sits there until it's cooked. And just in case I haven't noticed--to coin a phrase--how fucked I am'--I gestured to my cramped surroundings, my cuff rattling--'this is where you tell me I'm the frog.'
I could have sworn DeWitt looked mildly amused.
Verrone stood up swiftly, the chair rolling back. After his perfect stillness, the gesture was intimidating. DeWitt rose and turned to face him. Verrone studied me, his jaw corded with muscle. He pointed at my face. 'You get one of those for free.'
DeWitt walked over and breathed down on me. 'This is the end of the road. You can't wriggle off this time. The pieces are lined up from the DA to the chief to the investigative file. You've gotta come clean. Why were you at Keith's?'
Even when I bowed my head, that broad shadow pressed in on me. I could feel the heat off his body. The CD was out there somewhere. Ariana was out there somewhere, too, terrified. I was behind bars, powerless to help her. And if I talked, they'd kill her.
I said, 'I want to see a lawyer.'
DeWitt sighed. Took a step back.
Verrone said, 'Wow. He wants to play it that way.' He turned to leave, disgusted. 'I'm gonna take a leak.' He walked out.
Me and DeWitt, alone. I glanced nervously at the two-way mirror, but it just looked back at me.
I said, 'You have to give me access to counsel.'
'Sure.' DeWitt took another step back. His big, pleasant face looked disappointed, as if he'd caught me in the backseat with his girlfriend. 'Sure thing. Lemme just tell the chief.'
Leaving the door partially ajar, he walked out, moved a stack of crisp manila folders, and sat on the edge of the desk. The desk didn't sound too happy about it. His fist encompassed the phone. 'Yeah, Chief? I'm in Interrogation Five with Davis. He wants to lawyer up. . . . Yes, I stopped asking him questions immediately. . . . I know, I know.' He made a clicking sound. 'Bad traffic now? He'll have to wait while his lawyer drives over. But the holding tank's filled with those Familia bangers that Metro just rolled up.' Those soft blue eyes swiveled to take me in. 'Look, he's a white-collar guy. I don't think he'd want to mix with--' He nodded. And again. 'Okay. I know. I can't inform him how much we can help him if he's just willing to have a conversation with us. . . . What? . . . No, I don't think he's aware that you think Detective Gable is incompetent and shortsighted. . . . Right, the whole forest- for-the-trees thing. If Davis would walk us through this mess, we might be able to get somewhere, but he feels we're past that point. It's a shame, since I get the vibe that he's a decent guy who's in over his head. But he's not giving us any options. . . . Okay. . . . Okay.' He hung up.
'Nice performance,' I said.
He sat down at the desk, ruffled through some files. I stared at him through the sliver of open door, but he didn't look up.
'I can't talk to you,' I said.
He turned and called to someone out of sight. 'Murray, we're gonna need a transfer form on Davis.'
I said, 'My wife . . . My wife could be in . . .'
He looked through the slender gap in the door. 'I'm sorry, were you talking to me?'
'Come on.'
'You're willing to continue talking to me about the events of earlier today, even in the absence of counsel?'
I looked over at the two-way so they could get it on tape. 'Yes.'
He came back inside, crossed his arms.
I said, 'I can't tell you anything helpful.' He started out again. 'Hang on, just wait a second. I'm not dicking you around. My wife is in danger.'
'Tell us whatever you know, and we will get on it. If your wife is at risk, we can protect her.'
'You don't understand. They want . . .'
'What do they want?'
'They think I have something.'
'What do you have? We can't help you if you don't let us.'
'They will kill my wife. Do you understand? They will kill her if I tell you anything.'
'No one has to find out what you tell us.' Frustrated at my silence, he tried a different tack. 'Who is 'they'?'
'I don't know.'
His blue eyes glowed with intensity. 'Where is your wife?'
'They have her.'
'Okay,' he said calmingly. 'Okay. First things first. You can't tell us anything without putting your wife at risk. So we're gonna locate her ourselves.'
'You won't find her.'
'Finding people is what we do. And when we find her, then you'll come clean?' His gaze was level, unblinking. 'I want your word.'
'Okay,' I said. 'If you find her. And I talk to her, to know she's okay.'
He looked up at the two-way and nodded briskly, a call to action. 'I'm going to have you wait here. Do you have to use the restroom?'
'No. Just keep her safe.'
'Don't go anywhere.' A soft smile. He closed the door behind him.
I stretched out on the bench and tried to slow the pounding in my head. I must have drifted off, because when the door opened again, the wall clock over Verrone's shoulder showed 8:15.
DeWitt was sitting behind the desk in the other room, the phone wedged into the shelf of his deltoid, his head tipped forward into a hand. Stressed.
Verrone grabbed the chair from the corner, dragged it over so he was sitting right across from me. I shoved myself up, rubbing my eyes. 'What? Did you find her?'
In the other room, DeWitt leaned back in his chair, hoisting his feet onto the desk. He was holding eight-by- ten photos, but I could see only the backs of them. He raged into the phone, 'I know that, but we need to get a shrink here now.' Verrone shot him a look, and DeWitt raised a hand apologetically and quieted.
Verrone turned back to me. His whole demeanor had shifted. He leaned forward, as if to take my hand. His lips pursed, and a line appeared between his eyes--a line of empathy, concern. My fear skyrocketed.
'What?' I said. 'Tell me.'
'A hiker found your wife--'
'No.' My voice was thick, unrecognizable. 'No.'
'--in a gully in Fryman Canyon.'
I stared at him without sensation, without thought. I said, 'No.'
'I'm sorry,' Verrone said. 'She's dead.'
Chapter 47
The crime-scene photo, a close-up of Ariana's face, quivered in my hand. I couldn't handle the sight, and yet I couldn't look away either. Her eyes were closed, her skin an unnatural gray. Her dark curls straggled across dead weeds. I'd refused to believe it, and so Verrone had produced proof. My wife, dead in a gully.
My voice was tiny, far away. 'How.'
Verrone shook his head.
'How.'
'Stabbed in the neck.' He licked his lips uncomfortably. 'You're a suspect, obviously, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt until the time of death and evidence come in.' He tugged at the photograph, and finally I let it go. 'My wife was . . . uh, I lost her to a drunk driver. There's never . . .' Leaning back, he picked at the leg of his jeans, his mustache twitching. 'There's never anything anyone can say.' He looked at me directly and tilted his head in a show of respect. 'I'm sorry.'
I could barely comprehend his words. 'But we were just starting . . .' I was choking on my own breath. 'To get it right again.'
I couldn't get any further. I turned to the wall. My fists were against my face, and I was trying to compress my chest, my body, trying to harden myself into an insensate rock. If I didn't crack, if I didn't sob, it wouldn't be
