They climbed out, and Darius walked up the cracked and crumbling sidewalk, while Deputy Marcs headed around to the back, keeping clear of the windows. Darius waited until she’d had time to get into position before he knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again, much harder this time.
Someone turned down the music, and the door opened.
Riggs stood there, white powder around his nostrils, his sandy blond hair a ruffled mess, a stupid grin on his face. “We don’t want any.”
In the center of the room, another man was bent over a coffee table, snorting a line of coke from a mirror.
Riggs laughed at his own joke. Then his gaze dropped to Darius’ body armor and his duty badge, and his smile vanished. “You’re a cop.”
“Cops?” The other guy’s head came up. “Shit!”
The door was wide open, so Darius stepped inside.
The other guy—a young man with stringy brown hair wearing a yellow T-shirt and ripped jeans—froze, his body bent over the mirror as if to hide the cocaine, a sandwich bag of white powder clutched in one hand.
Climbing ropes lay in a heap in the middle of the floor. A bong sat in the center of a cluttered dining room table, the air heavy with the reek of weed, beer, and old pizza.
“I’m Detective Darius Silva. I’m not here about the blow, though I’m sure the Boulder cops would love to know about it. Should I call them, Mr. Riggs, or would you like to answer some questions?”
Riggs sniffed, glanced over at his buddy, who stood, wariness on his face.
“Uh… I guess I’ll go.” His friend tried to slip the bag of coke into his pocket.
Darius shook his head. “Leave the drugs. I’ll need your name and ID.”
“Right. Okay. I’m Kyle Watts.” The kid showed Darius his driver’s license then glanced sympathetically at Riggs as he passed. “See you around, man.”
As he left, Deputy Marcs entered. “It looks like we interrupted something.”
“Yeah. I told Riggs here that I could call Boulder PD about the cocaine, or he could answer some questions.”
Deputy Marcs met Riggs’ gaze. “That’s a pretty good offer. I’d take it. Otherwise, you’re looking at six to eighteen months.”
Riggs sat, fidgety as hell from the coke. “What do you want to ask me?”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
Riggs’ face went pale, and he pretended to be confused. “Yesterday?”
Darius nodded. “Give me a rundown of your entire day.”
The kid’s face screwed up with feigned concentration. “Well, I … uh… I got up around eleven or so, and my buddy and I grabbed some grub. We came back, smoked some weed, and talked about our next proj. I spotted a sick line near Beethoven’s Honeymoon on the Diamond on Longs Peak, and we want to send it before winter sets in. It’s got to be a good five-thirteen-C.”
Darius pinned Riggs with his gaze. “What did you do after that?”
Riggs shifted, his gaze dropping to the floor. “We went to the rock gym for a workout. Then we came back and ordered pizza.”
“Will the security cams and staff at the rock gym be able to confirm this?” Darius had been a detective long enough to know when someone was lying—most of the time. “Maybe you should try telling us the truth.”
Riggs was sweating bullets now. “Do I need a lawyer? If you think I did something, man, just be straight and ask me.”
“Okay.” Darius opened the manila envelope and placed the pornographic images on the coffee table one at a time.
Riggs glanced at the photos, his ears slowly turning red. “I already apologized. She ruined my career. What the fuck does she want now?”
