About That Night (13 page)

She said nothing for a moment, then moved a step nearer to him. They stood close now, their bodies practically touching as she peered up at him. “Call my office, Kyle,” she said. “Or I’ll subpoena you so fast your head will spin.”

Then she stepped back, flashing him a deceptively sweet smile as she headed toward the front door. “Oh—and have a good night.”

RYLANN CHECKED HER watch as she walked into the lobby of Metropolitan Correctional Center, the maximum-security federal prison located in the middle of downtown Chicago. The five-block walk from her office had taken a little longer than expected, but she still had a couple minutes to spare.

She’d arranged this meeting, her first with one of the agents from the Chicago FBI office, after reviewing the Brown files over the weekend. While the special agent assigned to the case had done a thorough job in his investigation, he’d unfortunately struck out anytime he’d tried to talk to inmates other than Brown’s closest friends. There was, however, one possible exception: he’d noted that an inmate named Manuel Gutierrez, who’d been in the cell next to Watts the night Brown had been beaten to death, had refused to speak to the FBI but had hinted that he might be more willing to talk directly to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

Rylann had heard these kinds of demands before—it was not an infrequent refrain anytime the FBI wanted to interview an inmate. Convicted felons were like eager-beaver first-year law students when it came to knowing the ways to get
out
of prison, including being fully educated on the provisions of Rule 35, which allowed courts to reduce the prison sentences of cooperating inmates. And the savvier inmates also knew that only the U.S. Attorney’s Office, not the FBI, had the authority to seek such a reduction.

Generally, Rylann wasn’t the biggest fan of making deals with inmates under Rule 35. For starters, as she’d indicated
to Kyle the night before, it opened the door for the witness to be subject to possible impeachment on the grounds of bias. Second, as a prosecutor, her job was to put criminals
behind
bars, not provide them with the means to an early release. But she was also a practical person, and it was sometimes critical to the success of a case to have an inmate’s testimony. She also understood that, from the inmate’s perspective, it could be dangerous to provide information to the authorities. Life in prison for someone seen as a rat could be rough, no doubt about it. Thus, on occasion, Rule 35 was the only incentive she had to get someone behind bars to cooperate.

Consequently, today’s mission was to find out what, exactly, Manuel Gutierrez knew about Darius Brown’s death. First thing that morning, Rylann had called the FBI agent assigned to the investigation and suggested they pay a visit to Gutierrez. As luck would have it, the agent had been free that afternoon.

“Ms. Pierce?”

Walking toward her was an African American man in his midtwenties with what had to be the most friendly smile—and by far the nicest suit—she’d ever seen on an FBI agent.

He extended his hand. “Special Agent Sam Wilkins at your service. I saw the briefcase and guessed it was you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Please, call me Rylann.”

They made small talk as they stopped at the lock boxes so Wilkins could check his firearm. Within minutes Rylann learned that he was relatively new to the FBI, having joined straight out of Yale Law School, and that the Brown matter was the first solo investigation he’d been assigned within the FBI’s violent crimes division.

“What made you choose violent crimes?” she asked curiously. Wilkins’s style seemed a little less rough and gruff than many of the other FBI agents she’d worked with.

He shrugged. “It’s probably better to say that it chose me. When I first started, they paired me up with a senior agent in that division, and one of the first cases we handled was a high-profile murder investigation. Somebody must’ve liked the job we did, because now Jack and I seem to be first on the list whenever someone finds a dead body.”

Wilkins paused as they both showed their badges to the guards before removing their suit jackets to pass through the metal detectors. Having never been to MCC before, Rylann followed his lead as they headed to the elevators that would take them up to the interview rooms.

“By the way, we caught a break,” she told him. “That lead with the inmate in disciplinary segregation turned out to be a good one.” She briefed Wilkins quickly on the situation involving Kyle Rhodes, and then all discussion about the case ceased as they entered the elevator with several other visitors.

When they stepped off at the eleventh floor, Wilkins led her down a corridor to the interview rooms used by police officers and federal agents. “Do you think he’ll call? Kyle Rhodes, I mean.”

