Smart.
"Here's what's going to happen." I keep my voice where it is, level, quiet, the register that makes people lean forward to hear me instead of leaning back. "You're going to tell me everything Harris told you. Where he is. How he contacted you. What he's planning next. Every detail, in order, starting now."
I pause. Let it land.
"And then we're going to have a conversation about what it means to come into someone's home and threaten their family."
The young one, Matthew's guy, is staring at me with that expression. The recalculating one. I've seen it before, in places with different walls and different light, and it always means the same thing: I made a mistake and I know it, and I'm trying to figure out how bad.
I look at Matthew over their heads. He's standing against the counter with his arms crossed, watching me, reading the room the same way I am. He gives me a small nod. Your show.
The shorter one is the first to break.
"Harris found us at the bar on Eighth," he says. His voice has lost the pitch. It's lower now, resigned, the voice of a man who's decided compliance is his best option and doesn't like it. "Three nights ago. Said he needed three guys for a job. Said it was simple—go to the address, create a distraction out back, while a fourth guy went in through the front and got the kid."
"A fourth guy," I repeat.
"Yeah. That was the plan. He said he had someone for the inside part, we just needed to pull you to the back."
I look at Matthew. He's already pulling out his phone.
The taller one, my guy, the one with the cut lip, shakes his head. "We didn't know it was a scam, he said the kid was his. Said he had paperwork. We're not kidnappers. I've got a kid, man. I wouldn't have."
"You came to my house at two in the morning with a pry bar," I say.
He closes his mouth.
"Where is Harris now?"
The shorter one shrugs. A real shrug, not a performance. "Don't know. He said he'd meet us after. A motel off Route 9. Room 12."
"Which motel?"
"The Pinewood. The one by the old truck stop."
Matthew is already texting. I can see the glow of his screen from where I'm sitting. He's feeding it to Greyson, who'll have someone at the Pinewood inside of fifteen minutes.
I keep my eyes on the three men in front of me.
"Did you see him today?"
"Yeah. Tonight. He met us at the bar again. Gave us cash. Half up front."
"How much?"
The shorter one names a number. It's low. Lower than I expected. Harris isn't hiring quality, which means he's either running out of money or running out of time, and either one of those makes him more dangerous.
"What did he look like?" I say. "Tonight. Clothes, demeanor, anything."
The shorter one thinks about it. "Nervous. Jumpy. Kept looking over his shoulder. Drank three beers fast. He was wearing, I don't know, a dark jacket. Blue, maybe. A baseball cap."
"Beard?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he had a beard. Not the full thing, just scruffy. Like he hadn't shaved in a few days."
I file that. The beard is new. He's changing his appearance, which means he knows the police have his picture, and he's still thinking clearly enough to adapt.
I stand up. The chair legs scrape against the floor and all three of them flinch.
