Missing and Endangered (Joanna Brady #19)(84)
“How come?” a puzzled Kristin wanted to know.
“It turns out we’ll be having a departmentwide celebration early this afternoon.”
As soon as Joanna caught sight of Floyd Barco, handcuffed to the table in the interview room, she recognized the type. He was a smarmy little man with a chip on his shoulder and plenty of attitude meant to make up for his diminutive stature.
“Look,” he sneered, “you guys have me dead to rights—DUI, weapons charge, and more than my fair share of weed in the vehicle. So what’s this all about? Just send me back to the pen and get it over with.”
“It’s not that simple,” Ernie told him. “We’re actually here to talk about a homicide.”
Floyd’s eyes bugged. “A homicide?” he repeated. “I’ve done lots of bad stuff, but I never had nothin’ to do with something like that.”
“We’ll see,” Ernie said. “Why don’t you tell us about Randy Williams and Madison Hogan? I understand they’re friends of yours, right?”
“They’re not friends, they’re customers at the Nite Owl. That’s where I work, and they’re regulars.”
“So maybe they drop by for more than just good company and booze,” Jaime suggested. “Maybe one or the other purchased another kind of goods from you fairly recently.”
Floyd squirmed in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“When you were taken into custody, the arresting officers noticed that you had several bottles of eyedrops in your glove box,” Jaime mentioned.
“I’ve got allergies real bad,” Barco said. “I have to use drops all the time, day and night.”
“That’s surprising,” Ernie observed. “I didn’t know scopolamine was good for allergies.”
Floyd took a deep breath and said nothing.
“You might be interested in knowing that an empty eyedrop container just like the ones in your Suburban was found at the crime scene where Leon Hogan was shot to death,” Ernie continued.
“So?” Floyd asked with a shrug, trying to regain some of his lost composure. “What does that have to do with me? Hogan was killed by some trigger-happy cop. Everybody knows that.”
“What everybody maybe doesn’t know is that Mr. Hogan was hopped up on scopolamine at the time he died,” Ernie said. “Randy Williams’s handgun was found at the scene. It would appear that someone dosed Mr. Hogan with scopolamine, possibly with the intention of killing the guy while he was out of commission and unable to defend himself. Not surprisingly, the most likely candidates on that score turn out to be Randy Williams and Madison Hogan. The only question now is whether you were in on it, too.”
“Me?” Barco asked faintly.
“Yes, you, Mr. Barco,” Ernie said. “As it happens, we’ve heard from more than one source that when it comes to scopolamine, you’re the go-to guy in the neighborhood. We’re also under the impression that Randy and Madison were looking to score a cool hundred G’s in life-insurance proceeds by taking Leon Hogan out. So let me ask again, were you in on it or not? Did Randy and Madison pay you outright for the drugs they used, or were you in on the deal for a percentage of the take? Or is it possible you were going to be in on the cartel deal that Williams was cooking up?”
Floyd stayed quiet for a long moment. “I want a lawyer,” he said finally.
“Absolutely,” Ernie said. “And we’ll see to it that you get one. At the moment, however, since we’re holding you on other charges, we won’t have to add conspiracy to commit homicide to the mix, at least not right now. But when your attorney shows up, you might let him know that possible charges on that score are pending, especially if either Randy or Madison drops the dime on you.”
“But I . . .” Floyd began again, but then he seemed to think better of what he was about to say and fell silent once more.
“Fair enough,” Ernie said. “Detective Carbajal here will be happy to escort you to your cell.”
On Joanna’s way back to her office, Butch sent a text saying they were in the car and headed south with Jenny at the wheel. They were out of Flagstaff and coming home! Joanna’s relief at the news was palpable. For the first time all day, it felt as though she could draw a full breath.
In Kristin’s office she found Deputy Garth Raymond crouched down next to Mojo’s bed, scratching the old dog’s ears. He lurched to his feet the moment Joanna appeared.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff Brady,” he said, wiping his petting hand on his pant leg. It was his day off. Rather than wear his uniform, he’d shown up in work clothes—a worn plaid flannel shirt, work boots, and jeans.
Joanna smiled back at him. “Don’t worry about a few dog germs, Detective Raymond,” she said. “I’m immune.”
“Wait,” Kristin demanded, leaping to her feet, “Did you just say Detective Raymond?”
“I did indeed,” Joanna replied.
Kristin hurried around the desk to give Garth a congratulatory hug. “And that’s why you had me pick up pizzas?”
“It is. Where are they, by the way?”
“In the conference room.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “Detective Raymond and I are going into the bullpen for a private introduction to the rest of the team, and then you can let everybody know that at one P.M. it’ll be pizza time in the conference room. I’ll make the official promotion announcement there.”