Charlie Perry cocked his weapon and put the barrel an inch away from Terjo's right eye.
"You've got one minute to tell me who Phyllis Terrell had sex with the night she was murdered."
"And if I do?" Terjo asked, stammering to get the words out.
"You go home to Mexico and you live," Perry said.
"But if you ever come back to this country, you die, Ignacio."
"I'm Santiago, not Ignacio."
"Drop the game," Perry snapped.
"You're wasting time."
"What about Rebecca and my daughter? I need to see them, por favor.
Perry pushed the barrel against Terjo's eyeball.
"That's not an option. Maybe we'll have the Mexico authorities throw you in prison as a drug smuggler. Now you have three choices. Pick one."
Terjo pulled his head back and looked through watery eyes at the woman, who stared at him without expression.
"His name is Ran dall Stewart. He lives up the hill from Mrs. Terrell, behind Alexandra Lawton's house. He was with her the last time I saw the senora alive. She asked me not to say anything."
"You're a good boy, Ignacio," Perry said as he released the hammer to his weapon and turned to the woman.
"Get him out of here."
Agent Applewhite nodded and pulled Terjo to his feet.
"Don't even think about killing him," Perry added. Applewhite smiled wickedly and marched Terjo out the door.
At the office Kerney worked his way slowly through a large group of smiling officers and civilian employees who'd gathered for an informal celebration of Larry Otero's promotion. Folks who'd been reserved, distant, or hesitant with Kerney praised his selection. Even two senior captains who'd been passed over for the appointment seemed pleased, as did several sergeants and lieutenants who could now think seriously about the possibility of moving up in rank. But the officers active in the police union were conspicuous by their absence.
Helen had bought a bouquet of flowers that sat on the vacant secretary's desk outside Otero's new office. She'd had a metallic silver banner hung above the door that read in bold letters, CONGRATULATIONS. A large coffeepot and pastries arranged on platters filled an office desk that had been covered with a tablecloth.
With his wife and two adolescent children next to him-a gangly, beanpole boy and an attractive, serious-looking girl-Larry Otero stood in the middle of the room surrounded by well-wishers, his face flushed with quiet pleasure. Otero's wife, a petite woman with a toothy smile, held a camera with a flash attachment in her hand.
Kerney stepped over to Otero, who interrupted the flow of conversation to introduce Kerney to his family.
"Will you do the honors, Chief?" Larry asked as he held out a double set of three stars, denoting his new rank.
"With pleasure," Kerney said. He pinned the stars on Otero's collar while Larry's wife took pictures, and the room broke into applause.
After more picture-taking and small talk, the event ended as off duty personnel from the graveyard shift who'd stayed over for the party went home and the day-shift workers scattered. When Otero's wife left to take the kids to school and go to work, Kerney invited Larry into his office and sat with him at the conference table.
"Did you catch any flak out of city hall about my appointment?" Otero asked uneasily.
"None at all," Kerney said, unwilling to start Otero off in his new job on a negative note.
A smile erased a slight tightness at the corners of Otero's mouth and he relaxed in his chair. His eyes seemed to invite further discussion, but he let the topic slide.
"Are you ready for your marching orders?" Kerney asked.
Otero's smiled widened and he nodded.
"Whenever you are, Chief."
"Let's get to it," Kerney said, reaching for the paperwork he'd prepared for Otero.
Randall Stewart's hands were cold and clammy, and a persistent impulse to wash them wouldn't go away. Because he was locked in a room at the National Guard armory, handcuffed with his arms between the slats of a straight-backed chair, sitting in the middle of a room, he couldn't do that. Instead, he waited for the special agent to come back into view.
For twenty minutes Stewart had been bombarded with questions. But now the agent constantly circled around the chair, silently scrutinizing him. Stewart felt trapped and vulnerable.
Charlie Perry had intercepted Stewart as he'd parked his shiny new BMW in front of his stock brokerage office. Tall and slim with a full head of curly dark hair, Stewart was at least fifteen years younger than Phyllis Terrell. Perry disliked the man instantly. His carefully tailored, expensive suit, his fancy car, the premium leather attache case he carried, the smug look on his face when Perry approached him, all combined to piss Charlie off.
"Phyllis never talked to you about political matters?" Perry asked, stopping behind Stewart's chair, out of sight.
"Never," Stewart replied craning his neck in a futile attempt to look at the agent.
"What about the ambassador?" Perry asked.
"Did she talk about him?"
"Only to say she was glad the divorce was going through."
"What about his work?"
"She didn't talk about that."
"Never?"
"I knew he was on some sort of a government trade mission, that's all."
"Did she tell you about the trade mission?"
"No."
Perry stepped into Stewart's view.
"Did you ever have any political or philosophical discussions with her?"
"That wasn't the focus of our relationship."
"She didn't seem to care if people knew about her other lovers. Why the secrecy when it came to you?"
"Because we were neighbors, and I didn't want my wife to find out about it. Nor did she."
"And Terjo? Why was he asked to keep the secret?"
"Because he'd worked for my wife upon occasion, and he knew both of us.
And my wife was friendly with Phyllis."
"Did you pay him for his silence?"
"I didn't, no. Phyllis may have, but I doubt it. Terjo seemed willing to treat it as none of his business."
"Did Phyllis ever ask you to do any favors for her?"
"Like what?" Stewart asked.
"You tell me," Perry replied.
The agent had clamped the handcuffs painfully tight around Stewart's wrists.
"You can't keep me handcuffed like this," he said.
Perry smiled devilishly and leaned close to Stewart.
"Does it hurt, Randall?"
"Its a violation of my rights."
"You've got no rights," Perry said.
"I could blow your fucking brains out and probably get a personal commendation from the White House. You were in Phyllis Terrell's pants the night she was murdered. That makes you murder suspect number one.
As far as I'm concerned you're a stone-cold killer."
"I didn't kill her. Listen, it was just sex, like I told you. There was nothing else to it."
Perry guffawed.
"Or maybe she was gonna cut you off, and you didn't like the idea of losing out on some great pussy."
"That's not true."
Perry circled behind Stewart again and patted him on the shoulder.
"You know," he said gently, "I want to believe you, Randall. Now, let's try again: Did Phyllis give you anything to hold for her?
Documents? Papers? Anything like that?"
"No, nothing. She asked me to mail a letter at the post office the next morning on my way to work, which I did."
"What kind of letter?"
"A manila envelope."
"Who was it addressed to?"
"She didn't say."
"You didn't look at the address?"
"I checked it to make sure I dropped it in the right drive-up box outside the post office. It had a local address."
"What was the address?"