“Lathan,” the guy finally said. Omitting his last name.
Xander nodded and looked around the overgrown yard, then back to Lathan. “This one’s personal.”
Lathan watched him like every word coming out of his mouth was gold-plated and diamond studded. Did he say it was personal? Was that what he said?
“I’m the one who found the women.” Even as he said the words, Xander pictured the moment he’d opened the door to that room and discovered Isleen lying there. A nightmare he’d probably have for the rest of his life.
More staring, then Lathan said, “No shit.”
“No shit. You think the outside looks bad. Try going inside.”
“Hell no. The stench is about gagging me out here. No way can I set foot inside.” There are limits to what I can do, and that’s a hard fucking limit.
Xander sniffed the air. Didn’t smell a thing. “You find anything?”
“Not a damned thing everyone doesn’t already know. There’s a reason I don’t work current cases or make house calls. But this one was so close to home the powers-that-fucking-be suggested I try it. I tried it. Sucked at it. Fuck the powers-that-be.” He gave a middle-finger salute.
Xander couldn’t help it. He kinda liked the guy. “Right on, brother.” Xander imitated the salute. Since they were buds now, it was time to bring up what he really wanted to know. “I live near the bear totem. Drove by the other night and saw you there. What were you doing?”
Isn’t that the fucking question I keep asking myself? “You own it?”
Xander was half tempted to say yes, just to see Lathan’s reaction. “No.”
“Then I expect it’s none of your business.” Lathan’s tone wasn’t unfriendly; it just lacked the camaraderie they’d shared a moment ago.
Xander’s phone vibrated. He yanked it out and glanced at the screen.
Kent: Where the fuck are you? Everyone is waiting.
Shit.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket. All the guy’s attention was on him, wariness on his face, like he half expected Xander to attack.
“I’m late for an interrogation. You find anything, keep me in the loop. Contact Kent Knight at the BCI field office. Like I said, this one is personal.”
The guy dipped his head in agreement, but didn’t say—or think—anything as Xander turned and headed away.
Note to self: Ask Kent just exactly what kind of consulting Lathan does.
*
The fluorescent light over Xander’s head winked dim and then bright, the buzz of the dying bulb as annoying as a mosquito let loose inside his brain. Elbows on the table, he fisted his hands over his ears to drown the noise. Screw trying to look all invincible to the Prospectus County coppers observing on the other side of the interrogation room’s two-way mirror. Remaining sane and not letting the Bastard in His Brain make a guest appearance took top billing over looking mucho macho.
A splashing dark stain on the ceiling tiles indicated a leaky roof, and the gunk caked in the floor corners proved the janitor—if there was one—wasn’t being paid to care. The sheriff’s office seemed to be a victim of underfunding and understaffing. With Isleen and Gale’s case and the murder in Prospectus Prairie Park, you’d think the place would be overflowing with officers, but all staff on deck meant only a half dozen officers, making the place blissfully quiet. Except for that goddamned light droning on and on and on.
The moment he’d seen Kent pacing in the corridor, waiting for him outside this room, Xander had blasted off with questions about Lathan Montgomery. Kent knew less than he did, only that the FBI had called in a local consultant. That was it. Nothing else. And wasn’t that weird? That there was a local FBI consultant that no one knew anything about.
Xander waited three full revolutions of the minute hand on the clock across from him, then spoke without even facing the two-way mirror. “You want me to get answers? Get him in here. Now. I don’t have all day to sit on my fucking thumb.” He still needed to drive back across the state to interview William Goodspeed.
The scraping squeal of the door being opened practically lacerated his eardrums. He clamped his hands tighter over his ears. The frequency connection opened, the pain of it a fist to the temple. Without meaning to, Xander flinched and held his breath until the thudding in his head became a part of his body’s rhythm. He removed his hands from his ears and sat up straighter while the officer cuffed the suspect to the metal table.
Asshole acts like a spoiled brat just ’cause he’s a special consultant to the BCI. With a face like that, he probably hasn’t been laid in a decade. The officer’s thoughts were in line with how every other officer looked at him.
“Try six hours ago,” Xander said to the officer, then locked his attention on the Prairie Murderer.