If I Should Die (27 page)

“They’re still printing those out for us.”

“When you get them, see if there’s anything on these dates.” He circled the meetings. “And maybe you can ask the warden what this number means. Text me when you find out.”

“Do you know who’s
not
on this list?”

Sean stared at his partner blankly. Then it hit him. “Swain’s brother.”

“Bingo.”

“That
is
interesting.” Sean remembered that one of Weddle’s stops before he died was at Butch Swain’s house.

“Ready for Swain?” Patrick asked.

“Absolutely.” He sounded more confident than he actually was as they left the assistant warden’s office and walked through additional security.

“I’m confident you’ll get inside his head,” Patrick said. “Ten minutes and I’ll bet he’ll lose his temper.”

“Am I that annoying?”

“You can be.”

Paul Swain was not what Sean expected.

Sean faced the prisoner in a private interview room usually reserved for lawyers and their clients. Patrick and a senior guard were on the other side of the window, unseen, but Sean felt their presence. He had to play this right.

If Swain knew what he needed, he wouldn’t just hand it over. Sean’s only ace was to make Swain think he was looking for something completely different.

Forty-four, Swain had a handsome face and neatly trimmed dark hair. His palms and fingers were rough from labor, and there were scars on the back of his hands from fighting. A faded scar starting behind his ear and ending at his chin looked like it might have been serious at the time. There was a more recent scar at his temple, still red and raised.

Except for the physical scars, there was nothing about Paul Swain’s demeanor that said
master criminal
. Even his quiet voice was well modulated.

“They told me you’re not a cop.”

“That’s correct.”

“Who are you?”

“Sean Rogan. Private investigator.”

“Cop lite.”

Sean shrugged and acted disinterested in Swain’s approval. “I don’t like cops as a rule. Good cops have their hands tied because of a system that favors pricks like you, and bad cops are worse because they abuse their power under the color of authority.”

“And you’re the noble knight in shining armor?”

He shook his head. “Not noble, and I’m certainly not a knight. But I hate bullies, whether they’re cops or criminals.”

“Applause,” Swain said with a half-smile and leaned back in his chair. “Did you rehearse that just for me?”

“I didn’t know you existed until this week.”

“I have no reason to help you.”

“I haven’t asked for your help.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then you’re wasting my time.”

“I’ve read over the files from your case,” Sean lied smoothly. All he had was the names of the cops on the task force. “Agent Martinelli—what a prick.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I can imagine. They always make themselves look good on paper, but you and I know they fuck with the Constitution when they can get away with it.” Sean leaned forward. “I’ve had my own run-ins with the Feds.”

“Now you’re just playing me, Rogan. Trying to be my friend. Acting all good cop with no corresponding bad cop.”

“I’m not playing cop, good or bad. The last thing I want to be is subjected to arbitrary rules and regulations.” That was certainly the truth. “You knew Joe Hendrickson, right?”

Swain didn’t answer, just shook his head in disgust.

“I know you did. Spruce Lake had seven hundred ninety people at the last census, and we know that has dropped since. Cut in half, in fact. I was hired by his sons—Tim and Adam. Tim is the older one, Adam—”

“I know who they are,” Swain said, impatient. “I don’t need no goddamn family tree drawn for me.” First chink in the armor.

“They want to open a resort. Small scale, a few cabins, a lodge with ten rooms, nature walks, that kind of shit.”

Swain leaned back again. “No one wants to vacation in Spruce Lake.”

“Tourism is far from my area of expertise. Thing is, there’s a group of people trying to shut it down, and guess who they’re using to do it? Your son.”

A bare hint of rage—the tightening of his fists. So small Sean almost missed it.

“To continue with the happenings in your hometown, Tim and Adam came up with a plan for a resort, and they’ve had repeated problems. Equipment destroyed. A cabin trashed. The kitchen set on fire. That’s felony arson. Ricky is seventeen. He could be tried as an adult if some ladder-climbing prosecutor wants to set an example.”

Swain’s anger was growing, his eyes alert, his ears focused on Sean’s every word though he didn’t move a muscle.

