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This was true. "You can refuse to cooperate. But we're hoping you won't."
"You can hope all you want," he snapped. The smile now grew triumphant. "I see what's going on here. Could it be that you got it all wrong, Agent Dance? That maybe it isn't some psychotic teenager who's been gutting people like in some bad horror film. But somebody who's been using the kid, setting him up to take the fall for killing James Chilton?"
That was pretty good, Dance thought. But did it mean that he was threatening them? If he was the "somebody" he referred to, then, yes, he was.
Carraneo stole a brief glance at her.
"Which means you've pretty much had the wool pulled over your eyes."
There were too many important rules in interviewing and interrogation for any of them to be number one, but high at the top was: Never let the personal insults affect you.
Dance said reasonably, "There's been a series of very serious crimes, Mr. Brubaker. We're looking into all possibilities. You have a grudge against James Chilton, and you've assaulted him once already."
"And, really," he said in a dismissive tone, "do you think it'd be the smartest thing in the world to get into a public brawl with a man I'm secretly trying to kill?"
Either very stupid or very smart, Dance responded silently. She then asked, "Where were you at the times I mentioned? You can tell us, or you can refuse and we'll keep investigating."
"You're as much of a prick as Chilton is. Actually, Agent Dance, you're worse. You hide behind your shield."
Carraneo stirred but said nothing.
She too was silent. Either he was going to tell them or he was going to throw them out.
Wrong, Dance realized. There was a third option, one that had been percolating since she'd been listening to the eerie creaks in the seemingly deserted house.
Brubaker was going for a weapon.
"I've had enough of this," he whispered, and, eyes wide in anger, yanked open the top desk drawer. His hand shot inside.
Dance flashed on her children's faces, then her husband's and then Michael O'Neil's.
Please, she thought, praying for speed. . . .
"Rey, behind us! Cover!"
And when B
rubaker looked up he was staring into the muzzle of her Glock pistol, while Carraneo was facing the opposite way, aiming at the door to the office.
Both agents were crouching.
"Jesus, take it easy!" he cried.
"Clear so far," Carraneo said.
"Check it out," she ordered.
The young man eased to the door and, standing to the side, pushed it open with his foot. "Clear."
He spun around to cover Brubaker.
"Lift your hands slowly," Dance said, her Glock steady enough. "If you have a weapon in your hand, drop it immediately. Don't lift it or lower it. Just drop it. If you don't--now--we will shoot. Understand?"
Arnold Brubaker gasped. "I don't have a gun."
She didn't hear a weapon hit the expensive floor, but he was lifting his hands very slowly.
Unlike Dance's, they weren't shaking at all.
