huh,” Detective Sutton said. He leaned forward to grab the two evidence bags, then pushed his chair back as he stood. “My only other question is, why were you carrying this knife in the first place?”
I swallowed again.
“Vegas isn’t the safest place in the world. With all the money I had on me—with how much I’m worth—it wouldn’t be wise to walk around alone without at least some kind of protection. I decided to carry that around with me instead of my phone.”
“Why not carry both?”
“I wanted to disconnect from everything. If only for a couple of days. No work emails, no nothing.”
“And what do you do for work again?”
“I own and manage a landscaping company.”
“That pay well?”
“What does it matter?”
“Just wondering how good a lawyer you can afford. Because with the evidence we already have against you, you’re going to want to hire the best.”
Detective Sutton turned away, as did his partner. They started for the door.
“Wait!”
My voice, desperate.
They paused. Turned back around. Both of them now looking irritated.
Detective Sutton said, “What is it, Mr. Walker?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
“I swear to God.”
“You should be praying to God instead.”
My bottom lip started to tremble.
“This isn’t right.”
“No, Mr. Walker, what isn’t right is that we have a dead woman on our hands and a piece of shit acting like he didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t!”
All at once a thoughtful expression crossed Detective Sutton’s face. He tilted his head slightly, as though studying me in a new light.
“It finally caught up to you, didn’t it?”
“What did?”
“Your life of luxury. Feeling like you’re hot shit and can throw money at anything.”
I said nothing.
“In fact”—and here Detective Sutton threw a cautious glance at his partner—“I bet you’d pay anything to make this all go away.”
I started nodding, sniffing back the tears that were threatening to fall at any second.
“Absolutely.”
Detective Sutton glanced again at his partner. He stared for a beat, then seemed to come to a decision.
He asked, “How much is it worth to you?”