Rachael said, “Help me,” and groaned loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“What’s going on here?” the boy’s father asked.
Javier sighed, looked down for a moment, studying an oil stain on the concrete.
“What’s going on,” he said finally, “is that my wife is addicted to heroin. She’s loaded right now. This far”—he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“from a lethal overdose. I’m driving her to a detox program in Salt Lake.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must be so difficult.”
“It is. I can only take it a day at a time.”
“We’re sorry to have disturbed her. Come on, Donnie.”
“But she asked for help, Dad.”
Javier squatted down, stared at the boy.
He’d already identified all of the exterior surveillance cameras.
“I want you to remember this night always,” he said. “Because that”—he jerked his thumb back toward the window as Rachael banged her arm against the side of the door—“is what drugs can do to you.”
“God bless,” the boy’s father said, and he took his son by the shoulders and guided him back toward a minivan parked on the far side of the gas pumps.
Javier climbed behind the steering wheel of the Escalade. He looked at Rachael, who was slumped forward into the dash.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” he said.
Inside the minivan, Rick Carter was distributing the Starbucks beverages to his wife and children. He had a long night of driving ahead of him, and with a little luck and no delays, they’d arrive in Albuquerque some time tomorrow afternoon.
He’d just swallowed his first sip when he heard a knock at his window.
He turned, saw the man from the Escalade standing there, felt a small knot blossom in his stomach. For half a second, he debated just putting the car into gear and pulling away.
“What do you think he wants?” his wife asked.
“Guess we’ll find out.” He lowered his window several inches. “May I help you?”
Javier glanced at the children in the backseat, at the man’s pretty wife. The car smelled of Starbucks.
“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.”