“Pshaw. That shit was six years ago. Don’t you have better things to do than keep hassling?”

“Did you kidnap someone last night?”

Mr. Campos blinked at the straightforward question. He spluttered, then shook his head wildly, his jowls swinging. “Hell no! That crazy whore say I did?”

“We haven’t been in contact with your ex-wife.”

“I didn’t kidnap no one,” the man insisted. “Imma sue you.”

“Mhmm.”

Suddenly, Sawyer heard a quiet tapping sound on the door. He frowned, cleared his throat, and began to speak, but the tapping became more insistent. He sighed slowly. “One moment,” he said, holding up a hand toward Mr. Campos. He rose to his feet and moved to the door. He opened it a crack, frowning at where Dr. Beck stood in the hall.

His silver eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?” he said, slowly.

“Sorry, Agent Sawyer,” Ilse whispered, quickly. “Only, you said to let you know if I picked up on anything.”

“Mhmm.”

“Well…” She continued to keep her voice low, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot out in the hall and wincing as she did. Sawyer sighed, tilting his head, the lights above and behind casting the brim of his cap across his features as shadow.

Ilse leaned in, cupping a hand over her mouth and whispering. “I don’t think it’s him, Agent Sawyer.”

She leaned back, nodding quickly to affirm her own words.

Mr. Campos was too busy leering over Sawyer at Ilse to notice she’d gone to bat for his bottle-swilling self. Sawyer puffed a breath, ejecting any burbling negative emotion along with it. No sense making it personal, not now, not ever.

“That’s your professional opinion, is it?” he said. He made no effort to lower his voice. Instead, he glanced back at Campos. “This woman you’ve been ogling thinks you’re innocent, Mr. Campos.”

The man blinked again at the comment. Clearly, whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. He coughed delicately, clearing his throat on what was likely phlegm due to acid reflux and one too many brews. “I—well, yeah. I didn’t kidnap no one!” he repeated louder and nodded fervently.

Ilse shifted uncomfortably and crossed her arms. She began to lean in again to whisper, but Sawyer just turned. “You wanna say something?”

She hesitated, glancing uncertainly from Sawyer to the suspect. “Would you like to step outside?” she asked, delicately.

Sawyer just shrugged. “You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Campos?”

The man blinked.

Sawyer said, “See, he doesn’t mind. Shoot.”

“Umm. Well…” Ilse shifted uncomfortably, no longer glancing in Mr. Campos’s direction. “I—just…”

Sawyer waited, lips pressed, unblinking.

“I just…” She glanced through the door again, then back into the hall, insistently, waiting for him to catch the hint.

But though he caught it, he dropped it and just waited. “Hmm?” he said.

At last, with a frustrated sigh, she murmured, as softly as possible, “It’s not him. It can’t be.”

Mr. Campos had gone still too, holding his breath so he could hear, his chest motionless all of a sudden, the reflection from his slick sweat no longer moving up and down with his steady breathing.