“I’m going to lay it all out for you, Swain, because if you’re behind it, you already know. If you’re not behind it, I don’t care if you know.” Sean leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair and pretended he was having a casual conversation, but in fact he was focused completely on Swain’s “tell”—the physical giveaway that told Sean he’d hit a nerve. He was banking that Swain had one redeeming quality—the love of his wife and child. It was an educated guess based on Abigail’s letters, his behavior after she died and Ricky stopped visiting, and the bits and pieces of information Sean had been putting together.

“Here’s what I know. You’re a smart criminal. I saw that right off in your file. No, I’m not stroking your ego, because I also think you’re an asshole for manufacturing drugs. My sister died of a drug overdose. If I thought for a minute that you were part of her supply chain, I’d shoot you now. So we’ll call you a smart prick.”

No man likes being called a prick. Swain’s tell manifested itself. Very subtle—he was good—but Sean was better. He’d played poker with his brothers for years and always won. Even his brother Kane the badass mercenary had a tell, though it took Sean years to figure it out.

Swain’s tell was in his hands. They were cuffed in front of him. When Sean called him a prick, his right index finger tapped once on the table.

“If I weren’t in prison, I’d kill you.”

“You might try,” Sean said smoothly. “So back to the vandalism. It wasn’t smart. In fact, it was amateur hour.”

“You’re boring me, Rogan.”

“Your son led me on a pretty good chase. Over the hills and through the woods to the ventilation shaft on Travers Hill.”

No reaction.

“He busted the oil tank of the ATV he’d stolen and it stalled out. He was scared and defiant with a mouth on him. I liked him, I’ll admit. And he was smart—tricked me, and I fell down the mine shaft.”

Swain smiled, but his finger was steady. He didn’t know about the body in the mine.

“So I was pissed off. Tracked him down. Told him I would help, that I could protect him if he turned in whoever he was working for.”

“You sure you’re not a cop?” Swain grunted.

“I wouldn’t trust just anyone to protect the kid, not with what I think is going on. Unfortunately, he got some bad news yesterday and disappeared.”

Swain stared at him. “You claim to not like to play games, that you’re going to lay it out for me. Then you play a fucking game. Spit it out or I swear I’ll take you down. Where is my son?”

Sean leaned forward. “Jimmy Benson is dead. His truck went off the bridge in Colton, right in the lake. The evidence points to suicide or drunk driving. He sped up and intentionally went over the edge.”

“Get out.” Swain’s voice was barely a whisper.

Sean leaned forward. “If you loved your wife and don’t want her son dead you’ll tell me what the fuck is going on in Spruce Lake. Or I’ll assume you’re behind it and beating up your kid is simply a life lesson you’re trying to teach him. Why would Jimmy kill himself?”

Swain lunged forward. Sean didn’t flinch. He knew if Swain got his hands on him, the guard would be in the door in two seconds. He prayed Patrick was able to hold him back now.

“I’ll kill you!”

“Better men have tried.”

Swain was red-faced. “Anyone touches my son, I’ll slit their throat.”

“From prison? That would be a neat trick.”

“Let me rephrase,” he said with forced calm, working to control his rage, “I’ll have their throat slit.”

“I think I have the answers,” Sean said, pulling together the information he did have and bluffing about the rest.

“You know shit.”

“I know that someone turned state’s evidence on you, and I think you know who it is.”

Swain was shaking his head.

“And you had damning information on this person, so damning that even though they fucked you and you ended up in prison, they couldn’t take over your operation.”

The finger tapped once.

“I don’t know what information you have to keep this person in line,” Sean said. “I suspect it’s physical evidence, something that can’t degrade. Tapes, disks, a computer hard drive, maybe photos, something that experts could prove weren’t doctored. And you used that info to protect your son.” He paused. “I read the letters your wife wrote to Ricky.”

Swain’s eyes darkened and narrowed. “You bastard.”

“Something big is going down in Spruce Lake, and your son could easily get caught in the crossfire. Jimmy’s dead, and Ricky is on the run.”

“I don’t know where you’re from, Rogan, but here, we take care of our business ourselves.”

“Your people aren’t your people anymore.”

Swain’s right index finger tapped multiple times. He was thinking.

