Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(102)

I question him about Mark Garcia. He struggles to even remember who I’m talking about, and then he only recalls that he’s “that American law guy who died.” I ask about Phil, and it takes even more work to remind him who that is. When I show him the watch, he dismisses it as “some frou-frou girlie bling” and rouses himself just enough to sneer at people who waste their money on “that shit” when a fake Rolex is just as good. I show him the gun, and his eyes light up at that. He wants to hold it. Then he rants about Dalton not letting him into the militia, which turns into a rant about his mother not letting him hunt as a kid. This goes on for a while, the upshot being that Roy really likes guns . . . and has never actually handled one, though he’s sure he’d be good at it if that asshole sheriff would give him a chance.

As the questioning continues, the sedative wears off, and Roy remembers what he did. That’s when I expect him to go into full-on rant mode, blaming Mindy and everyone else and downplaying his actions. Instead, he freaks out—to the point where April needs to mildly sedate him again. After that she retreats to the front porch, where we’ve wheeled Kenny while we interview Roy.

“No,” Roy slurs as Anders lowers him to the bed. “Someone . . . That wasn’t . . .” He swallows and then pats his chin, feeling the half missing beard and wincing as he touches the cuts. “Nightmare. I had . . . I had . . .”

“You had a nightmare,” I say.

He nods, his gaze fixed and blank. “I had to . . . I don’t . . .” Another swallow. “I remember that in the nightmare. I needed to shave my beard, because that’s why Mindy said no to me.”

“Your beard?” Anders says.

Roy runs his hands over his face, wincing again as he touches the cuts. “It made sense in the nightmare, okay? I had to shave my beard and style my hair, and then she’d say yes.”

Anders lifts his brows.

Roy keeps going. “I didn’t have hair gel, so I used grease. I was shaving my beard, and then I forgot why. I was doing that, and I got mad. Really, really mad. I knew she’d never say yes, and I was sick of everyone treating me like shit. I deserve better, and I was going to show everyone who I was. Show that bit—that woman—that she can’t treat me like that.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Actually, if ‘treating you like that’ is refusing to have sex with you, she absolutely can.”

His jaw sets. “She’s a who—”

I cut him off. “She’s a sex worker. Not a sex robot. You don’t put your money in and get a blow job.”

Anders chuckles, and Roy glares at him. “Sure, you think it’s funny. You’ve probably never had a woman say no to you, even if you are . . .” He trails off and has the grace to look abashed.

“A cop?” Anders says. “That’s what you were going to say. I get sex even though I’m a cop. Totally true. Women are good about overlooking that. Doesn’t mean they never say no. Doesn’t mean I never say no. You’re digging yourself in deeper here. You realize that, right?”

“You and this detective don’t know what it’s like because you both hit the genetic jackpot.”

“Yep,” Anders says. “Totally did. We were both born to parents with brains, and they passed those on to us.”

I start to cut off Roy’s retort, but I don’t need to. He’s sedated enough that when he can’t think of a quick comeback, he just sits there, his mouth open.

“We’ll discuss what you did to Mindy later,” I say. “So you shaved and greased your hair to impress her. Then you undressed . . .”

“To impress her?” Anders says, and he chokes on a laugh that has me scowling and motioning that I’ll kick him out if he goes there.

“Let’s skip that part,” I say, and Roy looks relieved. “Back up. You got off work at four, according to your timesheet. You came home and did what?”

“Relaxed.”

“Be more specific. If you have any hope of getting out of serious trouble here, Roy, you need to take me through every step.”

“I came home. I poured a glass of wine. And, yeah, I like wine better than beer, okay?” He shoots a glare at Anders, who hadn’t reacted.

“You poured wine,” I say. “I saw the empty bottle. So you drank the whole—”

“No, it was already opened. There was about half left. I poured it, and I drank it in the living room while I worked on a puzzle. I had dinner plans, so I was relaxing with my puzzle and wine—”

His head spins my way. “The wine. It was in the wine, wasn’t it? Someone wanted to embarrass me and dosed my wine.”

“Any idea who’d do that?” Anders says. “Or should we just question the entire town?”

I give him a look. Then I say to Roy, “Yes, it’s possible that someone added your mushrooms to the wine.”

His face screws up. “My what?”

I show him the baggie, and I’m treated to Roy’s views on drugs, which boils down to Yeah, I’ve snorted coke for chicks, but I don’t smoke that hippy-dippy marijuana shit, and I sure as hell don’t smoke magic mushrooms. Then he peers at the bag and says, “You sure those are the smoking ones? They look like the kind I put in my risotto.” Then he again glares at Anders—who has again, said and done nothing—and says, “Yeah, I make risotto. I make a mean quiche, too. You got a problem with that?”