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His jaw worked and I thought he was about to tell me to fuck off myself, but then he surprised me. “Hale’s waiting for us. Come in if you want. Or not, but if you leave, you’re on your own.”
I pointed to the thumb. “What do we do with that? It’s not like I plan to take it to Chief Larson. He seems to think I might have kidnapped Ava and that I’m going around getting off on people’s grief like an emotional vampire.”
“Larson’s an idiot.” He grabbed the bag and held onto the frame as he opened the door and got out.
I followed him inside, realizing I was sinking myself deeper and deeper into a mess, but I had no idea how to get out.
Chapter 28
Malcolm led me through the back door and down a short hall to an open door. We walked into an opulent office with wall-to-wall bookcases and a large, elaborately carved wooden desk. The chairs were leather, and the wool carpet was plush under my feet.
“Someone’s overcompensating,” I said under my breath, but Malcolm cracked a grin.
Hale was behind his desk, and he didn’t look very happy to see us. Or maybe it was me he was unhappy with. Fair enough.
He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
I started to follow but spotted a dry bar against the far wall. It was only late morning, but I headed straight for it and poured a finger of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a crystal glass, then drank it like a shot. I poured another two fingers then turned toward the desk. Hale stared at me with a mixture of surprise and disgust. Malcolm watched me with that damn expressionless stare, his arms crossed over his chest.
“By all means,” Hale said dryly, “help yourself.”
“I’ve had a shit day,” I said, walking over to the two leather chairs in front of his desk. I took a seat as Malcolm sat in the chair closest to the door, dropping the bag onto Hale’s desk. He stretched his long arms over the arms of the chair, looking bored.
“What the hell is that?” Hale asked, cringing as he lowered his head to examine it.
“Eddie Johnson’s thumb,” Malcolm said.
“What? Where the hell did you get that?”
Malcolm shot me a dark look, then slid his gaze to his attorney. “They left it in the detective’s car. Along with a note.”
I took a generous sip of whiskey, thankful the warmth seemed to be loosening the bands around my head.
Hale shook his head. “What?”
Malcolm gave me an expectant look, so I took the note out of my purse and dropped it on the desk.
Hale picked it up at the edge and looked it over. “You’re so cold.” His gaze lifted to me. “Is this about Ava Peterman’s disappearance?”
“Looks that way,” Malcolm said in his same bored tone.
“And because you were looking into Johnson as a suspect, he kidnapped and dismembered him?” Hale asked in the same tone I imagined he used when asking about the lunch special at the local café. Then again, he worked for James Malcolm. Murder, kidnapping, and dismemberment might happen every other Tuesday for all I knew. “He’s trying to steer you in the right direction?”
“We think there’s a personal component to this,” Malcolm said. “A photo that was stolen from her house two weeks after the shooting in Little Rock last fall. It showed up in her car yesterday morning outside the Petermans’ home with a message written on the glass that said it should have been you. She wasn’t sure if they were referring to her sister or the Peterman kid. Now I think it’s both.”
I’d been thinking either-or, but he was probably right.
I told Hale about the break-ins and chasing the intruder. Then, against my better judgment, I told them about the red ribbon.
“The number of people who know about the ribbon is pretty small. They never publicly released it.”
“Maybe not as small as you think,” Hale said. “There were multiple law enforcement agencies involved in your sister’s case. Then prosecutor’s office and Stevens’ attorney and his staff.” He shrugged. “Not to mention all the inmates housed with Stevens. Inmates love to brag about their exploits. It not only makes them look tough and hopefully less of a target, but they need to feel important somehow. If I remember right, he was sentenced to life with no parole.” He gave me a questioning look.
I blinked in shock, then quickly released my anger. “You’ve been investigating me?”
Releasing a derisive laugh, he said, “Someone’s full of themselves. No. I remember your sister’s kidnapping. I just didn’t make the association to you.” He tapped his temple with his pen. “Memory’s not as great as it used to be, but in my defense, I was in college and merely fascinated with the legalities. It’s highly unusual for someone to plead guilty at a bench trial. Makes me question his legal team. You sure he did it?”
“I saw him,” I said flatly. “I was there when he took her. It was him.”