Sean leaned forward. “You haven’t had a visitor or a call in the last week. Did you know that Bobbie is back in town?”

Swain stared at him, rigid. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

He’d been right. “You’re setting her up.”

Swain’s voice was low. “Do you know what she did to my wife?”

“Your wife called her a monster. She stole your money.”

“You don’t understand. Abby was the one bright spot in my life. She had breast cancer, but she would have gotten better.” He paused, uncertain.

Sean pushed. “Here’s what I think happened. Bobbie had someone on the inside of your operation. She turned you in. Made sure the government had enough to lock you up for a long time. You hid some money for your family, but Bobbie found it. Your wife couldn’t get the treatment she needed, and died nearly a year later. You’ve been plotting revenge, but so has Bobbie. She’s been cultivating your son. I don’t know who he trusted, but he was responsible for the vandalism at Joe Hendrickson’s place. Now, Ricky is missing and Bobbie is in town, and she has your entire team in the palm of her hand.”

Swain sighed and leaned back. “You were doing so good for a while.”

Sean’s phone vibrated, and he glanced at the message. When he saw the five numbers on the visitor log, he’d suspected it was a federal ID number, but wasn’t sure. Patrick had come through: Victoria Sheffield had come to visit Paul Swain.

“You’ve been planning since the day you were incarcerated. Maybe things were going well, I don’t know, but in December you had a visit from a very pretty blonde, an FBI agent. I don’t know if she told you she was a Fed, or if she had some false identity, but she was here for forty minutes. I think she connected her undercover investigation into intellectual property theft with your former operation. This is where it gets a bit sketchy for me, because the Fed was in the white-collar unit. But she made the connection with Bobbie’s operation here, probably with the help of Jon Callahan. She was a novice. Looking to prove her worth. She came in here tossing out her credentials and playing big, tough bitch cop, when in fact she was a twenty-something newbie desperately wanting to land a big fish.” Sean was making it all up as he went along, adjusting based on Swain’s reactions. “You told her to get the fuck out—because hell,
I’d
do the same thing. Unless she offered me something in exchange.”

Tap
.

“She’s dead.”

Swain laughed. That wasn’t the reaction Sean was expecting. Had he got the entire scenario wrong? Maybe some of the details, but he was certain Agent Victoria Sheffield came here to get Paul Swain to turn on his former associates.

“Who do you really work for, Mr. Rogan?”

“I am exactly who I said I was.” He took out Sheffield’s missing persons picture.

Swain definitely recognized her, but didn’t say anything.

“She went missing officially on January second. Then you have a visitor on January third. Jon Callahan. He only visited you three times. A week before Joe Hendrickson died, right after he learned about Tim and Adam Hendrickson’s resort plans, and the day after Sheffield went missing.

“So does Callahan work for you or your sister? Or both?”

“Where’s Ricky?” Swain asked.

“I don’t know.”

Tap. Tap
.

“Your brother has never visited you. Was he working for Bobbie all along?”

“Butch is an idiot.”

Tap. Tap. Tap
.

“What’s going down in Spruce Lake?”
Tap
.

Sean stood. “If Ricky dies, it’s on you.”

Swain jumped up and lunged for Sean. The guard burst in and Sean waved him off.

“Tell me, Paul. If you care one iota for that boy, tell me what I need to know to protect him.”

“Do you know who you’re up against? Do you know what Bobbie is?”

“I have an idea.”

“You have no idea. When she was eight, she pushed her best friend down an exploration shaft in the Kelley Mine just to see what would happen. Those shafts are at least fifty feet. My father called it the Hell Hole and used to dump his problems down there. Our father was an evil bastard.”

Sean barely refrained from commenting about pots and kettles.

“When Bobbie was ten, she shot my dog because I ratted her out when she broke Butch’s fingers. Before I banished her, she nearly poisoned Abby and Ricky, to get back at me for chastising her in front of a guy she was horny about. Do you know what she did to her husband?”

“I do.”

He seemed surprised, then shook his head with a half-smile. “You
are
a masochist. Why do you care? Most people would be running away screaming by now.”

“Bobbie is a fucking psychopathic bully, and I hate bullies.”

Swain stared at him, assessing Sean. Sean let him.