About That Night (FBI/US Attorney #3)(31)
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Please, call me Rylann.”
They made small talk as they stopped at the lock boxes so Wilkins could check his firearm. Within minutes Rylann learned that he was relatively new to the FBI, having joined straight out of Yale Law School, and that the Brown matter was the first solo investigation he’d been assigned within the FBI’s violent crimes division.
“What made you choose violent crimes?” she asked curiously. Wilkins’s style seemed a little less rough and gruff than many of the other FBI agents she’d worked with.
He shrugged. “It’s probably better to say that it chose me. When I first started, they paired me up with a senior agent in that division, and one of the first cases we handled was a high-profile murder investigation. Somebody must’ve liked the job we did, because now Jack and I seem to be first on the list whenever someone finds a dead body.”
Wilkins paused as they both showed their badges to the guards before removing their suit jackets to pass through the metal detectors. Having never been to MCC before, Rylann followed his lead as they headed to the elevators that would take them up to the interview rooms.
“By the way, we caught a break,” she told him. “That lead with the inmate in disciplinary segregation turned out to be a good one.” She briefed Wilkins quickly on the situation involving Kyle Rhodes, and then all discussion about the case ceased as they entered the elevator with several other visitors.
When they stepped off at the eleventh floor, Wilkins led her down a corridor to the interview rooms used by police officers and federal agents. “Do you think he’ll call? Kyle Rhodes, I mean.”
Rylann thought about that. She’d put the ball in his court—frankly, she had no clue what he’d do with it. “Only time will tell.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, they sat in a small interview room across a wooden interrogation table from Manuel Gutierrez.
“What’s in it for me if I talk?” the inmate demanded to know. He gestured to the door with his cuffed hands, referring to the prison guard who’d left after escorting him into the room. ” ‘Cuz there’s no way I’m sticking around this place after ratting out one of them. Or I’ll be the next guy they’re taking out of here in a body bag.”
“First tell me what you know, Mr. Gutierrez,” Rylann said. “If I decide I need your testimony, then we can talk about next steps.”
Gutierrez thought about this for a moment, then leaned in, lowering his voice. “All right. You know that I used to be in the cell next to Watts, right? Before they moved him permanently to no-man’s-land for killing Brown, anyway. So the day before Brown got transferred to Watts’s cell, I overheard a conversation between Quinn and Watts—a conversation that seems pretty f**king suspicious in light of what happened.”
“What did Quinn and Watts say?” Rylann asked.
“I heard Watts ask Quinn, ‘How bad do you want me to rough him up, boss?’ “
Now that had Rylann’s attention. “And what was Quinn’s response?”
Gutierrez hemmed a little at the next part. “Well, all I heard Quinn say was ‘Shh.’ You know, like he didn’t want anyone to hear them talking.” He looked between Rylann and Wilkins. “But that’s still something, right? I mean, you can use that, can’t you?”
Rylann mulled this over. Of course, it would’ve been better if there’d been more to the conversation, but it was nevertheless another piece of the puzzle. “It’s helpful. Thank you.”
Gutierrez mistook her pause for hesitation. “Listen, everyone knows what happened. Quinn locked Brown in a cell with that racist piece of shit and told Watts to have at him. You ever seen Watts? The guy’s over two hundred pounds and all muscle. Brown was five-foot-eight.” He held up his handcuffs. “People might think we’re the scum of the earth in here, but we still got rights.” He pointed, getting a little too close to Rylann’s face. “You need to nail that guard to the wall, lady.”
Wilkins tensed protectively. “Take it down a notch, buddy,” he growled in a low voice.
Rylann put her hand on the table between her and Wilkins, indicating that everything was fine. Without looking away, she held the inmate’s gaze.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Mr. Gutierrez.”
THAT AFTERNOON, KYLE walked through the front door of DeVine Cellars, the wine store owned by his sister, just in time to see Jordan carrying a heavy box up from the cellar.
He crossed the room in two strides. “Hand it over, Jordo.”
She did so, and then pointed to the bar in the center of the store. “Thanks. Just put it over there.”
Kyle set the box down and gestured to the cast on her wrist. “You have a shop full of employees working for you. Use them.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow as she began unpacking wine bottles. “My, aren’t we in a mood today. Something wrong?”
Yes, he was in a mood—a foul one at that—and had been ever since a certain pushy and obstinate assistant U.S. attorney had come back into his life with her sassy subpoena threats and moral judgments. But that wasn’t anything he wanted to discuss with his sister. “I’m just tired,” he said dismissively. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Undoubtedly because said pushy and obstinate assistant U.S. attorney’s words had been ringing annoyingly in his head.