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“Keep me posted,” Sharp said.
“Will do.”
“And Vargas, thanks. I appreciate the good work.”
The corner of her lip tilted into a grin. “I have a talent for irritating people.”
“Keep it that way.”
As she got in her car, he slid back behind the wheel of his car. He reached for the coffee in his cup holder and took a sip. It was stone-cold. His cell rang.
“Agent Sharp,” he said.
“Deputy Mathew Ryan. I hear you’re looking for Jimmy Dillon.”
“I sure as hell am.”
“One of my deputies stopped him on I-64 driving west about twenty minutes ago. He was driving nearly one hundred miles an hour and gave the officer one hell of a chase. We got him now. He’s all yours if you want him.”
“I do. I’ll be there within the hour.”
He maneuvered onto the interstate, and twenty-five minutes later he walked through the front doors of the small brick building housing the sheriff’s department.
Inside the sheriff’s office an officer glanced up, standing when Sharp entered.
“I’m Agent Dakota Sharp. Deputy Mathew Ryan called and said you’ve got Jimmy Dillon in a cell.”
“I’m Ryan. Your suspect, Dillon, gave us quite a chase. He’s in holding and waiting for you.”
“Thanks.”
“He’s hungover, but he should be clearheaded enough to answer your questions. I’ll bring him to the interrogation room.”
“Thanks.”
Sharp settled in the small room with grayish walls, a simple desk, and two chairs. There were no windows in the room, but a camera nestled in the upper-right corner shot down at him.
The door opened, and the deputy escorted in a wiry man with a crew cut. He wore a white shirt spoiled with sweat, jeans, and flip-flops. He looked at Sharp with bloodshot eyes. Sharp immediately recognized the man from surveillance footage as Jimmy Dillon.
Sharp sat back in his chair, opened his notebook, and clicked his pen several times as Dillon took a seat across from him. Dillon’s pale face made the unshaved stubble on his chin all the darker. The deputy remained in the corner, arms folded across his chest.
“Mr. Dillon,” Sharp said. “I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police.”
Dillon yawned, and as he rubbed his eyes, the handcuffs around his wrists clinked softly. “Why does state police care about me speeding? Ain’t you got real criminals to catch?”
“I was hoping you could tell me about Terrance Dillon.”
“I don’t know a Terrance Dillon.”
Squashing a jolt of anger, Sharp reached in the side pocket of his notebook and pulled out a surveillance picture of Terrance Dillon laughing beside his father at the gas station. “Is that you with your son, Terrance Dillon?”
Dillon didn’t bother to look. “I haven’t seen my kid in ten years.”
Sharp tapped the picture. “So this isn’t you in the picture?”
“Nope.”
Sharp leaned forward. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He understood playing it nice often earned him more information from a suspect, but right now it was all he could do not to break this man in half. His voice dropped to a low growl. “Take a second look at the picture, Mr. Dillon. Are you sure this isn’t you and your son?”
Dillon shifted in his seat. “So what if he’s my son? Why do you care?”
He watched Dillon carefully. “Terrance was found dead on Monday morning. He was stabbed, and the medical examiner estimates his time of death sometime between midnight and two a.m.”
Dillon shook his head as he rubbed cuffed hands under his chin. “Terrance is dead? What kind of bullshit is that? Why would you say that?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I sure as shit don’t. Cops like you play games.”
“I don’t play games like this.”
“Bullshit. You lie, hoping I’ll admit to some other crime also not my fault.”
The old man’s shock and outrage rang true, but then the best con artists could sound as innocent as a child at the drop of a dime. “The kid is dead. I witnessed his autopsy a couple of days ago.”
“Bullshit.”
Sharp removed another picture without saying a word. It was the boy lying dead on the medical examiner’s table.
Dillon stared at the picture a long moment. He blinked. And then he leaned back in his chair. “That picture is fake. I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me or not. I don’t care. But know this, I’m filing murder charges as soon as I can get the commonwealth’s attorney on the phone.”
Dillon’s eyes widened. “Murder. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Murder. As in the next twenty to thirty years in prison.” He tapped the pictures again.
Dillon shook his head, careful not to look at the pictures. “I didn’t fucking kill the kid. He was my son.”
