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“It’s your fault,” North said to Auggie. “All this laughing. You’re encouraging him. I’m going to have to bully him for six months straight to get him back to manageable levels.”
To be fair, Auggie did look like he was trying not to laugh.
Fortunately, at that point Marcy said, “Mr. Brey will see you in the conference room.” She pointed at an angle past the cubicles, and Auggie smoothed out his face, thanked her, and headed off in the lead. North power-walked to catch up with him.
“The male ego is a fragile, complicated thing,” Shaw said to Theo. “It’s nice that you have such a delicate touch with Auggie; he needs you, but he’s getting too old to tell you he does. I really admire how you’re able to meet those needs without ever making him feel like there’s an imbalance in the relationship.”
Theo opened his mouth like he might say something, but nothing came out, and then a strange, unreadable look came over his face as he studied Shaw more closely.
Like the rest of the office, the conference room was painted in multiple shades of blue, and the furniture was new and straddled the line between cheap and functional. Two men stood at the far end of the room, looking at a piece of paper. One of them, Shaw recognized from the camera stills that Deputy Weiss had pulled: square-jawed, his dark hair in a conservative cut, he was handsome in a way that suggested family values and strong Republican bloodlines. His suit was off the rack but good quality, and he’d clearly had it lightly tailored for a better fit. He glanced up, murmured something to the other man, and then stepped forward to shake Auggie’s hand.
“Eric Brey,” he said as the man he’d been talking to slipped out of the room. He repeated the introduction as he shook hands with the others. “I’m so glad we were able to make this meeting happen.” He did a double take of Auggie’s face. “You all right? That looks serious.”
“Fine, thanks,” Auggie said. “An accident. Thanks for taking the time to see us today, Mr. Brey. Do you mind if we sit down? This won’t take long, but it’s important.”
Shaw took that opportunity to bump the door with his hip, and it shut quietly.
“I have to admit,” Brey said as they took their seats around the table, “I’m not familiar with Watchdogs for Information, but your site is very impressive, and some of the numbers you were citing when you spoke to my assistant—”
“Yeah, that was bullshit,” North said as he slapped a folder on the table. He opened it and took out the camera stills from the county jail. He slid them over to Brey. “We want to know why you visited Philip Welch and where he is now.”
Brey’s body language changed. It was subtle, masked by the suit, but still there: the man who had been in control of the situation was replaced by a man who sensed a threat. He held himself more tightly. His shoulders drew in—only barely, but still. He’d been a Marine, Shaw thought, or was a Marine, however you were supposed to say that. Had he seen combat?
Then Brey drew the pictures toward him. He studied them for a moment, looked up, and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m North McKinney, and I’m a licensed investigator working for the Wahredua PD. I asked you a question, Mr. Brey.”
But Brey’s gaze settled on Shaw next, then Theo, and then, with disturbing intensity, on Auggie. Theo shifted in his seat, moving to the edge of the chair—preparing himself, Shaw recognized, to move fast. For a moment, it was like Shaw was seeing him for the first time, seeing what the mild manner and the quiet voice hid so well: the hard body, and inside, an even harder mind. When Theo moved, the polo tightened across his back, and Shaw could glimpse the muscles moving there. A capacity for violence, Shaw’s brain suggested, and the image that floated at the edge of his subconscious, drifting in those dark, frozen waters, was of broken brown glass and ugly little pieces of stamped steel. And he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.
“What do you want?”
“Like I said.” North’s smile wasn’t really a smile. “We’d like to know why you visited Philip Welch and where he is.”
“He’s in jail, that’s where he is. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“He killed two people,” Auggie said. “And he’s on the run.”
Brey didn’t respond. He stared at the photos again. After a few seconds, he looked up. “You’d better tell me as much as you can.”
“That’s all there is to tell,” North said. “So, I’m going to ask you again: why did you visit Philip Welch, and where is he now?”
“I have no idea where he is,” Brey said, and for the first time, his tone hardened. “And I don’t appreciate the implication. I know Phil from a troubled teens program. I heard he’d gotten arrested again, so I went to check on him. He’s a good kid, believe it or not.” He stopped, as though he heard what he’d just said, and touched one of the pictures, pushing it away slightly. “You’re sure he killed someone?”
“I’m going to ask you again,” North said, “why you were visiting Philip Welch.”
“I told you—”
“Wahredua is close to a hundred miles away. Try again.”
Brey set his jaw. When he spoke, the words were clipped. “Phil’s grandmother called me and told me he’d been arrested again. I told you, I have a relationship with him. When I had a chance, I went to check on him. We talked. I left. I was going to check on him again, just a phone call, but—” He pushed the rest of the photos away. “I got busy.”
“What did you talk about when you visited him?” Shaw asked.
“Nothing. I mean, his grandma, life. We talked about making better choices. I’m sorry, I can’t get over this—are you sure he killed those men?”
“Who said they were men?” North asked.
“I don’t—” Brey stopped again. It was the total non-response that made Shaw wonder. It was possible someone might react to this kind of news by suppressing any sort of visible emotion. But it was also an excellent way to lie without actually lying. The silence dragged until Brey finally said, “I assumed. I don’t know what you want from me.”
