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To crack her open would be fun.
He looked around and spotted Detective Truman standing in the middle of the bullpen, behind the glass wall, talking to Lieutenant Joe Garcia. She was a tall, lanky, arrogant cop. One glance told him she was displeased with her boss. It would please him greatly if she was frustrated about him. He wanted her to be angry, off balance, shaken.
She saw him in the lobby. Dark-blue eyes flashed judgment before she forced her face to neutrality.
Impressive.
He would use this interview to crack her. Nothing obvious. No, it would be the shallow cuts to her confidence that did it. Leave her with self-doubt so she wallowed in it throughout the day, the week, so it permeated every aspect of her life. All he had to do was keep watering the seed he had planted in that very first interview.
Truman strode out of the bullpen, spine straight, her boss behind her. Before she could speak, he extended his hand to Garcia.
“Good to see you again, Joe. How are Vicky and the kids? The governor was very pleased they could sit with her at the Fall Festival luncheon.”
Anger flashed across the detective’s face. She was making this too easy.
“They’re good, thanks,” Garcia said. He gestured to a small conference room off the lobby. “Let’s meet in here.”
The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Trent took a seat with easy grace, as if this were a client meeting.
He saw through the setup immediately. No interrogation room—make the suspect comfortable. Let him relax. Hope he slips.
He never slipped without purpose.
“Are we waiting for your lawyer?” Skye asked, taking the seat across from him.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll save the money. Besides, the governor’s a staunch supporter of law enforcement. I want to help however I can. Though beyond knowing two of the victims in passing, I’m not sure what use I’ll be.”
She couldn’t arrest him. Couldn’t compel his DNA. And she knew it. Watching the rigid cop wrestle down her frustration was worth the trip.
“Water? A soda?” Garcia asked.
Sure, Trent thought. Something I might leave behind with my DNA?
“No, thank you,” he said.
“There’s been another victim,” Garcia said. “This one was murdered.”
“That’s awful,” Trent said, threading just enough shock into his voice to sound convincing. Not overt, never overt.
He looked at Skye; her cool eyes assessed him. She saw through him. She was one of those cops, the kind who trusted her gut instincts.
He had never felt so alive, at least not since Friday night.
“Do you have a suspect?” he asked softly.
“In the course of our investigation,” Skye said, her voice tight and clipped, “we pulled security logs from Minto-Brown Island Park. Rangers track license plates. A Land Rover registered to you entered at five fifteen a.m. Friday. The same vehicle entered at seven ten a.m. Saturday and again at twelve thirty that same afternoon.”
Trent tilted his head. “Yes. I jog there three or four days a week. Hundreds of people do. I’ve even seen you there once or twice, Detective. In fact, you saw me Saturday morning on my usual trek.”
She looked like she wanted to hit him. She was so easy to bait.
“So you were jogging both Friday and twice Saturday?” she asked.
He leaned forward slightly, deliberate. “My girlfriend and I had a lovely picnic Saturday afternoon.”
