Twisted (24 page)

“Yeah, and he’s a dirtbag. So what? I deal with dirtbags all day long.”

“Not like this.”

She rolled her eyes. “He could help us get an arrest, Wolfe. Which just happens to be my chief objective right now. So, sit in if you like, but I plan to talk to him.”

“No.”

Her jaw dropped.
“What?”

“No. You’re not talking to him. End of discussion.” Goddamn it, how had he lost control of this?

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do! Who the hell do you think you are?”

His argument had lost all logic, so he simply pulled rank. “I’m a federal agent. I have a bigger badge than you. Live with it.”

He heard clanging at the other end of the hall and shot a desperate glance at the door.

“I will
not
live with it! I came here to do my job, and I plan to do it.”

She stepped around him to reach for the doorknob, and he caught her arm.

She shook him off. “Jesus, Wolfe,
what
is your problem?”

“I don’t want to watch him look at you!”
he boomed, and she jerked back. “I don’t want him seeing you! Thinking about you! I don’t want him goddamn
smelling
you, all right? He’s a piece of shit and you don’t belong in the same room with him!”

She stared up at him, looking intimidated by him
for the first time since he’d met her. And she
should
be intimidated. She should run away at top speed. All that calm, cool composure he wore like armor had vanished, and she was seeing the real Mark Wolfe, a man on the edge.

She looked at the floor, and he could tell she was shaken. But she was backing down, which meant his completely losing his shit in front of her hadn’t been for nothing. He didn’t care what she thought of him—he just wanted her out of here.

She looked up. “I’m sorry you don’t believe in my ability to do my job.”

What?

“Allison, that’s not it.”

“That’s exactly it. But I assure you I
am
capable of conducting this interview.”

A rap on the door. Mark looked over his shoulder as a guard poked his head in. “Inmate’s here. We ready?”

Mark looked at her, but she was ignoring him now. She squared her shoulders. “We’re ready. Send him in.”

David Moss stepped into the room, and Allison instantly noticed his eyes. His irises were a brilliant shade of blue and he had thick, dark lashes that any woman would envy. But the flash of envy turned to unease as his attention homed in on her like a guided missile.

“Special Agent Mark Wolfe, FBI.” Mark stepped between them and offered a chair. He didn’t offer a handshake, though, as the prisoner wore cuffs attached to a loose leather belt around his waist. “Have a seat.”

Moss’s shackles clinked as he shuffled across the room. He had short hair—almost a crew cut—and wore white pajama-looking pants with a white cotton T-shirt. On his feet were gray rubber shower shoes.

She lifted her gaze and found him staring at her again as he sat down.

“And who are you?” he asked her.

“This is A.J. Doyle, one of my colleagues.”

She shot Mark a look. He’d positioned two more chairs on the other side of the table and indicated for her to take the one nearest the exit. An armed guard was
posted on the other side of the door and the button to summon him was on the table within easy reach.

Allison took a seat and studied Moss again, keeping her expression neutral. The man had a tall, powerful build and was surprisingly good-looking. If she saw him in a bar, she’d definitely look twice.

Allison thought of the waitress who’d gone home with him. She wondered if those same blue eyes had been the last thing Patricia Stewart had seen as she lay dying from a crushed skull. A shiver of fear moved down Allison’s spine. She kept her face blank, but the corner of Moss’s mouth curled up, and she knew he’d read her thoughts.

“No visitors in a while.”

He turned his attention to Mark. “No, sir.”

“Not even your attorney’s been to see you in the last two years.”

“Nope. Just you guys.” He looked at Allison. “ ’Scuse me, ma’am.” He nodded at her. “Just you
two
. My last appeal tanked, so. You know how it goes.”

He sounded relaxed. Nonchalant. Completely unlike what she would have expected from a man who’d been condemned to spend his life behind bars. He was only twenty-nine. She figured he had at least that many more years ahead of him inside these walls.

“That would be the appeal you had in front of Judge Roth.” Mark said it as a statement, not a question, and Allison realized he’d done more homework than she had.

“That’s the one.” His voice was tinged with sarcasm now. “Guess the D.A. fucking the judge in my case doesn’t get me a new trial.” He cut a glance at Allison. “If you’ll ’scuse my language.” Then back to Mark. “So that’s pretty much it for me.”

A door slammed down the hallway, and Allison glanced at the window. The guard hadn’t moved.

“So.” Moss’s gaze was on her again. “What brings
you
here? I’m guessing the FBI didn’t send you out to talk about my appeal.”

“We’re seeking information about your brother,” Allison said.

His attention shifted to Mark and then to Allison again. A smirk spread across his face.

“My brother.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Mark asked.

He glanced up at the ceiling. “Ah, let’s see.” He looked at Mark. “It’s definitely been a while. Mind if I bum a smoke?”

Allison looked over, startled, as Mark reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. He tapped one out and passed it across the table.

“Bet they took your lighter, didn’t they?”

Mark nodded.

Moss smiled as he tucked the cigarette into his pants. “Ah, that’s okay. I’ll save it for later.” He leaned back and gave Allison a smug look. “You were saying? About Damien?”

“
You
were saying you hadn’t seen him in a while,” she said. “You remember when it was, exactly?”

“Well, maybe not
exactly
.”

Another gaze at the ceiling, and Allison waited, watching him think. She had no doubt this “aw, shucks” routine was designed to be charming, like the “ma’am” and the “sir” bit. She glanced at Mark, but he was wearing his most inscrutable FBI face now, and he hardly resembled the man who’d been shouting at her a few
minutes ago. If not for the slight tension in his jaw that told her he was grinding his teeth to nubs, she’d think she’d imagined it.

