The Evidence Next Door
Автор
Julie Miller
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Prologue
The visitor waited patiently until the prisoner was shown into the room. It wasn’t the first prison the visitor had been to, and though the age of the building and the uniforms might be different, it was still a prison. The blank expression on the prisoner’s face, carefully revealing nothing but hatred and distrust, was familiar, too.
Although it was an accepted rule that the inmate remain handcuffed during the interview, the visitor refused the guard’s offer to chain him to the table, as well. “I’m looking for cooperation, not to make his stay here any more miserable than it already is.”
“You know what he’s in here for, don’t you?”
The visitor nodded before waving the guard away. “I’ve done my homework. You may go.”
“Your call.” The guard shrugged, as though he didn’t think that was the best choice. But the visitor wanted something very specific from the man sitting across the table, and that wasn’t going to happen if a guard who was armed and wearing a flak vest hovered over them. “I’ll be right outside that door. Watching. You got ten minutes.”
The visitor didn’t bother thanking the guard as the door closed and locked behind him. The prisoner didn’t bother with introductions and niceties, either. “Cooperation? Who are you? My new attorney?”
The visitor studied the man’s shaved head and brown eyes. In another world, he would probably be considered handsome. But rage, frustration and a focus on surviving versus the opportunity to settle into a successful, free life had given him hard edges. It had taken a while to find this man, and the visitor was counting on them sharing a need for retribution. “I can’t offer you legal absolution. But I can offer you something you might find eminently satisfying.”
“All I want is to get out of this place. I intend to keep my nose clean so I don’t get any time tacked on to my sentence.”
“You won’t have to lift a finger and jeopardize your time here. I just have a question for you.”
“I’m no snitch, either. I intend to stay in one piece until I do get out of here.”
“There won’t be a sign painted on your back, Mr. Boggs.”
Boggs puffed up, wanting to correct the Mister appellation. But perhaps the skills from his mandated anger management class had kicked in—or maybe he was simply curious enough to know why a stranger had come to see him. He dropped his cuffed wrists onto the table and leaned forward. “Then what the hell do you want from me?”
The visitor set a photograph on the table and pointed to the image. “I want you to tell me everything you can about this woman.”
