“Don’t take my word for it. Tell me what relevance you think it’s got—to either of our cases.”
“I’ll have to think on it. At first glance, nothing. The arsons started after Marcks was behind bars, right? So we know he didn’t do those. Just the last two fires are suspect, I guess, because Marcks was in the wild. If Marcks is responsible. And if the other fires are truly related to your more recent ones.” She thought a moment. “Unless Marcks knows the arsonist.”
“All the arsons are related,” Rooney said. “Same UNSUB for all of them. I’d stake my reputation on it. Which means none of them are Marcks’s handiwork.”
“I’ll buy that.” Vail shoved her hands into her pockets. “Hey, we all need to be humbled once in a while, right?”
“You admit that?”
“Of course not.” She gathered up her purse and the copy of Rooney’s case folder. “But it sounded good, didn’t it?”
VAIL SETTLED HERSELF into the ergonomic conference room chair in front of a secure laptop, the Skype interface opened. Curtis entered and sat down, a visitor badge clipped to his shirt pocket.
“You ready?”
Curtis took a seat. “So we’ve got the homeowner. Stuart Sheridan.”
“Right. His wife’s Nancy, the one with cancer. So we should go easy on him.”
“Unless Stu’s a child pornographer.”
“Then we go for the jugular.” Vail clicked “video call” and the familiar Skype ring filled the external speakers.
A suited agent answered the call. “Agent Vail, I’ve got Stuart Sheridan here with us, as requested.” He pivoted the laptop and revealed a man in his forties, graying at the temples.
“Good morning, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Agent Vail, is it? I’d like to know what this is about. I haven’t been told anything. But anytime the FBI shows up at your door it’s not good news.”
“No, Mr. Sheridan, it’s not. I mean, it’s not horrible, but it has serious implications. Let’s put it that way.”
“I don’t care how you put it. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“You own the home in Lake Ridge?” She read off the address.
“Yeah, about ten years now. Why?”
“Can you tell us what you’ve got in the basement, in the entertainment center?”
Sheridan cocked his head to the side. “How do you know about our basement? What the hell’s going on?”
“We had reason to enter your home. It has nothing to do with you, I assure you.”
“That’s not an—”
“Mr. Sheridan, this will go a lot faster if you just answer my questions, and then I’ll explain everything. Okay?”
Sheridan took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “Fine.”
“The entertainment cabinet. You’ve got DVDs in there.”
“Yeah, movies my wife and I bought back before Netflix and HBO Go started streaming. And we’ve got some videotapes of our family trips, stuff like that. Why?”
“Can you describe some of the types of movies you’ve got there? Not the ones of your family.”
He shrugged. “Some romantic comedies—When Harry Met Sally. You’ve Got Mail. Thrillers and suspense, some dramas. Hunt for Red October. No Way Out. We’ve got a little bit of everything. Some foreign films. Chocolat. Edward Scissorhands. Oh, and a bunch of Disney films, the animated classics, the early Pixar ones—Toy Story, Monsters—really, can you tell me why that’s relevant?”
“Any adult films in your collection?”
“Adult? You mean like—X-rated? Porn?”
“Like that, yeah.”
“No.” He shook his head. “My kids play Xbox down there, they watch TV in the basement. It’s our playroom. Why would you even ask that question?”
“We found some movies of … of that nature. And I wanted to know if they’re yours.”
“Definitely not mine. Now—Agent Vail, I have to insist you tell me why you’ve been in my house without our knowledge. And—and how those X-rated movies got there.”
Vail squared her shoulders. Based on his reaction and body language, she was reasonably certain that Sheridan was telling the truth. “You had a squatter living there for the past several months.”
Sheridan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not serious. We’ve been here with my wife, she’s in an aggressive cancer treatment program. With the kids and everything, I haven’t had a chance to fly home. My neighbor’s supposed to be checking on things, taking in any mail that’s not forwarded here.”
“He or she isn’t doing too good a job.”
“This squatter. What’s he been doing in my house?” Sheridan shivered, twisted his face with revulsion. “This is disgusting. I feel … violated.”
“We had reason to question him and we had an informant tell us where he could be found. Your house. There was—well, he had some automatic weapons and your front door is, um, it needs to be replaced. As soon as possible. It’s been snowing here. Our crime scene unit should be finishing up today.”
“Crime scene unit.” He covered his face with both hands. “Jesus Christ.”
“Mr. Sheridan, did you bring a laptop or tablet with you to Ohio?”