“I’m naked underneath this towel.”
“I know.”
Keeping it carefully closed and firmly in place, she showed him to the door. On his way out he gave her a hungry look, the kind designed to melt a woman’s resolve. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to act unaffected.
Sonny didn’t exhale until she shut the door behind him. Willing her pulse to stop racing, she wondered how long it would take him to realize she hadn’t answered his question.
She never told him how she knew Carly’s name.
Otay Mesa Prison, where Darrius O’Shea had been an inmate, was the only maximum security prison in San Diego County. It was a sprawling expanse of concrete buildings and sun-baked earth, located near the depressingly dusty and appropriately named Brown Field, within a stone’s throw of the border.
Freedom beckoned from beyond heavy chain-link fences and snarling curls of razor wire, so close the prisoners could almost taste it.
Sonny was asked to turn in her service revolver and sign a release form before she went inside, a process she was familiar with, having visited jails before.
Her brother, Rigo, had been incarcerated for most of his adult life.
She didn’t care to be stripped of her weapon, especially considering the facility’s “enter at your own risk” policy. Like the U.S. government, Otay Mesa Prison refused to negotiate for hostages.
“I’d rather hold on to my SIG,” she said to a bored-looking guard.
“It could be taken from you,” he explained unnecessarily.
She studied the gun belt at his slim waist, thinking about how easy it would be to give him a swift, efficient demonstration of her skill. “Whatever,” she said instead, removing the holster at her hip and handing it over.
“Deputy Duncan will accompany you.”
She nodded at the other guard, who stood tall and alert. Military training, she noted as she preceded him down the hall.
Not that she needed backup.
Men who had been in prison for a long time had predictable reactions to visitors, especially females, so officials knew better than to parade her about. The tall guard led Sonny down a deserted walkway to a private interview room and waited quietly while the inmate she’d come to see was brought in for questioning.
Andrew Leeds had been convicted of armed robbery and aggravated assault more than five years ago. He’d occupied the cell next to Darrius O’Shea’s for the duration of his incarceration, and had reported his suicide.
Although Leeds was a young man, in his late twenties at the most, he was also a hardened criminal who resembled a typical long-timer in many ways. His head was shaved clean and his reddish blond facial hair, trimmed in an odd, intricate design. Webs of tattoos adorned his thick neck and snaked down the length of his brawny arms.
She kept her eyes on his face as she extended her hand. “Mr. Leeds? I’m Special Agent Vasquez.”
Leeds didn’t return the favor, dropping his gaze to give her body a thorough examination, but he did return her handshake.
Clearing her throat, she added, “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
“My pleasure,” he murmured, taking a seat at the same time she did. The guard who’d escorted him stood sentry outside the door. When she inclined her head, Deputy Duncan joined him there. Leeds raised his brows and studied her anew, seeming impressed by her lack of concern at being left alone in a room with him.
She got right down to business. “What can you tell me about Darrius O’Shea?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you want to know?”
“Did he talk about the murder?”
Leeds shifted back in his chair, bracing his hands on the edge of the table between them. A cocky-looking woodpecker twitched on the middle of his forearm. “Maybe.”
Sonny didn’t have any bargaining chips. Hopefully, the novelty of her presence here would be enough to keep him talking. “Did he ever claim to be innocent?”
“Sure,” he said with a smirk. “We all are.”
“Did you believe him?”
He shrugged. “Guys with clear consciences don’t usually hang themselves.”
Good point. “Do you think he was mentally disturbed?”
“We all are,” he repeated, not smiling this time.
“What was his state of mind in the days before the suicide?” she pressed. “Did he seem disturbed? Was he sleeping, eating, acting strange?”
Leeds considered this question more carefully than the others. “He had nightmares,” he admitted. “’Nam stuff. They got worse and worse. During the day, he hardly ever talked, but in his sleep he wouldn’t shut up.” He ran a hand over his smooth head. “Drove me batshit.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing that made much sense. Soldier’s orders. Sometimes he would mumble that he didn’t do it. Others, he’d say he was sorry. Over and over again, ‘I’m sorry.’” Leeds rolled his big shoulders, as if his muscles were tense.
“Was he speaking to his war comrades?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“No,” he said shortly, his eyes blazing with scorn. Men, in or out of prison, rarely questioned each other about personal issues.
“Is there another inmate he confided in?” she continued, glancing at his tattooed forearm. Leeds was obviously a member of the Peckerwoods, a dangerous all-white gang. “A group he was affiliated with?”
“Not really,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “He kept to himself.”
Sonny felt a wash of frustration. Leeds wasn’t exactly a fountain of information. “Did you notice anything different about him, that final night?”
“Yeah,” Leeds said, his voice flat. “He was quiet.”
She left the prison feeling conflicted. Last week after studying O’Shea’s file, she’d spoken to the detectives who had…facilitated his confession. The interrogation tactics they’d used were hardly cruel or unusual, and if they hadn’t delved too deeply into O’Shea’s motives, it was because they hadn’t needed to.
The electrical cord yielding his fingerprints was better than a smoking gun.
Even so, Sonny found herself doubting the veracity of O’Shea’s sworn statement. Despite her profession, she had very little confidence in the criminal justice system. It wasn’t beyond her scope to believe Darrius O’Shea had been framed, coerced, or manipulated.
The person she cared about most-her brother, Rigo-was in prison, and his situation colored her worldview. He was guilty, of course, but that fact didn’t make her love him any less.
Sighing, she drove back to La Jolla, navigating freeway traffic with absentminded ease. On a whim, she passed Neptune Street and continued on to Shores Beach, where O’Shea had been arrested. She parked in a pay lot and got out of her rental car, crossing her arms over her chest as she walked across the sand.
An affluent area like Torrey Pines didn’t have a large homeless population. The beaches were well patrolled, the sidewalks clean, and the boutiques upscale. The cost of living here was too high for most street people. Fast food, inexpensive clothing, and cheap liquor weren’t readily available.
She looked down the beach, past the cliffs leading toward San Diego Harbor. Closer to the busy metropolis, there were always vagrants, some of whom wandered along the coast, drawn by the lure of soft sand and a comfortable sleep.
Wind whipping at her short hair, she cupped a hand over her eyes and considered the opposite direction. Windansea Beach, where Ben lived, was only a few miles to the north.
Nibbling at her lower lip, she pulled her attention back to her immediate surroundings. The small parking lot was about half full. She didn’t see any bearded men or overloaded shopping carts, but it was broad daylight, and
