Deadline(106)

            Virgil showed her his ID, and they all stepped inside the elevator. When the door closed, Shrake said to Virgil, “You radical rocker, you.”

            —

            FRED MASILLA WORKED in a corner office that was veneered in walnut on two sides, and had floor-to-ceiling windows on the other two, the windows carefully shaded by razor-thin venetian blinds. His large walnut veneer desk was covered with a sheet of glass, on which there was a neat stack of papers and a ledger book, which he closed when they walked in. The secretary said, “Mr. Flowers and his associates.”

            Masilla was a tall, thin man, with a passing resemblance to the Grant Wood character in the American Gothic painting: old for his age, with a hound-dog face and thin sandy hair, cut short, and steel-rimmed eyeglasses. He was sunburned from the nose down, a weekend boater’s burn. He said, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

            Virgil could see fear in his eyes.

            “We need to talk to you about your audits of the Buchanan County school system books.”

            The secretary left on clacking sandals, pulling the door closed behind her.

            Virgil said, “We believe that you have been falsifying your audits of the Buchanan County school system finances. We think that you don’t know the extent to which your coconspirators have gone off the rails, because you don’t go to their after-meetings, when they make their plans. We want you to tell us what they’ve done. What you’ve done.”

            Masilla sat down suddenly, took off his glasses, and said, “Ah, no.”

            Virgil didn’t say anything. He was still standing, but Jenkins and Shrake took side chairs and sat, and so Virgil moved to the chair directly in front of Masilla’s desk, and sat.

            Masilla finally said, “I should have an attorney.”

            “That’s your absolute right,” Virgil said. He turned and looked over his shoulder and said, “Shrake, you wanna recite the chapter and verse?”

            Shrake recited the Miranda warning, and when he’d finished, Virgil asked, “Did you understand that?”

            Masilla swallowed and said, “Yes. And I want one.”

            Virgil said, “So I won’t ask any more questions, but I’m going to make a speech, that you can repeat when you call your lawyer. And you better get one quick, because I’m also going to make you an offer, but the offer is only going to be open for a short time. Like, two hours. Do you understand?”

            A weak “Yes.”

            Virgil told him about the three murders, and all the blood drained out of Masilla’s face. “How I . . . I don’t know anything about violence.”

            “Well, your coconspirators do. If you’re convicted along with them, you’re going to go to prison . . . well, for you, forever. This kind of murder is going to be thirty years, no questions asked,” Virgil said. “What you need to do, and right quick, is come to an agreement to provide evidence in return for leniency and reduced charges.”

            “But I didn’t . . . I . . . I better call my attorney.”

            “You call. We’ll come back”—Virgil looked at his cell phone clock—“in an hour.”

            “That’s not enough time—”

            “Fine. Make it ninety minutes. But if we can’t reach an agreement, Mr. Masilla . . . you’re toast.”

            Jenkins and Shrake stood up, and Virgil nodded at Masilla: “Ninety minutes.”

            —