Only he didn’t find another path. He lost control. The motorcycle slid onto its side, slipping and twisting away from him. The man flew onto the pavement, hitting with a thudding impact.
Lauren’s breath sawed from her lungs.
The guy leaped back to his feet and started to run. Anthony threw out his arm, clotheslining the man right around the neck. Buzz cut fell back, slamming once more into the pavement. This time when he tried to get up, he found himself staring down the barrel of Anthony’s gun.
“Benjamin Fort?” Anthony snapped the name.
Lauren tightened her grip on her weapon and slowly advanced.
The guy on the ground spat out a mouthful of blood. “Yeah, and who the fuck are you?”
“U.S. Marshal.” Anthony didn’t lower his gun. “And that woman you nearly ran down, that’s the fucking DA. Asshole, you just stepped into a whole world of hurt.” There was a deadly promise in his voice.
A promise that made Lauren tense because it was so dark, so dangerous, and so very certain.
Anthony stood with his arms crossed, his control held tight, as he stared down at Ben Fort.
The guy had bloody scratches and scrapes running along his face and arms, but that wasn’t even close to the amount of damage Anthony wanted to do.
He’d been aiming that motorcycle at Lauren.
If the SOB had hurt her…
Paul came into the interrogation room, swept his gaze over Fort, then raised a brow as he looked back at Anthony.
“The guy fell off his bike,” Anthony said.
At his words, Fort jerked his head toward them. “Because you and that DA were in my way! You come to my house, and I didn’t even see no warrant and—”
“They didn’t need a warrant to come and tell you about your girlfriend’s murder.”
Fort’s mouth hung open. “Murder?” He gave a rough bark of laughter, one that held an uncertain edge. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
Paul took the seat across from Fort. Anthony was playing by the rules—this time—and letting the detective have a crack at the guy first. But he wasn’t about to leave the room. He would stick close to Fort until he got the answers he wanted.
Anthony leaned back against the two-way mirror—he knew Lauren was watching on the other side—and waited for his moment.
If the detective didn’t break the guy, Anthony would.
Paul opened up a manila file and pushed a crime scene picture toward Fort. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Fort peered forward. “Yeah, man, that’s—” He jumped to his feet even as the color drained from his face. “Fuck! What the fuck happened to Stacy?”
Anthony moved in an instant, grabbing the guy’s shoulder and shoving him back down in his seat.
“Stacy is your girlfriend, correct?” Paul asked quietly.
A rough nod. Fort’s fingers snaked out, edging toward the photo almost helplessly. “Her face…”
“Stacy Crawford told the marshal here…” Paul slanted a fast glance toward Anthony. “That the two of you were heading out of town last night.”
“Got a job in Jackson,” he mumbled. His eyes were on the photo. His shoulders slumped. “Her face.”
Paul’s eyes were on Fort’s face. “Why didn’t you report that your girlfriend was missing?”
“’Cause she wasn’t!” Spittle flew from his mouth.
“If you were supposed to leave with her—”
Fort slapped his hand over the picture, covering Stacy’s face. “She sent me a text. Told me that she had to pull an extra shift—wanted the cash since it was her last night. She told me that she would be late gettin’ in.”
“But she didn’t get in at all.”
Fort’s breath was coming in fast heaves. “When I got her text, I went out for some beers with friends. I got in and passed out. I’d just woken up when—”
“When you heard the marshal banging at the door?”
A nod.
Now Anthony spoke. “Do you always run when you hear a knock at your door?”
He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
“Then I guess today was special, huh?” Paul asked as he pulled the photo from beneath Fort’s hand. “But not so special for her.”
Did you help the Butcher kill your girlfriend?
Lauren had watched hundreds of interrogations over the years. She knew all the tricks detectives used in order to get a suspect to confess. She’d seen men crumble in an instant, and she’d seen cold-blooded killers refuse to break after hours of questioning.
When she’d had Walker in the interrogation room, he hadn’t broken. He’d just sat there, smiling at her the whole time.
Fort was already sweating. Sometimes, the guilty sweated. They sweated plenty. Their eyes darted around the interrogation room—just like Fort’s were doing. Their fingers tapped on the table, their shoes kept up a steady pounding rhythm on the floor.
Again, just like Fort.
Nervousness? Fear? A guilty conscience?
We’ll find out.
The door squeaked open behind her. She glanced over and saw a uniformed cop hurry into the room.
“Ms. Chandler?”
She waited.
The guy licked his lips. “The cops on scene were searching Fort’s home…” It had been easy enough to get the right to enter his home after the motorcycle incident. You didn’t get to nearly run down a DA without repercussions. “One of them found a stash of stolen electronics in the back. The serial numbers match a string of recent robberies in his neighborhood.”
She glanced back at the interrogation room. Anthony and Paul had wanted to know why the guy ran…
He’d been afraid he was about to get busted. That could explain the nervousness—and the guilty conscience. But was there more?
“Thank you,” she said as she headed toward the door.
He raised a hand to stop her. “We also got the report back for the marshal.” Another nervous swipe of his tongue over his lips. “The bike’s tires—they were a match to the ones at the Crawford scene, to the ones we found at Walker’s old cabin.”
Lauren glanced through the two-way glass. She hadn’t just watched interviews over the years. She understood exactly how to push and bargain with suspects.
“Thank you,” she told the cop once more, and headed for interrogation.
My turn.
“You knew about Stacy Crawford’s ex-boyfriend,” Anthony said as he stared at Fort. “And you knew how desperate she was to get out of town.”
Fort was sweating. His feet nervously tapped against the cheap linoleum floor. “Stacy hated this town. Hated the way folks always looked at her. Like she was the freak.”
Fort’s eyes were on the manila folder. The folder with Stacy’s photo.
“But you wouldn’t leave town with her,” Anthony pointed out. “You made her stay.”
The guy’s jaw locked. “I had a job here. We were plannin’ to leave—”
“Your plan was a little too slow,” Paul drawled.
The door creaked open behind them. Anthony’s gaze shot to the door, to Lauren.
Still dressed in her hiking clothes, she walked into the small interrogation room with determined steps. Her gaze cut to him, to Paul, then to Fort. “Mr. Fort, do you know who I am?” Lauren asked.
Fort’s fingers were tapping against the tabletop now. “The DA. I seen your picture in the paper.” Then his lips twisted. “And Stacy fuckin’ hated you, so I heard about you plenty.”
Her head cocked as she studied him. “Shouldn’t you be more upset?” Curiosity had leaked into her voice. A trick, Anthony was sure of it. Lauren never revealed any emotion she didn’t want revealed, especially during an interrogation or in the courtroom. “I mean, you just found out your girlfriend is dead—that she was tortured and sliced, and you sit here calmly saying she ‘fucking hated’ me.” She shook her head. “That’s not the response I usually get from grieving boyfriends.” Then she walked to Paul’s side.