Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver

'Where's that knife of Lester's?'

'Evidence locker. But it could find its way back upstairs.'

'We sure we want to do this?'

Ed opened the canvas bag. Looked inside. So did Boz. Stared for a time.

'Let's get a beer,' Boz said.

'Okay, let's.'

Even though alcohol on duty was clearly prohibited by the Procedure Manual.

* * *

An hour later they snuck in the back door of the station.

Boz went down to the evidence room and found Lester's knife. He padded back upstairs, made sure that Sheriff Tappin hadn't returned yet and slipped into the main interview room. He left the knife on the table — under a folder, hidden but not too hidden — and stepped innocently back into the corridor.

Ed brought Lester Botts up to the door, hands cuffed in front of him, which was definitely contrary to procedure, and escorted him inside.

'I don't see why the hell you're holding me,' the tendony man said. His thinning hair was greasy and stuck out in all directions. His clothes were muddy and hadn't been washed in months, it looked like.

'Sit down, shut up,' Boz barked. 'We're holding you 'cause Nate Spoda ID'd you as the one stashing Armored Courier bags down by the river tonight.'

'That son of a bitch!' Lester roared and started to rise.

Boz shoved him back in his seat. 'Yep, ID'd you right down to that tattoo of yours, which is the ugliest-looking woman I have ever seen, by the way. Say, that your mother?'

'That Nate,' Lester muttered, looking at the door, 'he's meat. Oh, that boy's gonna pay.'

'Enough of that talk,' Ed said. Then: 'We're going downstairs for five minutes, see the Commonwealth's Attorney. He's gonna wanta talk to you. So you just cool your heels in here and don't cause a ruckus.'

They stepped outside and locked the door. Boz cocked his head and heard the shuffle of chains moving toward the table. He gave Ed a thumbs-up.

At the end of the corridor, thick with August heat and moisture, they found Nate Spoda by the vending machines, sitting at a broken Formica table, sipping Pepsi and eating a Twinkie.

'Come on down here, Nate, just got a few more questions.'

'After you, sir,' Ed said, gesturing with his hand.

Nate took another bite of Twinkie and preceded them down the hall toward the interview room. Ed whispered to Boz, 'He'll scream. But we gotta give Lester time to finish it before we go in.'

'Okay, sure. Hey, Ed?'

'What?'

'You know I never shot anybody before.'

'It ain't anybody. It's Lester Botts. Anyway, we'll shoot together. At the same time. How's that? Make you feel better?'

'Okay.'

'And if Nate's still alive, shoot him too, and we'll say it was —'

'— accidental.'

'Right.'

Outside the door, Nate turned to them, washed down the Twinkie with the soda. There was Twinkie cream on his chin. Disgusting.

'Oh, one thing —' the kid began.

'Nate, this won't take long. We'll have you home in no time.' Ed unlocked the door. 'Go on inside. We'll be in, in a minute.'

'Sure. But there's something —'

'Just go on in.'

Nate hesitated uncertainly. He started to open the door.

'Nate,' a man's voice called.

Boz and Ed spun around to see three men walking up the hall. They were in suits. And if they weren't federal agents, Boz thought, I'm Elvis's ghost. Shit.

'Hi, Agent Bigelow,' Nate said cheerfully.

He knows them? Ed's heart began to race. They interviewed him while we were gone?… Okay, think, goddamnit. What'd he tell 'em? Whatta we do?

But he couldn't think.

Wood for brains…

The agent was a tall, somber man, balding, his short blond hair in a monk's fringe just above narrow ears. He and the others flashed IDs — yep, FBI — and asked, 'You're deputy Bosworth Peller and you're deputy Edward Rankin?'

'Yessir,' they offered.

Boz was thinking: Lord, failure to secure a prisoner is a suspendable offense.

Ed, thinking pretty much the same, turned to Nate and said, 'Tell you what, Nate, let's us go back to the canteen. Get another soda?'

'Or Twinkie. Those're good, ain't they?'

'It's cooler in here,' Nate said and pushed inside the room where Lester and his well-honed knife awaited.

'No!' Boz shouted.

'What's the matter, Deputy?' one of the FBI agents asked.

'Well, nothing,' Boz said quickly.

Both Boz and Ed found themselves staring at the door, behind which Nate was probably being stabbed to death at this moment. They forced their attention back to the federal law officers.

Wondering how they could salvage it. Well, sure… if Lester came out in a rush, all bloody, holding the knife, they could still nail him. The agents might even join in.

Damn, it was quiet in there. Maybe Lester had slit Nate's throat real sudden and was trying to get out through the window.

'Let's go inside,' Bigelow suggested, nodding toward the door. 'We should talk about the case.'

'Well, I don't know if we want to do that.'

'Why not?' another agent said. 'Nate said it was cooler.'

'After you,' Bigelow said and motioned to the two deputies.

Who looked at each other and kept their hands near their service revolvers as they stepped through the door.

Lester was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, cuffed hands in his lap. Sitting across the table from him was Nate Spoda, flipping through a battered copy of the sheriff's department Procedure Manual. The knife was just where Boz'd left it.

Thank you, Lord in heaven…

Boz looked at Ed. Silence. Ed recovered first. 'I suppose you're wondering why this suspect's here, Agent Bigelow. I guess there was a mix-up, don't you think, Boz? Wasn't the Commonwealth's Attorney supposed to be here?'

'That's what I thought. Sure. A mix-up.'

'What suspect?' Bigelow asked.

'Uhm, well, Lester here.'

'You better charge me or release me pretty damn soon,' the man barked.

Bigelow asked, 'Who's he? What's he doing here?'

'Well, we arrested him for the robbery tonight,' Boz said. His tone asked, Am I missing something?

'You did?' the agent grumbled. 'Why?'

'Uhm' was all that Boz could muster. Had they jeopardized the case with sloppy forensics?

A fourth FBI agent came into the room and handed a file to Bigelow. He read carefully, nodding. Then he looked up. 'Okay. We've got probable cause.'