I don’t want to watch him look at you!

Well, the man was looking at her now, and she knew that behind the bland facade, Mark was absolutely hating it.

“Musta been twelve? Thirteen years ago?” Moss glanced at Mark.

“Do you know where he’s living now?” Mark asked.

“That I don’t.”

“Where would you guess?”

“I wouldn’t.” He looked at Allison and his gaze dropped to her breasts.

“He ever visit you in San Quentin?”

“Nope.”

“Did he come to your trial?”

“Nope.” Moss smiled. “We’re not what you’d call a close family.”

“You two came to Texas about the same time,” Mark said. “I assume you were together?”

Moss looked surprised by this, and Allison probably did, too. It hadn’t occurred to her that the brothers might have moved down here together.

“Nope.” Moss shifted in his chair and his smirk disappeared. “Like I said, haven’t seen him. What’s this about, anyway?”

“We’d like to question Damien about some crimes in central Texas,” Allison said, and Moss’s expression didn’t change.

“What sort of crimes?”

“Homicides,” Mark stated.

“Homicides, plural?”

“That’s right.”

Moss made a
tsking
sound and shook his head. Allison wanted to reach across the table and slap him, but she focused on keeping a blank face.

“Well, now,
that
sounds like some serious shit. Why would I want to help you hook up my brother for murder?”

And here was the sticking point. There really
wasn’t
much reason for Moss to help them. Barring a new trial—which looked very much impossible after his failed appeal—he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You know, I’m curious,” Mark said. “Why Texas?”

Moss watched him. He pulled the cigarette from his pants, along with a book of matches. Despite a limited range of motion, he somehow managed to lean forward and get the end lit. Then he sat back in the chair and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

“Now,
that
I can tell you. Damien loves it here, ever since we were kids.”

“You came down here as kids,” Allison clarified as he took another drag. She itched to pick up her notepad, but she didn’t want to stifle the conversation now.

“You been out to Waynesboro?” He squinted at her through the haze of smoke. “Good bird hunting. Dove, quail, you name it. Damien’s good with a shotgun.”

“Who taught you to hunt?” Allison asked, thinking of the time line. Moss’s father had died when he was practically an infant.

“That would be Uncle Brad. Married to Theresa, my mom’s sister.”

“And her last name is . . . ?”

“Gillis,” he said.

Allison wanted to rush outside and call Ric. She wanted him to look up every Gillis in Wayne County. They could narrow their vehicle search to the county as well.

The blue eyes turned to her. “She’s dead, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What about Brad?” Mark asked.

“Him, too.” Moss shook his head. He took another pull on the cigarette, then leaned back and looked at Allison. “So, A.J. How long you been at the Bureau?”

“I’m with the San Marcos police.”

“San Marcos.”

“Where one of the victims lived.”

He nodded. “Not a real common field for a woman.” He flicked an ash on the concrete. “Being a cop, that is. You like it?”

“I do.”

“I’ve met some lady cops. Dykes, every last one of ’em.” He gave her a slow, appraising look that chilled her skin. “But you’re not a dyke, so it must run in the family. I bet your dad was a cop.”

She could feel Mark’s gaze boring into her. He didn’t like this conversation, but if he tried to put a stop to it, Moss would gain the upper hand. She hadn’t realized the complexity of the dynamic she’d created by insisting on this three-way interview.

“He was a firefighter.”

Moss’s eyes widened, as if he was impressed. “A
fire
fighter. Now, those guys are cool. Always liked those guys.” He gave Mark a knowing look, and she realized
Moss was telling him he knew that
they
knew about his criminal history.

“When was the last time you heard from your brother, David?” Mark’s voice sounded tight now.

“Hold on, now. I want to hear about A.J.” He dropped the cigarette butt on the floor and let it smolder. “So, I bet you were a daddy’s girl, huh? Why aren’t you carrying a hose?”

She forced herself not to look at Mark for guidance. This had been her idea.

“Maybe flames aren’t your thing?” Moss pressed. “You said your pop’s dead. What’d he do, run into a burning building?”

Allison felt the blood drain from her face. Her chest squeezed. She forced her lips to move and heard words coming from her mouth.

“My father’s retired.”

“Retired?”

“Yes.”

“Now, that’s too bad.” He shook his head. “We need those firefighters.”

“When exactly was it you moved down to Texas?” Mark asked.

Moss’s insolent gaze didn’t stray from Allison. “Five years ago.”

“Tell me how you got your job with the roofing company.”

Now he looked at Mark. “They needed a roofer.”

“And you had some experience?”

He shrugged. “Not rocket science. Did some construction here and there along the way.”

“Damien do any?”

“Here and there.”

“Any house painting?”

“I doubt it.” He focused back on Allison again. “Damien never liked all that manual labor. He was into the computer.” He cut a look at Mark. “You know he took some SAT test when he was sixteen? Perfect score.”

“Where did he attend college?” Allison asked, and she waited for him to say Rice University, where Jordan Wheatley had gone.

“Wish I could remember.”

“You don’t remember where your brother went to college?” The second the words were out, she regretted them. Of course he knew. And now he knew they
didn’t
know, and he could be smug about that, too.

“David.” Mark waited for Moss to look at him. “We’re looking for your brother. It would be good if you helped us. Sooner rather than later.”

“What, you’re worried he’ll strike again soon as the sun goes down?” He smiled at Allison. “Sorry. Wish I could help you out.”

He turned to Mark and the smile vanished. “It’d take more than a free smoke to make me rat out my own brother.” He turned to Allison. “Lemme let you in on a secret: You’re never going to catch Damien because he’s too smart.”