Page 26 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

C ORRIE DIDN’T SPEAK much on the drive out to Sandoval County Jail, content to let Agent O’Hara take the wheel while she flipped through her notes.

Despite Sharp’s reassurances and the mutual apology session with Mandy’s father, Corrie was finding that the aftermath of her disciplinary interview was lingering.

Most of the time she managed not to think about it, but there were other times when she’d ended up second-guessing herself—when she wondered if she’d ever be able to shape her excitable, impulsive nature into the ideal of a cool, confident FBI agent.

She’d asked O’Hara to come along this morning, not only because it was pro forma to have a partner under the circumstances, but because it would give her a chance to hang back a little, let someone else do the questioning.

She liked Brendan O’Hara; he was a good guy, friendly, intelligent, hard-working, and—unlike his frenemy Bellamy—seemed to have no issues working under a less-senior like Corrie.

She glanced briefly at her notes once more, then looked up as she felt the vehicle slowing down.

The jail was in Bernalillo, of course, which was rapidly becoming her least favorite town, a place destined to be for her like those text-based computer adventure games she played as a kid, where you’d end up in a maze, turn left, then right, and somehow end up back in the room where you’d started.

The Detention Center was a cluster of low buildings, painted sand gray, that could have passed for a distribution facility were it not for the chain-link fence topped with concertina wire that surrounded it.

There was precious little greenery in the landscape to begin with, but that was all suffocated by a vast concrete expanse the same color as the building.

Corrie followed O’Hara in, letting him take the lead as they showed their IDs, handed over their sidearms at the entry barrier, and were led through a short series of passages to a standard prison visitation room: two pairs of seats facing each other, between them a thick pane of Plexiglas with a circular speaking grill bored through it, and video cameras in the ceiling corners.

Although Corrie didn’t tell O’Hara, she’d been in more of these during Quantico simulations than on the job.

She knew they had only a minute or two to themselves.

“So, we’re good?” she murmured.

“You’ll take the lead, and depending on how cooperative he is, I might or might not step in.”

“It’s your party,” O’Hara said.

The door opened, and a massive figure appeared.

Kenneth Curtis stepped forward, then stopped, overtly examining the two FBI agents through the Plexiglas.

He had an insolent gaze, and the way he ran his eyes over them implied he’d arranged this interview, not the other way around.

Two guards were barely visible behind his bulk.

Curtis had his hands cuffed behind his back.

One guard undid the cuffs while the other stood back, mace and ugly stick at the ready.

Then the guard with the handcuffs withdrew, the door slammed and locked.

Only then did Kenneth Curtis deign to sit down, massaging his wrists as he did so.

There was a silence while they took the measure of each other.

Corrie had seen the man’s rap sheet, of course, but the perp photos didn’t do justice to the menacing presence that now faced them.

She guessed he weighed at least three hundred pounds—one of those hulking frames that seemed as much muscle and sinew as fat.

His prison shirt was short sleeved, showing off the myriad tattoos encircling his arms and rising up his neck.

He’d shaved his head bald, but hadn’t stopped there: the eyebrows were gone, as well.

Corrie had done her homework.

Over the last twenty years, Curtis had enjoyed a fraught relationship with law enforcement.

Not including the various issues that took place during his divorce from Molly Vine—including a restraining order from Oskarbi—he’d been busted half a dozen times for disorderly conduct and assault.

It was the assault charge for busting the ribs of an anti-fracking protestor that had landed him in the pen.

He’d pled down to a first-degree misdemeanor and was now in the last week of a ninety-day sentence.

Interestingly, he’d been represented with the help of a lawyer provided by his employer: Geo Solutions.

Corrie remained silent while O’Hara ran through the initial questions.

She wondered what an educated, sophisticated student like Molly could have seen in Curtis.

She reminded herself that people could change, especially over a span as long as twenty years.

Among the knickknacks, letters, and other material Mrs. Vine had lent Corrie was a small photo, unframed and soiled, of Molly in her wedding dress.

Curtis was only partially in the frame, but there was enough to indicate he’d looked lean and handsome—hard to believe he’d morphed into the creature sitting across from them.

