uncuffed him. Watched him scarf down the burger. Waited until she heard the rattle of ice in his Coke. Then she leaned forward. “Okay,” she said. “So who are you?”
Salazar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know who I am,” he said. “My name is Allen Bryce Salazar. I live at 82 Poplar Street in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Married, no kids.” He looked down at his hands. “My wife’s probably losing her shit right now.”
“We’ll get word to your wife that you’re fine,” Windermere told him. “If you’re as clean as you say, you’ll be home by tomorrow. So let’s figure this out. What brought you to Saint Paul?”
“Trade show,” said Salazar. “I sell fertilizer. Farm-grade.”
“Fertilizer.”
“My wife tells me I’m real good at peddling bullshit.” He met her eyes. “It’s a job. There was an agricultural trade fair all week, downtown at the RiverCentre. I came in Tuesday evening. Was supposed to get home tonight.”
Windermere studied his face. The RiverCentre was within a block of Rice Park and the Saint Paul Hotel. A two-minute walk to the LandmarkCenter. Except Salazar wasn’t the man she’d seen climbing into the little gray Chevy. He wasn’t the man she’d passed on the Landmark Center steps.
She fixed her eyes on him. “You come with a partner?”
Salazar frowned. “What?”
“Did you bring a friend? To the trade fair. You work with a partner, or what?”
“Just me,” said Salazar. “It’s a pretty small business. Mom-and-pop, I guess you’d call it. Just trying to get our foot in the door.”
“Yeah,” said Windermere. “Listen, here’s the thing: A man was shot this afternoon at the Saint Paul Hotel. Somebody with a sniper rifle. You know where the hotel is? Like, a half a minute away from the RiverCentre. Literally across the street.”
Salazar’s eyes got wide. “Whoa,” he said. “I didn’t—”
“Hold up.” Windermere held up her hands. “I chased the shooter,” she said. “He got away in a little gray Chevy hatchback, a Liberty rental car. Rented from the airport by one Allen Bryce Salazar of Council Bluffs, Iowa. That’s you.”
“Bullshit.”
Salazar shoved his chair back and stood, his eyes wild. “That’s bullshit, lady. I never rented that car.”
Windermere held his gaze. “Liberty says you did.”
“They’re lying,” he said. “They’re fucking liars.”
“Prove it.”
Salazar stared at her, breathing heavy. “Prove it?” he said. “Okay, I will. I’m an Emerald Club member.
National Car Rental.
I rented a midsize sedan on Tuesday. Upgraded for free to a Chrysler 300, white. Brought it back this afternoon just before my flight. What the hell would I want with some shitty hatchback?”
Windermere said nothing. She studied Salazar and sucked her teeth, thinking. A computer would straighten out Salazar’s story. A quick call to National and she’d know if he was lying. He wasn’t acting guilty, though.He didn’t look like he knew a damn thing about Chevy Aveos. And that meant this easy case was about to get hard.
If Salazar wasn’t the guy—if he was one hundred percent clean—then who’d mixed him up in the game? More to the point, who was the kid in the little Chevy hatchback? Who was the killer, and where the hell did he go?
Windermere pushed back from the table and stood. Salazar watched her. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t sound tough anymore. He sounded confused. Scared, even. Windermere shook her head. “Gotta call National,” she said. “Corroborate your story.” She looked at him. “I’d get comfortable. This might take a while.”
13
T he phone rang again on Monday morning.
It was nearly noon. Lind was sitting on his couch, upright, trying to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t slept all night. He’d finished all the coffee. He was just slipping away, giving in, when the phone rang.
It jolted him awake.
He stood on unsteady legs and walked to the window and looked out