Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

‘He didn’t. He was understandably reluctant to provide anyone with more information because, of course, there were some outstanding warrants for his arrest.’

‘On what charges?’

‘Child support.’

‘That’s it?’

Bob nodded. ‘Yup …’ He turned to her, his expression grave. ‘Something smells bad with this guy.’

‘Really?’

‘No, I mean seriously. We found his truck – he had been transporting manure.’

Ren laughed. ‘Ew. Why?’

‘Some bullshit reason …’

‘OK, we could be here all night … talking shit.’

The detectives were laughing as they moved past her and went back to their offices.

‘Where’s this guy now?’ said Ren.

‘In my little jailhouse,’ said Bob.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Erubiel Diaz.’

‘Exotic.’

‘There was one car driving through the parking lot of the Medical Center around the time Diaz was dropped off,’ said Bob.

‘What, are you actually following up on this?’ said Ren. ‘Some dirtbag gets taken off the streets, and you’re going to go find the people who did us that favor?’

‘The guy hasn’t paid his child support – is dirtbag maybe going a little too far?’

Ren paused. ‘Um, maybe … Did you get the registration?’

‘Nope. The driver did quite a cool shimmy around the cameras, by the looks of it. It was like that naked Austin Power thing.’

‘Here, let me save you some time on this,’ said Ren. ‘Could I go talk to him? He may know some of our masked men.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘I just would.’

‘Knock yourself out,’ said Bob. ‘He’s in a cell right now. You speak Spanish?’

‘I have ways of communicating …’

Bob led Ren through reception, down a series of hallways and through the steel door into the jail.

‘Hey,’ said Bob to the female guards behind the desk. ‘The reception area,’ he said to Ren. ‘The inmates need anything sent to their room, they call here: fluffy towels, robes, scented candles …’

‘Yeah, and today’s Champagne-and-Hooker Tuesday,’ said one of the guards.

They all laughed.

‘Agent Bryce here is going to talk to our new guest, Mr Erubiel Diaz.’

‘Enjoy,’ said one of the guards.

‘They’ll whistle and cat-call,’ said Bob. ‘You know what to do.’

‘Get a few phone numbers,’ said Ren.

‘Nah, just call me, I’ll patch you through.’

The Summit County Jail was clean and modern with reinforced glass in all the common areas. In a cell to her right, a brick-shithouse inmate stood freakishly still, his legs slightly spread, his arms folded, his dark eyes dead ahead, his black wavy mullet carefully tended.

‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘What’s his story?’

‘Yeah,’ said Bob. ‘He hates … people.’

A group therapy session was winding down in a glass-walled room on the left. The therapist raised a hand to Bob and nodded.

‘We’ll wait for these guys to leave,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll bring Diaz to you. You want me to sit in?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Ren.

‘OK. But I’ll be right outside, watching through the glass.’

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Ren eyeballed some of the inmates as they left. She went into the empty room and sat at the table with the glass door to her right. Bob came back with Diaz, then disappeared. He walked to the control booth at the center of the jail, a small hexagonal glass room that looked out over everything.

‘Hey,’ said Bob to the guy at the controls, ‘show me the group therapy room, so I don’t have a dead Fed to explain.’

The guy turned to the bank of monitors and flicked a switch. The screen was black. The guy shrugged. ‘Hold on. Let me try this.’ He hit some more buttons, but the screen didn’t come back on.

‘Shit,’ said Bob. ‘Is that busted?’

‘Shouldn’t be.’

‘Shit,’ said Bob. He ran back down the steps and along the hallway to the therapy room.

Ren was standing right in front of the glass door with her arms stiffly by her side. Bob jumped. He pulled open the door. She made fava bean and Chianti sounds.