“You picked him up at the convenience store at nine on Sunday night. What happened to Terrance after he got in your car?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look at the picture. Look at your dead son and tell me you didn’t know what happened to him.”
Dillon shifted in his chair.
“Look at it!”
Dillon’s gaze dropped to the picture. “Could I get a soda? I’m not feeling so well.”
Sharp wanted to grab the man by the scruff of the neck, but he didn’t. He would back off, knowing the short reprieve might get him what he wanted faster. “Deputy, would you have someone bring Mr. Dillon a soda?” He raised a brow. “Would you like a cup and crushed ice?”
Dillon looked at Sharp closely. The man had been in the system long enough to know when the thin ice under him was cracking. And he rightly sensed there wasn’t an ounce of goodwill behind Sharp’s smile.
When another deputy returned a minute later with a cold soda and a cup, Sharp popped the top and slowly filled the plastic cup. He set it carefully in front of Dillon.
The older man drank, paused to take in a breath, and then drank more. When finished, he burped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hit the spot.”
Sharp poured the remainder of the soda in the cup. Images of Terrance on the autopsy table flooded his thoughts. This kid deserved Sharp’s best. “Talk to me about Terrance. What happened after you two left the Quick Mart?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Jimmy, you’re not stupid. In fact, I think you’re smart. We both know you did time for drugs. Did you use the kid for a buy?”
“I might have had a bag of goods that needed to be dropped off.”
“What was in the bag?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re really starting to irritate me.”
“I didn’t know because I didn’t want to know what was in the bag. I’ve always found it safer to know as little as possible during a transaction.” He drummed his fingers on the side of the cup.
“When you sell drugs?”
He tapped one finger some more. “When I sell any item. The dumber the better.”
“Who put the drugs in the bag?”
“I didn’t say drugs.”
Sharp rose, crushing the soda can in his hand. “You are now wasting my time. Better get a good lawyer.”
“Wait. Don’t rush out of here.” Dillon’s cuffed hands trembled as he dug his fingernail into the cup. “Some woman who works in the medical building. She said her name was Frances, but I think she was lying. She acted like she’d done this before. She told me she had some goods for me to deliver.”
“How’d she find you?”
Dillon dug his thumbnail into the cup’s rim. “We’re from a small town. It didn’t take long for word to get around I was out and back in town, holding court in my favorite bar. Everyone in town knew why I’d been sent away.”
“How did Terrance get looped into this?”
“While I was away—”
“Away in pris
on,” Sharp interjected.
“Yeah. Away. Terrance wrote to me. It’s natural for a boy to write his father, right? I wrote to him. It’s always good to have contacts on the outside. Anyway, Terrance and I reconnected. When I got out, I looked him up a couple of weeks ago just after I met with Frances.”
“When did you decide to get the kid to do the delivery?”
“I don’t know.”
Sharp sat back in his chair, setting the crushed can in front of him. “So you tell your kid that you have a job for him. He can make a quick buck and no one gets hurt.”
“Yeah, basically. I told him he’d make more in one night than he did working a month at that crappy maintenance job he’d worked over the summer.” Dillon turned and looked at the camera and then the deputy. “Do I need my attorney?”
“I’m not here to bust you on drug charges, Mr. Dillon,” Sharp said softly. “Or for stealing your son’s identity and taking out credit cards in his name. I’m looking for your son’s killer.”
Dillon stared at the now-tattered edge of the cup, his expression tightening. “Is my boy really dead? This isn’t some kind of con?”
“Like I said, I don’t play those kind of games. Who was your buyer?”
Dillon frowned, clearly weighing the potential consequences of his son’s murder. “I really don’t know. That’s the point. Nobody knows nobody.”
Sharp drummed his pen against his pad. “How did you contact this mystery buyer?”
Dillon blew out a breath and glanced again at the camera beaming on them. “I didn’t. Frances left me a burner phone. I was supposed to get a call and get a drop location.”
Sharp leaned forward, producing a smile he suspected was more feral than friendly. “If I find out this is bullshit, I’ll make it my personal mission to put you in prison for the rest of your life.”
Dillon held up his hands. “Don’t tense up. I’m being straight with you.”
Sharp sat very still.
