They passed through a metal detector that showed Bran had been telling the truth about the weapon, which he had left locked in the SUV. Crowley checked Jessie’s handbag and motioned for them to follow.
“Right this way,” Deputy Hillman said.
But the man waiting in the interview room wasn’t the sheriff. He was the sheriff’s deputy in charge of the Petrov murder case, Detective Mace Galen.
“Thank you for coming in,” Detective Galen said, a broad-shouldered blond man, rather imposing, Jessie thought, with a thick mustache that curved around his mouth, and intense dark eyes.
“No problem,” Bran said.
Galen turned to her. “Ms. Kegan, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the other room. I’ll need to speak to you after I’m finished with Mr. Garrett.”
Jessie’s gaze snapped to Bran. On the drive over, they had reviewed the details of the fight at the resort and also the attack that had left Petrov and Graves tied up in the desert.
“Just tell them the truth,” Bran had said. “Can’t screw up too badly if you’re being honest.”
“What about all the other stuff? My dad, and the reason we’re here?”
“You’re a journalist. You’re working on a story. That’s all you need to say.”
Now, walking out of the interview room, her mind raced as she followed Deputy Hillman into a second interview room next to the first.
“You might as well have a seat,” the young deputy said. “It could take a while.”
The door closed, and Jessie sat down in a pale blue padded vinyl chair at the metal-framed table in the middle of the room. It was cold in there. The room was stark, except for a big rectangular mirror on one wall, a two-way mirror, she figured, just like on TV.
Jessie thought of what might be happening to Bran and shivered.
“So the cuts and bruises all over Petrov’s body were delivered byyou?” Detective Galen sat across from Bran on the opposite side of the metal-framed table.
“I don’t know. I’d have to look at the body.”
“What kind of weapon do you carry?”
“On which particular day?”
Galen glared.
“Mostly a Glock 19. If I need it, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver ankle gun for backup.” Among others, but he didn’t say that.
“Petrov died from a .45-caliber bullet wound. He was shot right between the eyes.”
“Whoa, brutal.”
“Yes, it was. We know you were army Special Forces. Highly decorated before you were wounded and had to leave the service.”
He didn’t bother to answer. It wasn’t his favorite subject.
“A special ops soldier. That makes you more than capable of delivering a kill shot like that.”
“I could do it, but I didn’t. What about his buddy, Graves? Maybe Graves got tired of playing second fiddle.”
“Is that the way it was? Petrov ran the show and Graves just went along for the ride?”
“I’d say Petrov was the alpha dog, but truthfully, I didn’t pick up that kind of friction between them.”