Formalities over with, O’Hara got down to business.

“Mr. Curtis, do you have an idea why we wanted to speak to you today?”

Curtis shrugged.

“Aloud, please, for the microphone.”

“No.”

“We’re here about your ex-wife. Molly Vine.”

Curtis showed no sign of interest. He knew Molly had disappeared, of course, but he may not have known her body had been found—jailhouse TVs weren’t usually tuned to news channels.

“You knew she was missing?” O’Hara asked.

“Sure. Good riddance.”

“Are you aware her body was just found in the desert?” O’Hara said.

“Her… body ,” Curtis replied after a moment.

“Yes.”

“And you’re here to, what—get a confession out of me, or something?” Curtis scoffed.

“She’d been there about five years,” O’Hara added.

The only response Curtis made was to slowly roll his tongue across his teeth: upper set first, then the lower.

Corrie leaned forward to ask a question.

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Vine?”

Curtis wheeled his eyes toward her in mock surprise.

“She talks !” he said.

A leer came over his face.

“Does she do anything else?”

“Answer the question,” O’Hara said.

“Look, I broke up with the bitch, what, twenty years ago? I ran into her once or twice, maybe nine, ten years back.”

“Where?” O’Hara asked.

“Gas station in Tesuque.”

“Did you converse?”

Curtis laughed.

“I wasn’t sure it was her, to be honest—until she caught sight of me. Then she got in her car and peeled out of the station like a NASCAR driver.”

“How much did you know about her life after the divorce?” O’Hara asked.

Curtis shrugged again.

“It’s a small world. You hear things. I know she dropped out of grad school, got a job as a teacher somewhere.”

“Do you know why she left school?” O’Hara asked.

“Probably couldn’t handle the grief. Of losing a prime specimen of masculinity like myself.”

“Try again,” said Corrie sharply.

Curtis looked at her appraisingly a moment through the scratched and greasy Plexiglas.

“I figured she’d probably realized what a fake and a loser that professor was.”

“You mean Oskarbi,” Corrie said.

“The one who filed a restraining order against you.”

“Yeah. The punk.”

“What was the basis for that restraining order?”

“Be cause I came home from work one day and found him boning my wife. I did my best to crack his skull, but Molly got in the way and he took off. Fucker.”

“So you two had been having marital problems?” Corrie asked.

“That professor was the marital problem. He had this hippie-dippy charm, answered your questions with riddles of his own, all deep sounding and shit. Smelled like weed. Randy motherfucker, too—I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dipping his wick all over the damn place.”

Corrie looked down at her file.

None of the trouble Curtis had gotten into after the divorce related to Molly—apparently, he’d left her alone.

On the other hand, he had not been in prison five years ago when she walked into the desert.

He had a motive as well for getting rid of Oskarbi.

“What was the state of your marriage before Dr. Oskarbi entered the picture?” she asked.

“She couldn’t get enough of me. I’m the kind of guy that attracts women—just like moths to a candle.”

Where they crackle and burn up , Corrie thought to herself.

“I figured once she finished her PhD, she’d start bringing in some serious dough. Even if she didn’t, her old lady was loaded.”

So Curtis was an easy rider on top of everything else.

“You say you tried to break his skull,” she said.

“Can you be more specific about what took place during the assault?”

Curtis thought for a moment—perhaps mentally computing the statute of limitations.

“I got a couple of good ones in before Molly broke it up, gave the fucker some cracked ribs and a black eye.” He grinned.

Oskarbi had filed a restraining order—but he’d quickly dropped the assault charges.

Why? As soon as she asked herself the question, Corrie knew the answer: he didn’t want word of his philandering to spread any farther than necessary.

“Did you ever see him again?” O’Hara asked, picking up on her line of thinking.

“No. Heard he went back to Mexico.” Curtis paused.

“You were not in jail when Molly died in the desert,” Corrie said slowly, looking at Curtis to gauge his reaction.

Curtis was silent for a moment.

“Let me put it this way. I didn’t kill Molly. But if I had —well, you’d never have found her.” He eyed them each in turn.

“Draw your own conclusions.”

And with that, he leaned back from the glass.