I glanced down at my clothes one more time. Loose pants, long sleeves, high collar. Covered neck to kneecaps. I wondered if looking masculine in a maximum-security prison, however, would actually be of benefit. Considering.
Thirty minutes and two elderly Italian women later—they had crossed through me, arguing all the way, as I sat in the waiting room—I was led to the office of Deputy Warden Neil Gossett. It was small but bright, with dark office furniture and mountains of paperwork nesting on every available surface. Neil had been a more-than-decent football player in high school, and he’d kept the bulk of his youth, though not in exactly the same proportions. He looked good, despite the tragic emergence of male-pattern baldness.
He stood and circled his desk. “Charlotte Davidson,” he said, more than a little surprised.
His height had me looking up as I took his hand. “Neil. You look great,” I said, wondering if it was okay to say such things to persons with whom you weren’t exactly friends.
“You look…” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
I wondered if I should be insulted. It couldn’t have been the bruises. I’d worked really hard on covering them. Was it my hair? It was probably my hair.
“You look spectacular,” he said at last.
Oh. That would do nicely. “Thank you.”
“Please.” He gestured toward a chair with a sweep of his hand and took his own seat behind the desk. “I have to admit,” he admitted, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”
A coy grin spread across my face as I angled for “light and flirty.” “Well, I had some questions about one of your inmates, and I figured I’d just start at the top and work my way down.” The sexual innuendo in that statement was not lost on me.
He almost blushed. “I’m not exactly the top, but I’m glad you think so highly of me.”
I chuckled appropriately and brought out my notebook.
“Luann tells me you’re a private investigator now.”
Luann, meaning his secretary. “Yes, I am. I’m currently working with APD on a DOA resulting in an FTA.” I purposely threw around a few acronyms to make myself sound savvy.
He arched his brows. At least he seemed impressed. That would help in the long run. “And this is about that case?”
“It’s all related,” I said, lying my ass off. “I’m actually here about a man who was convicted of murder about ten years ago. Can you tell me anything about a—” I looked down at my notepad, feigning tedium. “—a Reyes Farrow? I was hoping to question him regarding a case, you know, about this case thing I’m working on with…”
I lost my train of thought when Neil paled before my eyes. He picked up his phone and stabbed a button. “Luann, can you come in here?”
Damn, was I in trouble already? Was he kicking me out? I just got here. I knew I should have thrown around more acronyms, but I just couldn’t think of any. The NAACP! Why didn’t I think of the NAACP? That scares the crap out of everyone.
“Yes, sir?” Luann asked as she opened the door.
“Can you get me the file on Reyes Farrow?”
Phew.
But Luann hesitated. “Sir?”
“It’s okay, Luann. Just get me Farrow’s file.”
She glanced at me, then back at him. “Immediately, sir.”
She was good. Cookie never said, Immediately, ma’am. We’d have to talk. And Luann’s reaction was just as interesting as Neil’s. She had a very feminine demeanor. Very bubble baths and wine beneath her business suit. But in a heartbeat, she had become protective. Almost angry. Though her anger didn’t seem directed at me.
“Is this about the incident?” Neil asked. “I didn’t think Farrow had any relatives.”
“The incident?” I asked as Luann brought in the file and handed it to him. She left without giving me a second glance. Had something happened to Reyes? Maybe he really was dead. Maybe that’s why he suddenly started showing up out of the blue.
Neil flipped open the file and studied it. “Right. This shows no living relatives. Who hired you?” He locked his gaze with mine, and the rebel in me took over.
“That information is privileged, Neil. I would hate to have to bring the DA into this.”
“The DA? He’s already aware of the situation, I assure you.”
Oops. Well, that didn’t help. Oh, for heaven’s sake. I pulled in a deep breath. “Look, Neil, this is more of a personal quest, okay. I am working on a case, but it’s not related. I just…” I just what? Want to rape your prisoner? Want to see if he can become incorporeal? “I just want to talk to him.”
My lashes lowered with my admission. I probably looked like an idiot. One of those prison groupies who wrote love letters to inmates and got hitched for the conjugal visits.
“So, you don’t know?” he asked. A hint of relief laced his voice. But something else, too. Regret maybe?
“Apparently not.” He was going to say it. Reyes was dead. Died, what, a month ago? I waited with bated breath for the news.
“Farrow’s in a coma. Has been for almost a month.”
It took me a few moments to pick my jaw up off the floor and find my voice again. When I did, I asked, “A coma? What? Why? What happened?”
Neil rose from his desk and handed me the file. “How about some coffee?”
As if it were encrusted with precious jewels, I took the thick folder from him, then said absently, “I’d kill for some.” Oops. “No, I wouldn’t,” I assured him, glancing around the maximum-security prison. “I’ve never killed anyone. Except that one guy, but he had it coming.”