Two Girls Down(69)
“Who’s talking to him?”
“Harrison could,” said Traynor.
“Let Vega do it,” said Cap.
She looked up, pushed gently off the wall.
Junior stiffened up, ready to talk. Traynor cut him off.
“She’s not a police officer,” said Traynor, but he wasn’t digging in.
“Brandt’s not a suspect,” said Cap. “They’re perfect for each other. He also owes eight years of child support—he doesn’t have a lot of cards here.”
Traynor and the Fed glanced at each other. Cap felt them tipping. Come on, he wanted to say, she’s having an anxiety attack; this will be just the thing to snap her back. Some girls need a spa treatment to unwind; this one likes an interrogation. Vega looked at him, brows heavy over her eyes, tired and a little grateful.
—
It was a little room, had the coppery smell of office machinery. Kevin Brandt sat at a square table, texting on his phone when Vega came in.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Vega.”
“Yeah, who are you? Cop, lawyer, FBI?”
His voice was nasal, congested, and he had a flat face like an inbred dog.
“No,” said Vega.
She sat opposite him, and he sniffed loudly.
“Then why are you here? You know my ex-wife? Huh?”
Vega folded her arms.
Brandt dropped his phone on the table and pressed a fingertip hard on top of it.
“You can’t keep me here without charging me, you know that, right?”
Vega was quiet.
“I got a lawyer,” Brandt said. “He’s coming.”
Vega leaned forward and laced her fingers together on the table like an altar boy.
“Where are the girls?” she said.
“How should I fuckin’ know?” said Brandt.
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Eight years ago,” he said, not having to think about it.
“You know a guy named Evan Marsh?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?” she said. “Be sure.”
“Hey, fuck you, bitch. Nothing wrong with my faculties. I heard you and I answered you, and unless you or a real actual cop is gonna charge me with something, I have somewhere to be.”
Brandt crossed his arms and waited for the insults to sink in. Vega just leaned back in her chair. She stretched her arms up, kept the fingers laced, palms up. Just like a yoga instructor would tell her. And then she yawned.
—
Cap and Junior stood on the other side of the glass. Junior was moving around, nervous, not sold.
“So she’s tired? That’s the plan?”
Cap watched Vega yawn, having never seen it happen before. There was no way she was tired. She didn’t get tired. Or she was just young enough to fight it off.
“Just wait,” he said to Junior.
But to Vega in his head he said, You got a plan, right, girl?
—
She let her hands drop to her sides, rolled her head from side to side, hearing little cracks from the cartilage in her neck.
“So you’re sure you don’t know where the girls are?” she said again, almost friendly, almost cute.
Brandt stared at her, shoving his confusion into a corner to make room for the agitation.
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been fucking saying for fucking two hours since I got picked up. Now charge me, or I leave through that door, right there, right now,” he said, pointing to the door in question.
Vega turned around to look at the door like she’d forgotten where it was.
“Right,” she said. She exhaled in a whistle. “Okay, then, I guess you’re free to go.”
—
“I’m going in,” said Junior, at the end of whatever frail cord he’d been hanging by.
“Wait,” said Cap gently. “Just give her a minute.”
He watched her expression, totally foreign to him, this one a little flaky, flirty. Another brand-new Vega in front of him, unwrapped from her box, new clothes, new face, new pose.
—
Brandt didn’t move.
“And you all are just gonna let me walk outta here, unmolested?”
“Well, sure. You’re not under arrest, right?” said Vega.
“Right,” said Brandt.
They watched each other for another minute, Brandt still confused and angry about it, Vega weirdly cheery. Finally she took out her phone and started thumbing the screen. Brandt stood up slowly and grabbed his own phone from the table.
“Sorry we wasted your time, Kevin,” said Vega, smiling distractedly.
“Yeah, whatever, fuck off,” Brandt said as an afterthought.
He grunted an unintelligible thing and headed for the door, behind Vega.
“Oh, hold on,” she said, tapping her screen, not turning to look at him. “Quick question. You know a guy named Antoine Sutton?”
Brandt paused, his hand on the door handle.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, flustered.
“You sure?” she said, turning her head just a little bit over her shoulder.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Don’t know anyone named Antoine St-st—” He struggled to remember the last name.