Rylann thought about that. She’d put the ball in his court—frankly, she had no clue what he’d do with it. “Only time will tell.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, they sat in a small interview room across a wooden interrogation table from Manuel Gutierrez.

“What’s in it for me if I talk?” the inmate demanded to know. He gestured to the door with his cuffed hands, referring to the prison guard who’d left after escorting him into the room. “ ’Cuz there’s no way I’m sticking around this place after ratting out one of them. Or I’ll be the next guy they’re taking out of here in a body bag.”

“First tell me what you know, Mr. Gutierrez,” Rylann said. “If I decide I need your testimony, then we can talk about next steps.”

Gutierrez thought about this for a moment, then leaned in, lowering his voice. “All right. You know that I used to be in the cell next to Watts, right? Before they moved him permanently to no-man’s-land for killing Brown, anyway. So the day before Brown got transferred to Watts’s cell, I overheard a conversation between Quinn and Watts—a conversation that seems pretty fucking suspicious in light of what happened.”

“What did Quinn and Watts say?” Rylann asked.

“I heard Watts ask Quinn, ‘How bad do you want me to rough him up, boss?’ ”

Now
that
had Rylann’s attention. “And what was Quinn’s response?”

Gutierrez hemmed a little at the next part. “Well, all I heard Quinn say was
‘Shh.’
You know, like he didn’t want anyone to hear them talking.” He looked between Rylann and Wilkins. “But that’s still something, right? I mean, you can use that, can’t you?”

Rylann mulled this over. Of course, it would’ve been better if there’d been more to the conversation, but it was nevertheless another piece of the puzzle. “It’s helpful. Thank you.”

Gutierrez mistook her pause for hesitation. “Listen, everyone knows what happened. Quinn locked Brown in a cell with that racist piece of shit and told Watts to have at him. You ever seen Watts? The guy’s over two hundred pounds and all muscle. Brown was five-foot-eight.” He held up his handcuffs. “People might think we’re the scum of the earth in here, but we still got rights.” He pointed, getting a little too close to Rylann’s face. “You need to nail that guard to the wall, lady.”

Wilkins tensed protectively. “Take it down a notch, buddy,” he growled in a low voice.

Rylann put her hand on the table between her and Wilkins, indicating that everything was fine. Without looking away, she held the inmate’s gaze.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, Mr. Gutierrez.”

THAT AFTERNOON, KYLE walked through the front door of DeVine Cellars, the wine store owned by his sister, just in time to see Jordan carrying a heavy box up from the cellar.

He crossed the room in two strides. “Hand it over, Jordo.”

She did so, and then pointed to the bar in the center of the store. “Thanks. Just put it over there.”

Kyle set the box down and gestured to the cast on her wrist. “You have a shop full of employees working for you. Use them.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow as she began unpacking wine bottles. “My, aren’t we in a mood today. Something wrong?”

Yes, he was in a mood—a foul one at that—and had been ever since a certain pushy and obstinate assistant U.S. attorney had come back into his life with her sassy subpoena threats and moral judgments. But that wasn’t anything he wanted to discuss with his sister. “I’m just tired,” he said dismissively. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Undoubtedly because said pushy and obstinate assistant U.S. attorney’s words had been ringing annoyingly in his head.

The Kyle Rhodes who walked me home and gave me the shirt off his back would do the right thing no matter how pissed he was at my office. So if
that
guy is hanging around this penthouse anywhere, tell him to call me
.

Oh, wasn’t she just so…righteous. As if he needed to make excuses for the way he’d lived his life for the last nine years. Sure, he had an excuse: he’d been having
fun
. Maybe that was something Rylann Pierce needed to try more often—assuming she had any time for fun in her current forty-two-year career plan or whatever.

“Seriously. What’s with the face?” Jordan asked. “You’re scaring my cabernets with that scowl.”

“I’m just working through some stuff,” he said vaguely.

Jordan raised an eyebrow, studying him. “Prison stuff?”

“More like post-prison stuff. Nothing we need to talk about.” The last thing he needed his super-perfect twin sister with her super-perfect FBI boyfriend knowing was that he was in another dispute, of sorts, with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He was cranky enough about the situation without Jordan laying into him about it. He’d left prison several weeks ago and was
supposed
to be moving on with his life, yet the vestiges of the place still clung to him. Like bad BO.

