Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (classic literature list .txt) 📗

“I’m not going to confess to anything, because I didn’t do anything! And lawyers don’t do anything but screw up just to line their own pockets.”

Maureen watched as the detective slowly got out of his chair and strutted over to the single window. He shut the blinds, rubbed his eyes, and let out a loud sigh. Too loud in her opinion, all part of the act. She hated when cops did this, pouring on the melodrama, pretending that the answers they were receiving physically pained them, all to throw off their interviewee. This one’s act wasn’t very polished. He clearly hadn’t interviewed anyone suspected of a serious crime before.

“Okay,” he said, returning to his seat at the table, “you obviously have some experience in situations like this. So, since you’re not going to cooperate, I’m just going to start talking, and you can feel free to correct me when I get something wrong.”

Maureen shrugged. This was going to be good.

“I admit, I haven’t had any time to really look into you,” the detective continued in his self-important tone, “but, it’s a pretty small town, and last night at the bar was the first time I’ve ever seen you.” He paused and looked at her for an unwavering moment. “Or was it? Maybe the first time I saw you was yesterday morning running away from the crime scene.”

She froze stiff. He had recognized her. She tried to hold his stare, but she blinked first.

“I thought so,” he said triumphantly.

“It’s not a crime to be out for a run,” she retorted.

“Oh, not at all, but it is a crime to break into a closed crime scene in the middle of the night.”

“Okay, so lock me up for that and go after the person who killed that kid.” He wasn’t going to run her over.

The detective softened. “All right,” he said, “let’s put a pin in that and get back to what we were talking about. How long have you been in town?”

“Three weeks or so. My car broke down, if that was going to be the next question.”

“In fact, that was my next question,” he smiled. “Thanks for the help. Now, you’re living where exactly?”

“One of the loft studios in the old factory district on the south side of town. You want an exact address?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I suspect you don’t have a legal lease or anything, knowing some of the guys that rent out those places. Where did you come to us from?”

“East.” She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t going to make his job easier.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Not really,” she answered, doing her best to maintain her mask of indifference. “I move around a lot. Don’t like to stay in one place for too long.”

“How ‘bout the last place you lived?”

“I stayed at a public house in Kentucky for a few months.”

“They still have those?” He clearly didn’t buy her answer.

“That’s what they called it. I gave ‘em seventy-five bucks a week and didn’t ask any questions. As long as I got a bed and shower, I don’t need much.”

“A nomadic lifestyle like that might make someone think you’re running from something.” The way he said it sounded like an accusation. Maureen had no doubt it was intentional.

“Almost everybody is running from something.” She could have sworn she saw the detective’s face twitch as she said it. “Don’t presume to know me. Whatever you’re thinking, I can guarantee you’re wrong.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

“Whatever you say, Ms. Allen,” he said, resuming his formal tone. Condescending, really, to her ears. “Why don’t we go to the night of the murder. Tell me where you were.”

“At home,” she scoffed. “I remember I woke up around quarter to three. Nightmare.” The memory of it sent a shiver down her spine. She tried her best to hide it. The detective was looking down at his notes, and didn’t seem to notice, much to her relief.

“I’m assuming you were there alone,” he said without looking up at her.

“Of course,” she spat back. “It would be way too convenient for me to have been fucking someone and be able to give you his name, right? Not that I need a name as long as he’s hard in all the right places.” She was hoping to throw him off his game a bit. Unfortunately, she underestimated the detective’s professionalism.

“It would certainly get you out of here and away from me sooner,” he replied flatly, scribbling in his notebook. When he finished, he looked up at her again. “Saying that I believe that you were—in fact—at home alone during the murder, I’m curious as to why you just happened to be in the neighborhood the next morning when you’re not a neighbor, why you know details about the case that weren’t released to the public, and why you would want to break into the crime scene last night. Do you see how your story doesn’t add up?”

“Something about the whole thing just seemed familiar,” she relented. “I needed to be sure.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you might have information about who did this?” His voice grew as he perked up in his chair.

“I . . .” she started, but thought better about it and decided to stop talking. She folded her hands on the table and made an effort to keep her lips pressed tightly together.

Just as the detective was about to speak, she heard the door open. Her eyes darted over as a black suit filled with a tall man sporting a close-cropped haircut entered the room. His face bore almost no expression as he strode straight up to the table and dropped a manila folder on it. He eyed Maureen briefly before turning to Detective Benitez.

“I’m Agent Howard Layton,” he said in a smooth voice. His words carried the hint of a Southern accent. Maureen couldn’t help but scoff. He sounds like a self-righteous ass, she thought to herself.

The agent shot