Sawyer paused, considering this. Considering it far too long in Ilse’s assessment. But then he sighed in resignation, nodding once, before guiding—more than pushing—Mr. Campos toward the waiting, unmarked sedan.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Agent Tom Sawyer was in no rush as he reclined in the chair across the table. Back in the same interrogation room he’d used with the doc. He could feel her eyes on him, though he couldn’t see her behind the one-way glass.

Ilse Beck. An unusual woman. And beginning to be a nuisance. He glanced toward the mirror where he’d allowed her to stand, watching. He had half a mind to send her home. But in the end, he’d decided her expertise might be useful.

Not that he trusted it.

Therapy. Just another word for jawing about one’s feelings.

Fat good that did for anyone. So much navel-gazing people’s eyes got crooked. Still, she’d been the one to provide the insight that had led to the arrest of Mr. Campos.

The man in question was still in his dusty shirt, still slick with sweat and the odor of stale beer. His eyes were hooded and narrowed, fixated on Agent Sawyer across the table. The large, round-bellied man had already staked his claim to the interrogation room with the half-hearted gob of spit he’d launched across the table.

Agent Sawyer hadn’t blinked. He didn’t blame the man. Didn’t even dislike him. Like or dislike had nothing to do with the job. An arrest couldn’t be made personal. That’s when things got screwy.

“Did he punch an FBI director in Oakland?” He winced at the memory of the question and refocused his attention entirely on Mr. Campos.

Again, he maintained his silence, just watching, waiting. Word salad didn’t do much as far as Sawyer was concerned. Better to let them sweat, to let them fill in the blanks themselves. Nothing was so horrible a questioner as one’s own imagination.

And so he allowed the imagination to run wild. Granted, where Mr. Campos was concerned, it was probably more like a steady stroll with all manner of aching knees and huffing breaths.

“Imma sue your ass,” Mr. Campos said at last.

Sawyer stuck his tongue in his cheek, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Just watch,” Mr. Campos said, twisting his lips back in a snarl, much like his pit bulls, and revealing yellowed teeth. “Imma sue your ass. I’ll have your badge.”

Some detectives and agents liked to lead up to the questioning portion of an interrogation. Sawyer preferred to shoot straight.

“I’m here about a missing woman,” he said, simply.

Mr. Campos stared at him, his bloodshot eyes widening in his stubble-covered face. The man had so much fuzz it even went up his cheeks, bristling out from sun-stained skin. A flicker of… fear? Was that surprise? Sawyer frowned.

“I ain’t snatch no woman,” he retorted.

“You have an assault charge,” Sawyer replied, just as quick.

“That charge was withdrawn!”

“Did you threaten your ex? Is that why she took it back?”