He picked up four of the wine bottles Jordan had unpacked. “Where do you want these?”

She pointed. “In the empty bin over there, with the other cabernets.” She looked over when Kyle came back to the bar. “So what kind of post-prison stuff?”

Now he was getting suspicious. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

“Sue me for trying to open a dialogue here. Geez. I’ve just
been a little worried about you, since I’ve heard that it can sometimes be difficult for ex-inmates to reenter normal life.”

Kyle shot her a look as he grabbed more wine bottles. “Where, exactly, did you hear that? Siblings of Ex-Cons Anonymous?”

Jordan glared. “Yes, we have weekly meetings at the YMCA,” she retorted. Then she waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know, it’s just…something I saw on TV this past weekend.”

Ah.
Kyle suddenly had a sneaking suspicion about the cause of his sister’s concern. “Jordo…by any chance were you watching
The Shawshank Redemption
again?”

“Pfft.
No
.” She saw his knowing expression and caved. “Fine. I was flipping through the channels and it was on TNT. You try turning that movie off.” She looked at him matter-of-factly. “It’s very compelling.”

Kyle fought back a smile. “Sure it is. But I’m not scarred for life or planning to hop on the next bus to Zihuatanejo. MCC is not Shawshank.”

“Really?” Jordan asked. “Because I just read in the papers that an inmate was killed there a couple weeks ago. Apparently the FBI’s investigating. A guy named Darius Brown—did you know him?”

Next topic
. Kyle feigned nonchalance. “I knew him a little.” Quickly, he changed the subject before his nosy sister asked any further questions. “So you said you wanted to talk about my business plan?” Jordan was the first person he’d shown it to, figuring he could use the advice of someone with an MBA.

“Yes, I did.” She grabbed a towel to wipe the dust from the wine bottles off her hands, then pulled the twenty-page business plan he’d drafted out from underneath the bar.

“And?”

Jordan hesitated. “And I hate to say this, considering you’re my brother and all, but I think it’s sort of…brilliant.”

Kyle proudly rocked back on his heels. “Brilliant, huh? Feel free to elaborate.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. There’s a good chance you’re going to fail spectacularly in this,” Jordan told him. “But
you’ve covered the three primary concerns of revenue, cost, and cash flow. You’ve got a large potential market and a unique service. Whether anyone is going to be interested in that service”—she held out her hands—“tough to say.”

That was indeed the half-billion dollar question. “I’m going shopping for office space next week,” Kyle said.

“Wow. You’re really raring to go.”

Yes, he was. “For four months I sat in prison, thinking about all the things I was going to do to get my life back on track as soon as I was out. Now it’s time to put those plans in motion.” He pointed, remembering something. “But do me a favor—don’t tell Dad about this.”

“Now there’s something I’ve never heard from you before,” Jordan said, rolling her eyes. “He’s a very successful businessman, Kyle. He could help you.”

“Did you ask for Dad’s help when you opened this wine shop?” Kyle asked pointedly.

Jordan leaned against the bar, proudly taking in the store. “Of course not.”

Enough said.

A HALF HOUR later, Kyle left the wine shop in good spirits after his conversation with Jordan. But almost immediately, as he crossed the street and walked a half block to his car, the nagging feeling crept back in. And he knew the exact source of that.

This situation with Prosecutrix Pierce had become a serious burr up his ass.

At the end of the day, it shouldn’t matter what he did about the Darius Brown case. Rylann had been right; he wouldn’t lie under oath. So he was free and clear to be the asshole and make her go get her subpoena. He’d tell the grand jury what he knew, and justice would be served. And he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he’d made the U.S. Attorney’s Office—people who had certainly never shown him any courtesies—scramble through a few hoops.

It was a good plan. He
wanted
to be the asshole here.

Why, then, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his cell phone and Rylann’s business card, he honestly couldn’t say.

He dialed her number, got her voicemail, and left a message.

“Sorry, counselor, but I looked all around the penthouse and found only one Kyle Rhodes.” He paused. “And he will be at your office tomorrow at two o’clock. Expect lots of prickliness.”