Alvarez nodded.
“It’s gone from homicide to a much wider investigation. Got the feds involved. Zoller can bring you up to speed. Aside from what I’m doing we’ll need to look into who would benefit from Cain’s death. Insurance, wife involved in an affair, him involved in an affair, business problems, known enemies. The working theory was that he was killed by mistake, but I want to cover all my bases.”
Alvarez rolled back her desk chair, rotated her neck, then her shoulders. “I’ll work with Zoller.”
“If you find anything interesting, call my cell.”
After stopping by the house, depositing the bag of breast milk into the refrigerator and spending half an hour feeding and cuddling the baby, she kissed her husband good-bye, assured him that she would be fine and that, though she missed her family terribly, she loved her job and would call them from the road.
“We have to talk about this,” Santana said.
He was taller than she by half a foot, a cowboy type who actually worked on a ranch and was tough as nails. His hair was black, his eyes dark above a hawkish nose, his smile, when he rained it on her, an irreverent slash of white.
“We already did.”
“Then we need to talk about it again. You’re exhausted, the baby needs you, the older kids, too. Hell, I need you.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Make it sooner,” he said and kissed her on the lips, a long slow kiss that turned her inside out, just as it had the first time. She weakened, wanted to melt against him, wanted the feel of him inside her, but that would have to wait.
“I’ll try,” she promised.
Then she took off.
On the way to Butte, she called Flowers and brought him up to speed as the miles rolled by. She told him what FBI agent Burch had said about getting photos of the inside of the studio.
“That’s what we need. Pictures of the place. Something that will nail them, connect the RV or house or some landmark up there to pictures that have already been taken.”
“We’ll go up there after dark,” Flowers said. “Give us a call later on, around midnight.”
IN BUTTE, REGAN FOUND PHILLIP weeks sitting in the corner of a drunk tank, where the Butte cops had put him after picking him up at the bus station. A Butte detective named Charlie Tarley unlocked the door and pushed it open. Weeks, looking terrified, slowly rolled to his feet.
Tarley, African American and looking as if he worked out regularly, said to him, “You got a visitor.”
She stepped forward, into the kid’s range of vision, and held up her badge. “Detective Regan Pescoli. Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department.”
Fear showed in Weeks’s eyes.
He was tall, unnaturally thin, weathered in the way of street people, farmers, and lumberjacks. He bore a fading bruise below one eye.
Tarley said in a calm voice, “C’mon out, Phillip. Detective Pescoli made a long drive to see you. We all need to chat.”
“What’d I do?” Weeks asked.
“You probably took six hundred dollars from a young girl at the WJ Ranch, but your old man paid it back, so that’s not it,” Regan said. “But I think you might know why you want to talk.”
Weeks shoved both hands in his jeans pocket and stared at the floor a second, then looked up through the dark strands of the hair falling over his forehead. Pinning Regan with his suspicious gaze, he said, “He paid it back?”
She nodded.
Weeks shook his head. “Where’d he get the money? He was drinking and didn’t even have enough cash to buy a box of cereal. I know he didn’t have six hundred dollars.”
“He gave it back. All of it. So you’re good on that score,” she said. “C’mon out of there.”
Shuffling reluctantly Weeks followed Regan along a short hallway to an interview room, Tarley trailing behind, talking on a cell phone. The square, windowless room had a table and four chairs. Regan sat directly across from the boy with his downcast eyes, Tarley on her right.
“I’m going to read you your rights,” Tarley said.
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Just listen,” she ordered. “Hear him out. This is all part of the deal.”
Weeks sullenly let Tarley go through his spiel. When the detective finished, the room was silent apart from the rush of air through the vents. She peered at Weeks for a long intense moment and remembered when her own son had been held for questioning. She felt some empathy for this kid, whatever he was wrapped up in.
“Tell me about Michael Drake, and what he’s doing up there in the woods.”
Weeks’s Adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times. He brushed his long hair back from his eyes and shrugged. “He comes up and fishes.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
A muscle worked in the boy’s jaw. He looked at Tarley and said, “My old man paid the money back. You heard that. Can I go now?”
Tarley said, “If you burglarize a place, you don’t get a free pass for giving the money back. And then there’s the murder.”
Weeks’s mouth dropped open. He blinked and stared at Regan again. “Who was murdered?”
“A completely innocent fisherman from North Dakota,” she said. “We believe whoever did it shot the wrong guy. The man they were trying to shoot saw a nearly naked girl in that RV at Drake’s, and whoever was behind it decided they had to get rid of him.”
Weeks stared at the table. “Oh, God. Shit.”
“What do you know, Phillip? Who are those people?”
He glanced wildly around the room, as if searching for a way out. “They’ll kill me, too. If I talk. They said it. That they’d kill me if they ever saw me talking to a cop.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
She said, “It’ll be hard for them to kill anyone, when they’re doing life without parole.”
“You can’t keep me safe.”
“I can.”
He looked to Tarley who nodded his assessment.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Okay.”
A moment of silence passed.
“What happened to them kids?” Weeks asked. “The girl that the guy saw. The one who was almost naked. What happened to her? Is she there? Is she okay? Are the other ones okay?” He was frantic now, both legs bouncing crazily under the table. “Carla and Al are mean people. Are the kids still up there?”
“I thought the woman’s name was Cheryl,” she said. “Or maybe Delores.”
“Not if they were in that RV. That was Carla and Al,” he said urgently.
All his arguments about not talking seemed to have vanished.
“Do Carla and Al have a last name?”
“I think Al’s is Dickens or, no, Dicker. That’s it. I don’t know Carla’s. I never heard. I don’t know much about them.” He squeezed his eyes closed in concentration. “Except maybe they’re from Nevada. I think I heard that once, but I’m not sure.”
“How often have you seen them at Drake’s?”
“A bunch. They come up four, maybe five times a year, in the RV.”
“And what do they do?”
He looked at Regan as if she were slow on the uptake. “They make movies, ya know, and take pictures either in the cabin, Drake’s house, or out in the woods around there.”
“You’ve seen them?”
He nodded.