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CHAPTER 70

CARPENTER MAKES A face like he can’t believe I don’t know.

Ava pulls out her phone, types into the web browser, then holds the phone toward me.

On the screen is an image of someone I recognize but can’t immediately say from where. He’s a fiftysomething man who is very blond, very tan, and standing with a politician’s grin on his face in front of a sign that says ZEBO AUTOMOTIVE .

Then it hits me.

Mr. Z is the car salesman I saw on Megan’s TV yesterday.

“Zebo Automotive asked the tribe to hold a Memorial Day car auction at the community center parking lot a few weeks ago,” Ava says. “Some of the proceeds were supposed to go to tribal charities.” She squints her eyes at Carpenter, who sits before us with a smug expression. “That’s how you knew the gas was still on.”

Carpenter nods. “They opened the door so Garrison wouldn’t have to use a porta-potty. He poked around in the dark while he was in there.” He taps his forehead with his bandaged hand. “Mr. Z remembers things, you see, and when he thought about where we should set a trap for you, he figured doing it on tribal property would keep everyone looking in the wrong place.”

“Did you abduct any women at the event?”

He shakes his head. “That would draw attention,” he says. “I did scope out a few pretty little things for later.” He grins and says, “But that was three questions, and I only promised to answer two.”

I think for a moment about the case and say, “No wonder you had an endless supply of automobiles at your disposal. That’s why none of them were ever reported stolen or missing.”

“Automobiles are one thing Mr. Z doesn’t have a shortage of.” Carpenter chuckles—as if now that we’ve come to an arrangement, we can share a good laugh together.

But he won’t be laughing in a second.

Behind me, the door to the interview room opens. Carlos walks in, holding a white gauze pad to his bloody scalp. Carpenter sees him and he scowls at me, the rage clearly simmering under his skin. With his scarred white eye and his burning green one, he looks truly sinister.

“I thought you were a man of your word,” he spits at me.

“I am,” I say, rising from my seat. “I promise to tell anyone who wants to know that you did not kill Texas Ranger Carlos Castillo.” I gesture with my arms to Carlos. “Which, as you can see, you clearly didn’t.”

Cops lie in interrogations all the time, but when I give my word, even to criminals, I don’t break it. My words might have been deceptive, but I haven’t made a promise I can’t keep. Any guilt I feel for tricking him disappears easily and is replaced by satisfaction once I remind myself of everything he has done—that this man kidnapped and trafficked women.

We got you, you son of a bitch , I think.

“Ava,” I say, “let’s move Mr. Carpenter to one of your holding cells until the FBI gets here. Then they can do with him what they want.”

Ava nods and moves to unlock the handcuff from the eyebolt on the table.

“Is it time to call Ryan?” Carlos asks me. “Let the feds know what we know?”

I turn my head slightly toward him, a momentary lapse of focus at the worst possible time. The instant I tilt my head away—the fraction of a second where both Carlos and I are distracted—is the same moment when Ava unlatches Carpenter’s handcuffs from the table. Carpenter, as quick as a snake, throws his bandaged arm around her neck. With his other hand, he draws her pistol from its holster.

He positions himself behind her, using her as a shield, and wedges her gun under her chin, finger on the trigger—ready to blow her brains onto the ceiling.