“Out on a date with Maya,” Lopez had said with glee. “Can you believe it?”
Jones actually leaving work to do something pleasant was pretty remarkable. I had the feeling Maya had insisted.
Lopez led us through the door to the cells, letting it lock behind us, and took us down the hall toward the heart of the small jail. I looked around with unease, remembering the night Nash had arrested me and put me in the cells to cool. A skinwalker had attacked, trying to get to me. I’d been terrified, feeling trapped and helpless.
“They have a good lawyer, but Jones won’t let them go,” Lopez was saying as we entered the cell block. “These guys are wanted for dealing and all kinds of assault. Illegal weapons, fraud, robbery, you name it.”
“Interesting,” Mick said. “You’d think Smith would hire people who kept a lower profile.”
“Well, they haven’t been linked with any crimes in the past couple years,” Lopez said. “Not since they started working for this Emmett Smith. I guess he keeps them in line.”
We came to the cells. The thugs Nash had arrested, three of them, had been locked into individual cells all in a row. Solid walls lay between the cells, which were fronted with floor-to-ceiling bars.
The guys in each cell, two lounging back on their bunks, one sitting up with his hands dangling from his knees, were very different body shapes from one another. One was solid muscle with a shaved head, one thin and wiry with skin tanned chocolate from the desert sun. The third, the driver, had muscle gone to fat and a shock of bright red hair.
They did have one thing in common—their expressions were mournful and resigned. No defiance, boredom, or anger. They looked like men who’d said good-bye to their last hope.
“Which one do you want first?” Lopez asked.
“The driver,” Mick said.
The red-headed man, who’d been the one sitting, jerked his head up but didn’t change expression. He looked Mick over, obviously recognizing him as the man who’d destroyed the limo, but he had no flicker of anger in him, no interest at all.
Lopez told the driver to stand up and turn around, locked cuffs around his wrists through the bars, then opened the cell and marched the man into a blank room down the hall. I’d sat in this room once before, across the table from Nash while he’d gone through my files and interrogated me.
Now I sat on the side of the table Nash had, facing the prisoner. Lopez took the chair next to me, while Mick lounged against the wall near the door.
Lopez opened a file folder and flipped through the pages inside. “His name’s Sam Holt, and he has a huge list of arrests and convictions. Grand theft auto—lots of those—assault, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery … The list goes on. Wanted in connection to a death in Phoenix, which is why he’s being held here.”
Sam rested his hands on the table, his wrists now cuffed to a ring in the center. He kept his eyes on the open folder while Lopez talked, face unmoving.
“Why did you start working for Emmett?” I asked him.
The man flicked his gaze to me. His eyes were a light blue, which went well with his red hair, and sunk into a fleshy face. His skin was the very pale white of northern European ancestry.
“Pay was good,” he answered with a grunt. “Why’d you think?”
“How good?” I asked in curiosity.
“Couple hundred grand a year,” Sam said without hesitation. “For easy work. Driving him around. But he doesn’t use the car all that much.”
I couldn’t blame the man for jumping at a cushy job that paid well, especially if he hadn’t known anything about Emmett. “Where did he keep the car?” I asked.
“Santa Fe.” Again, no hesitation.
Lopez read from the file. “Car’s registered in New Mexico; Holt has a chauffeur’s license. All aboveboard. Limo was bought new from a dealer in Albuquerque. Paid for in cash.”
“Nice for some,” I muttered.
Lopez grinned. “I hear you. So, Sam, you were bought a car, lived in Santa Fe, and your boss called you occasionally to drive him places.”
“Yep,” Sam confirmed.
“Called from where?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “Cell phone.”
“What number?”
For the first time, Sam showed an emotion—irritation. “I didn’t memorize it. Sheriff took my phone off me. The number will be in there.”
“Where would you pick him up?” Lopez went on, ignoring his annoyance.
“Lots of places. Airport. He might have me drive up and meet him in Denver. Or just down the street. Or in Albuquerque. One time I picked him up on the side of the 40 almost to Barstow. He was out there in his suit, not even dusty.” Sam sounded impressed.