up. The wife told them her husband was strapped with explosives. Nick had gone inside and freed the man from the bomb, despite the guy waving a gun around and threatening to blow his head off. They'd both survived. Nick didn't think the guy remembered him with gratitude: he was currently doing a twenty-year stint in the federal penitentiary for kidnapping and aggravated assault.
"Yeah," Nick admitted.
"You also solved that series of rapes—the one where the guy broke into old ladies' houses, robbed 'em, beat 'em and raped 'em? He finally killed one of 'em. Then you nabbed him," the sheriff pressed.
"Yeah," Nick replied. "Hey, I was just heading out. Didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Harris glared at Nick. He didn't like the sheriff recounting Nick's successes. Nick didn't like it much himself. Most cops did the same shit as he'd done, and they did it every day. Nick had just happened to catch the media's attention. Mainly because of the way things had ended. The way his career had ended.
"You're also the one that wound up beatin' the tar out of your partner, right? Left the force not long after that, if I recall."
From the corner of his eye, Nick could see Harris. The detective's fists were clenched, and the air was suddenly thick with tension. "The media twists a lot of things around," he offered, in an attempt to deflect any further conflict.
"It didn't make the papers, but word around here is the sonofabitch beat up some twelve-year old girl. An interrogation gone bad in a case you and this guy was working. That true?"
A burst of air popped from Harris's chest as if he'd imploded. "That was a motherfuckin' lie!" he growled. "Cocksucker spread that shit about me, but it was a lie!"
Mungia grabbed his partner's arm, more forcibly this time, and steered him toward the door. "Come on, Scott," he said. "We can come back. There's nothing left here we haven't gone over anyway."
Harris tried to shake him off, but Mungia didn't let go.
Whitehall's brows lifted in surprise. To Nick, it looked like feigned surprise. "Oh, geez, sorry 'bout that," the sheriff said. "Was you the fella?" He peered at Harris's scarred face. "That where you got them injuries?"
Harris didn't answer. He stood in front of Whitehall, breathing hard and glaring. Carlos still held him, but Nick noticed Harris wasn't making much of an effort to break free. A moment later, and without another word, the two detectives left. Nick had a feeling he'd run into them again.
Whitehall turned his penetrating gaze on Nick. "What's your story? Why're you here?"
Nick shrugged. "The husband of one of the killer's victims hired me to find the man who murdered his wife. I'm just checking out the crime scene."
The sheriff jerked his head toward the door. "If that bozo is on the case, can't say as I blame the husband." He shook his head and reached into his pocket. "I never knew what to think when I read about you doin' that fool thing with the druggie. Then all that other shit…" He pulled out a cigarette pack and held it toward Nick. "Want one?"
Nick nodded. "Thanks."
"Sure. Don't have a lighter, though. Sorry. Don't usually smoke 'em."
Nick pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up. Whitehall put a different cigarette in the corner of his mouth but left it unlit. "As I was sayin', all that stuff I read about you… I figured you was either the dumbest goddamned cop around—or the best."
Nick took a pull from his cigarette and released the smoke. "Maybe a little of both," he admitted.
"I don't think you're dumb." Whitehall walked farther into the cabin and looked around, then turned back to Nick. "How long you been here?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. Probably five or ten before they got here. Why?"
"Whadda ya got?"
"Excuse me?"
"What's your theory?" The sheriff made a sweeping gesture around the room with his arm. "About what happened. About that night."
How much to tell? All of it was speculation, but Nick figured Whitehall was out to test him a little.
"Yeah," Nick admitted.
"You also solved that series of rapes—the one where the guy broke into old ladies' houses, robbed 'em, beat 'em and raped 'em? He finally killed one of 'em. Then you nabbed him," the sheriff pressed.
"Yeah," Nick replied. "Hey, I was just heading out. Didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Harris glared at Nick. He didn't like the sheriff recounting Nick's successes. Nick didn't like it much himself. Most cops did the same shit as he'd done, and they did it every day. Nick had just happened to catch the media's attention. Mainly because of the way things had ended. The way his career had ended.
"You're also the one that wound up beatin' the tar out of your partner, right? Left the force not long after that, if I recall."
From the corner of his eye, Nick could see Harris. The detective's fists were clenched, and the air was suddenly thick with tension. "The media twists a lot of things around," he offered, in an attempt to deflect any further conflict.
"It didn't make the papers, but word around here is the sonofabitch beat up some twelve-year old girl. An interrogation gone bad in a case you and this guy was working. That true?"
A burst of air popped from Harris's chest as if he'd imploded. "That was a motherfuckin' lie!" he growled. "Cocksucker spread that shit about me, but it was a lie!"
Mungia grabbed his partner's arm, more forcibly this time, and steered him toward the door. "Come on, Scott," he said. "We can come back. There's nothing left here we haven't gone over anyway."
Harris tried to shake him off, but Mungia didn't let go.
Whitehall's brows lifted in surprise. To Nick, it looked like feigned surprise. "Oh, geez, sorry 'bout that," the sheriff said. "Was you the fella?" He peered at Harris's scarred face. "That where you got them injuries?"
Harris didn't answer. He stood in front of Whitehall, breathing hard and glaring. Carlos still held him, but Nick noticed Harris wasn't making much of an effort to break free. A moment later, and without another word, the two detectives left. Nick had a feeling he'd run into them again.
Whitehall turned his penetrating gaze on Nick. "What's your story? Why're you here?"
Nick shrugged. "The husband of one of the killer's victims hired me to find the man who murdered his wife. I'm just checking out the crime scene."
The sheriff jerked his head toward the door. "If that bozo is on the case, can't say as I blame the husband." He shook his head and reached into his pocket. "I never knew what to think when I read about you doin' that fool thing with the druggie. Then all that other shit…" He pulled out a cigarette pack and held it toward Nick. "Want one?"
Nick nodded. "Thanks."
"Sure. Don't have a lighter, though. Sorry. Don't usually smoke 'em."
Nick pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up. Whitehall put a different cigarette in the corner of his mouth but left it unlit. "As I was sayin', all that stuff I read about you… I figured you was either the dumbest goddamned cop around—or the best."
Nick took a pull from his cigarette and released the smoke. "Maybe a little of both," he admitted.
"I don't think you're dumb." Whitehall walked farther into the cabin and looked around, then turned back to Nick. "How long you been here?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. Probably five or ten before they got here. Why?"
"Whadda ya got?"
"Excuse me?"
"What's your theory?" The sheriff made a sweeping gesture around the room with his arm. "About what happened. About that night."
How much to tell? All of it was speculation, but Nick figured Whitehall was out to test him a little.
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