The Prince of Risk A Novel(24)

“You like guns?” she asked.

“I’m from Texas,” Shepherd volunteered. “I hunt.”

“Whereabouts?” asked Malloy.

“Where do I come from or where do I hunt?”



“Both,” said Alex.

“I come from Houston, but we used to hunt in East Texas. A place called Nacogdoches, near the Louisiana border.”

“Where in Houston?” asked Malloy. “I’m from Dallas myself.”

Alex said nothing. Malloy was born and raised in Seattle, but she liked his tactic to keep the pressure on Shepherd.

“Sugarland.”

Malloy nodded, then asked offhandedly, “Who’s mayor down there?”

“No idea,” said Shepherd. “I haven’t lived there in years. Who’s the mayor of Dallas?”

Malloy stumbled and Alex picked up the baton. “You don’t sound like you’re from Houston,” she said. “Are you in this country illegally?”

It was Alex’s practice to go at a suspect head-on. She believed that confrontation yielded the greatest results, both immediate and in the long term. You had to shake the tree to see if any fruit might drop to the ground. She liked to shake it hard.

“I’m American,” said Shepherd. “Last I checked, that gives me the right to be here.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Okay, enough,” said Shepherd, holding up his hands. “Can you please tell me what this is about?”

“I’m sure you know.”

Shepherd didn’t respond, and Alex saw his eyes narrow, a current of anger rustle the calm façade.

“We want to know where you are keeping the machine guns,” she added.

“Pardon me?”

“I believe they are AK-47s.”

Shepherd’s eyes widened, and he laughed as if a great weight had lifted off his shoulders. “AK-47s? Here? You’re serious? At least now I know you’re at the wrong house. You had me worried.”

Alex assessed Shepherd’s body language. His arms hung loosely at his sides. His eyes held hers. The laugh was rich and easy. There was no fidgeting, no playing with his hands, no delaying or prevaricating or any of the giveaways typically found in a person who had something to hide. Everything indicated that he was telling the truth. The twinge had lessened, but it was still there.



“We had a report that you were unloading a crate with Russian markings at three a.m. a few days ago,” she said.

“That?” Shepherd chuckled, showing a set of straight white teeth: just a big ole Texas boy. “Can you stay here a second? I show you.”

I show you. Odd, thought Alex. “We’d rather come with you.”

“Suit yourself.” Shepherd led the way through the kitchen and into the attached garage, where a late-model Ford pickup was parked. He skirted the truck and stopped, pointing at the ground. “There’s your crate,” he said. “I like to play paintball. That’s our ammo.”

Alex rifled through the crate, sifting the bags of paint balls. Malloy picked up a bag, then dropped it, disappointed. He looked at Alex and sighed. Case over. One more false alarm. Alex couldn’t read Cyrillic, but she could make out AK-47 well enough. She ran a hand inside the crate; her fingers came away slick with paint. She rose, and the three walked back through the kitchen.

“That’s some load of groceries,” said Alex. “Expecting someone?”

“Family,” said Shepherd. “Barbecue tonight.”

“They in from Texas?”

“All over, actually,” said Shepherd. “You’re welcome to stop by and see for yourself. We’re firing up the grill around seven.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Malloy.

Alex slowed, eyeing the groceries on the counter. There was milk and orange juice, bread and peanut butter, and bags of beef jerky. To one side were amassed a dozen small bottles of five-hour energy drink. Above the fridge sat two cartons of Marlboro Reds, but she knew Shepherd didn’t smoke. His fingers were clean, with no nicotine stains between the index and middle fingers. And there were those white teeth. She didn’t see any chicken or steaks or ground beef: staples of a summer barbecue. Of course, he could have already put it away. She looked at the refrigerator, then thought better of it.

She and Malloy stopped at the front door. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Shepherd,” she said. “We’re sorry to have intruded on your day.”

“It is no problem.”

Alex smiled as the twinge in her back turned into a dagger. There it was again. The clumsy syntax. The faintest of accents, turning it into eet. She didn’t know exactly where he was from, but it wasn’t Houston, Texas.