Snowbound - Blake Crouch [9]
“Do you have a cell phone with you?” Javier asked.
“Yeah, do you need to—”
“Have you called nine one one?”
“Um, no, why would—”
“You’re sure?”
“Look, I don’t understand what you’re—”
Javier jerked the door open and shot the man in the face, fired two quick bursts into the backseat to silence the screaming, and stared at the woman, who’d crushed her recycled cup in her left hand, the burning chai steaming off her fist.
“Enjoying your iced, skinny, venti, ten-pump chai latte, hold the whip?”
He shot her in the throat and shut the door.
EIGHT
They didn’t speak on the short ride to the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, and the building was practically deserted when they arrived. Swicegood led Will past the unattended reception desk, down a hallway, and stopped in front of a door with stenciled white letters that read INTERVIEW 1. Inside were a small table, three chairs, and a tape recorder. A video camera angled down from one of the corners in the ceiling, the lens pointed at the table.
Swicegood said, “Get you some water? Coffee?”
“I just want to get this over with and get back to my daughter.”
“Sure.” Swicegood eased down into a chair across from Will, tossed a thin file on the table. Will was sobering up fast, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “I’m going to record this,” Swicegood said, starting the tape recorder. “You’re aware of your rights?”
“Of course I am.” Swicegood went through them anyway, and when he’d finished, Will said, “I waive those rights.”
Swicegood leaned forward. “You’re an officer of the court, correct?”
“You know I am.”
Swicegood smiled. “I wonder if you could just clear something up for me. Your wife never came home last night, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“You said she was working at a clinic in Sonoyta.”
“Yeah.”
“What time was she due back?”
“Between ten and ten-thirty.”
“Okay, so here’s my question. At what point does a loving husband become concerned when his wife doesn’t come home?”
“I don’t understand what—”
“When she’s an hour late?”
“Look—”
“Two? Three? Four hours?”
“Okay, I see where you’re going—”
“I suppose for you, it’s somewhere beyond the six hour-mark, but we’ll never know, because you never called nine one one, did you?”
“Would you let me explain?”
“Please do.”
“I was supposed to do closing arguments at a trial this morning. I was up late last night working on them.”
“How late?”
“I fell asleep after ten, at my desk. When I woke up, it was four. I went looking for her in the house. I was horrified. Highway Patrol showed up before I had a chance to call nine one one.”
Swicegood inched closer. “Will, I’ve been a detective going on thirty years now. And crimes? They’re always emotional. You’ve represented some of the lowlifes I’ve put away, and you know that in the heat of the moment, when rage and adrenaline take over, criminals do stupid, stupid things. So I just have one question for you. Did you make any mistakes?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You think you did it perfectly, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve got a million-point-five life-insurance policy on your wife.”
“My daughter has cystic fibrosis. If something were to—”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but still, quite a chunk of change. How was your marriage, Will?”
“Good. Great.”
“Really? Because I spoke with the next-door neighbors this evening. The Tomlins told me you two put on quite a show on your back porch several nights ago. Shouting, swearing, the works.”
“You’ve never had a fight with your wife? Congratulations.”
“What was it about? The fight.”
“Money.”
“Money.”
“Things are tight. You have any idea what health insurance costs for someone like my daughter, who has a terminal disease? It can stress a marriage.”
“Well, it won’t be a problem anymore, will it?”
“What?”
“Money.”
Swicegood got up without a word, turned off the tape recorder, left the room. When the door closed, Will looked at his watch: 10:47 P.M. His hands shook. His throat closed off.
He’s trying to pin this on you. You could lose your wife