The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(26)

“Surprised to see me?” Diaz said.

He did look surprised, but not in the way she’d expected. He shook his head. “My lawyer told you. I’m not going to plead. And where is she, anyway? Isn’t she supposed to be here if you’re talking to me?”

She had hoped he wouldn’t ask. A request for a lawyer turned a gray-area conversation into something black-letter inadmissible. Well, there was no one else in the room. Not even any cameras. And besides, she hadn’t come for a confession. She just needed to confront him. Stare him down.

“We already have you on child trafficking,” she said. “Racketeering. Sex with underage girls, at least some of whom were drugged when they were assaulted. So why not add conspiracy to commit murder? I guess you figured you had nothing to lose.”

“What?”

He really did look surprised. And worried. But not in that Shit, they’re on to me way she’d learned to spot. This was something else.

“Come on, Andrew. Six people are dead in Freeway Park. Six people who were waiting for me. You going to tell me you didn’t know anything about that?”

He shook his head, his mouth hanging open. Shit, she thought. He really doesn’t know.

He didn’t just look surprised, though. He looked . . . scared.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You really think murdering me is going to get you out of here? I just gave an interview at Freeway Park in front of a battalion of television reporters. It’s going to be nonstop speculation about what happened in the park and your potential involvement. You had some support before, I’ll admit it. Your money. Your connections. But I’m untouchable now, do you understand that? Got any ideas for what that means for you?”

Did he lose some color at that? Yes, he did. Good.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whined. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know anything about this.”

It sounded like some sort of self-comfort mantra. She sensed an opening and decided to press it.

“You know what happened at New York’s Metropolitan Correctional Center on the night Epstein died? Two out of three cameras malfunctioned. The third was pointed in the wrong direction. What video they did have was subsequently accidentally deleted. Oh, and two guards forgot to check on the prisoner the entire night. What do you make of all that?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You want to know what all the beefed-up video outside your cell and the rotating guard checks cost the state? You want to know how many of the higher-ups have pressured me to get rid of it all because they say it’s too expensive and you’re not worth it?”

Framed as a question, it wasn’t a lie. But the truth was, no one had pressured her. The precautions were coming from FDC management as much as they were from Diaz.

The room was cool, but beads of sweat had sprung out on Schrader’s scalp. “I didn’t do anything,” he said again. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. They know that. They know that.”

Damn it, what was he talking about?

“No, Andrew,” she said. “They obviously don’t know that. And unless you want the Bureau of Prisons to remove all the extra safeguards I’ve fought to have installed for your protection, you better help me out here.”

“They wouldn’t hurt me,” he said. “They wouldn’t.”

He was wobbling. She could feel it. One more solid punch.

She stood. “It looks like we’re going to find out.” She turned and smacked her palm against the door. “Guard! We’re done here.”

The guard’s face appeared behind the glass square.

“Wait!” Schrader said.

She kept her back to him. “Like hell. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

“Tell them . . . if anything happens to me . . .”

There was a loud metallic clack as the guard turned the lock. The door opened.

“Just wait!” Schrader said again.

Diaz glanced back at him, then at the guard. “Give us a minute.”

The guard seemed to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. But he left, locking the door behind him.

Diaz turned back to Schrader but stayed on her feet. “If anything happens to you, what?”

Schrader stared at her, his expression both frightened and petulant. “They know. They know what will happen.”

“You said you want me to tell them something.”

“They already know.”

“They do? That’s great. Then you don’t need all the protection. We’ll remove the cameras. The extra guards. You’ll be fine.”

“If something happens to me, it all comes out. They know. They know.”

“What comes out?”

“All of it.”

“All of what?”

“They know.”

“Who knows?”

“All of them.”

“I don’t have time for games.” She turned back toward the door.

He pounded the table. His manacles clanked. “Wait!” he said again.

She turned to him. “Last chance, Andrew.”

“The things they’re saying about me,” he said, his eyes pleading. “It’s not . . . it isn’t fair. They all know it isn’t fair.”