Kingston Kidnappings (What Happens In Vegas Book 3) by Matt Lincoln (great book club books .txt) 📗

opened just as I was about to knock, and she jumped when she looked up and saw me standing there.

“You scared me,” she sighed. “I wasn’t expecting you to be standing there.”

“Sorry,” I responded. “I was just about to ask if you were ready to set out.”

“I am,” she nodded as she turned around to close the door behind her. “Let’s go.”

We took a taxi to the police station, which I was secretly grateful for. Though I understood why we’d chosen not to drive into Trenchtown the previous night, the walk back to our hotel had been long and tiring, especially after the events of the evening. We’d discussed renting a car for the remainder of our stay in Jamaica, but since we’d most likely have to travel to Bermuda soon, it didn’t seem like a practical idea.

It was the same police station we’d interrogated Aaron Brown in earlier, a large two-story building painted blue and white. Once we were inside, I decided to take the lead in speaking to the police officers. Though I’d let Patel do most of the talking last night, so far, the cops had been more hostile toward her than the average citizens we’d encountered had been.

“Hello,” I called as we approached the front desk. “Agent Hills and Agent Patel with MBLIS. We’re here to interrogate a suspect that was detained late last night in the vicinity of Trenchtown.”

“Of course,” the man replied. “Someone will be here to help you in a moment.”

I stepped away from the desk to wait. Like in the airport, the inside of the police station was actually stuffier than the air outside. Large metal fans spun overhead, but I doubted they were doing much more than just circulating the hot air around without actually cooling it. I rolled my shoulders uncomfortably. The heat was causing my clothes to stick to my skin, and I hated the damp feeling.

“Hello, are you the federal agents?” a police officer in a dark uniform asked as he walked up to us. I couldn’t imagine how awful he must feel in that heavy uniform.

“We are,” I answered. “Is the suspect ready?”

“Yes,” the officer replied slowly, tossing Patel a disparaging look. She was wearing a similar outfit to the one she wore yesterday. It wasn’t revealing and honestly made perfect sense to wear in a tropical climate.

“The suspect?” I prompted again, a little more angrily than I’d intended to.

“Right this way,” the man nodded as he turned to lead us further into the station. “His name is Leroy Jackson. Thirty-seven years old. He works as a mechanic. He has a few prior charges for drug dealing and petty assault.”

“Has he said anything about what happened last night?” I asked as we made it to the interrogation room.

“We have not spoken with him,” the officer answered. “After he was discharged from the hospital, he was brought straight here. We decided it was best to wait until you showed up.”

“Alright,” I nodded as we stepped into the room. It was bisected by a two-way mirror. Inside I could see the suspect from the night before. He was wearing a set of gray prison clothes, but I could see some bandages peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

“Shall we both go in?” Patel asked as she looked at Jackson through the glass. “Do what we did last time? It certainly seemed to intimidate Brown.”

“I don’t know,” I hesitated as I analyzed Jackson’s behavior.

Brown had been visibly nervous and fidgety. I’d known going in that intimidation would be the best way to get him to break. Jackson, on the other hand, showed no sign of fear. It didn’t seem like he was faking it, either. I was pretty good at figuring out when a suspect was just putting on a show of being brave, but Jackson didn’t look like that. His eyes were cold and unfeeling, and his posture was completely relaxed. It didn’t seem like he was worried about the position he was in at all.

“What are you thinking?” Patel asked.

“I don’t know if ganging up on him will work,” I replied. “Nothing in his body language suggests that he’s scared about being arrested or interrogated. I might need to speak with him for a while to figure out the best way to approach him.”

“Do you think that’ll go better if you’re on your own?” she asked. She didn’t sound like she was offended at the thought of being excluded, just curious about what I was thinking.

“Yes,” I answered. “If we’re both in there, he might try to work us against each other. It’ll be hard for me to get a feel for him if he’s constantly switching his attention between the two of us.”

“I understand,” she nodded. “I’ll wait here then. If I notice anything about his behavior, I’ll call you out so we can discuss it. For now, I’ll just observe.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I took a deep breath before walking through the door beside the two-way mirror.

The suspect looked up at me as I entered but otherwise didn’t tense up or show any sign of fear. On the contrary, he threw me a cocky smile as I took a seat in front of him.

“Hey,” he smiled cheerfully. “Where’s that pretty lady that shot me? I want to talk to her. Is she still around?”

I was glad we’d chosen to have Patel watch from the other side of the glass while I conducted the interrogation.

“She’s still around,” I confirmed. “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to speak with her. You’ll have to settle for talking to me.”

“Man,” Jackson whined. “Who wants to talk to some ugly guy like you? Nah, I want to talk to that pretty lady. Go back and bring her here instead.”

His dismissive attitude and relaxed posture were actually extremely grating. This man wasn’t taking what he’d done seriously at all.

“Can you tell me what you were doing in that house last night, Jackson?” I asked. I didn’t really expect him to