The Girls He Adored Read Online Free PDF Page A

reward with a little face time, here's your wife and family, and here's the FBI resident agent from Monterey in a dark suit and conservative tie.
    “Ladies and gentlemen . . .” Pender lifted the nameplate up and down with each syllable, manipulating it as if it were a hand puppet.“I'm Sheriff Aurelio Bustamante, and I've called this press conference to announce that the Monterey County Sheriff's Department has been responsible for the capture of one of the most dangerous and sought-after serial killers in the history of law enforcement.”
    Bustamante reached across the desk and tipped the Grand Marshall plaque representing the FBI over onto its face, then leaned back, his fingers tented over his round belly. “If it's him, I've already got him—what do I need you for?”
    “Because otherwise it goes like this. . . .” Pender tipped the nameplate over and moved the plaque up to the front of the grouping. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Special Agent Photo Op of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A few weeks ago a young woman was brutally stabbed to death within sight of a MONTEREY COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPUTY, who was in turn caught unawares and skewered like a fucking shish-ka-bob. Eventually the suspect was apprehended, but unfortunately, the MONTEREY COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT had absolutely no idea who the fuck they were holding. Fortunately, the FBI was able to determine through its own resources that—”
    Bustamante cut him off. “Put everything back where it was, then wait outside.”
    Hurriedly, Pender rearranged the desk; as he left the room, he saw the sheriff reaching for the telephone. He cooled his heels in a straight-backed wooden chair in the hallway for forty-five minutes. When the sheriff's secretary ushered him back into the office, Bustamante was tilted back in his leather chair, with his cowboybooted feet up on the desk.
    “I just got off the phone with the district attorney. Both our offices, we want to cooperate with the FBI in every way possible without compromising the investigation. However, he says there's absolutely no possibility of him allowing you to question our prisoner without his lawyer being present.”
    “That's—”
    “Let me finish. We can't let you question the man without his lawyer, but since the Supreme Court ruled that a prisoner in jail has no expectation of privacy, exclusive of conferences with his own attorney, there's nothing that says we can't put an undercover man in the cell with him in order to, and here I quote the district attorney, ‘further ongoing investigations into crimes unrelated to those for which the prisoner is currently charged.’ ”
    “It has to be me.” Pender began to marshal his arguments. “It would take days to get one of your—”
    “It's you.”
    “—people up to sp— Oh. Great. Thanks. How soon?”
    “Tomorrow afternoon. There's no way we're putting you in with him here. It's too dangerous, and besides, he's been single-housed for a month—he'd know something was up if we gave him a roommate. But he's due in court for a procedural hearing tomorrow. The old jail next to the courthouse has been closed down since 'seventy-one, but we still use the east wing to house prisoners between court appearances. We can put you in one of the holding cells with him without too much danger—he'll be in restraints. Of course, so will you, but that can't be helped. We'll get you in place, then bring him over a little early—that'll give you some time alone with him.”
    “I want you to know how much I appreciate—” Pender began.
    The sheriff cut him off. “Before you thank me, I have something I want you to read.”
    Bustamante took his booted feet off the desktop, leaned forward, and slid a photocopied document across the desk to Pender. It was a medical report detailing the injuries received by one Refugio Cortes, the prisoner's former cellmate, in the county jail, on the prisoner's first day in custody.
    Pender skimmed it: depressed