“But he doesn’t know that. He has no idea who Safiro Olivera was, and neither does Orson Malloy.”
“Who?”
“Malloy crime family.” I snickered. “Are you listening to me?”
“Not really.”
At least he was honest.
“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”
“Fine.”
“New topic.”
“We are a go for new topic,” I said, yawning.
“How come you haven’t slept with anyone since Brent?”
“What?” I asked, flustered. Christ, the places Ian’s mind went.
“You heard me. Why no fucking since Brent?”
It was a tricky thing to confess, and more importantly, was that the right thing to do? Was it smart to tell him? Would I freak him out? “I haven’t been interested.”
“In anyone.” He made it a statement.
“Yeah.”
“No one at the gym.”
“No.”
“No one at the soccer league you play in?”
“I was shot, in case I forgot to tell you. I was pretty busy convalescing.”
“I see.”
“What are you trying to ask?”
“I’m not asking. I just think you’re full of shit.”
“Oh yeah?”
He didn’t push. He went quiet instead as he drove.
Chapter 14
WE TOOK a turn off Wilderness Road and drove straight up into the hills. The town of Bowman was nestled close to Cumberland Gap National Historical Park, but not close enough to reap any benefits of tourists. Rockslides and landslides were prevalent, and apparently the town could be cut off at times because of those kinds of disasters. Presently, it was covered under a layer of fluffy white snow.
Driving through town, we passed huge stretches of private land. Interestingly, on one side of the four-lane road stood many houses, on the other, rolling hills, ponds, creeks running at the bottom of ravines, and huge homes. I pointed out the country club when we passed its long driveway.
“Of course that’s plowed, but not all the side streets.”
Ian chuckled.
“The rich people live over here on the right,” I said playfully, “and the poor people are all clustered on the left.”
“Yeah. It’s not the wrong side of the tracks in this town; it’s the wrong side of the road.”
I snorted out a laugh. “Okay, coming up on your left—big surprise—is Willow, and that’s the road the police station is on.”
It took only minutes to reach it, and then we were both out, stretching in the below-freezing air, tugging on our coats before we darted into the building. We encountered a long polished oak counter and two men sitting at desks on the other side.
“Good afternoon,” I called out, reaching the counter and smiling. “May I speak to the officer in charge, please?”
One of the men, the bigger of the two, got up and walked to the counter. He didn’t move particularly fast, but he wasn’t being deliberately slow either. I hated it when everything was a pissing contest and hoped that wasn’t what my day was going to turn into.
“May I help you?”
“I hope so,” I said when he put his hands on the counter. I pulled my ID wallet from the breast pocket of my coat and snapped it open for him. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, and this is my partner, Deputy US Marshal Ian Doyle. We have a federal warrant for Drake Ford and need him produced right now so that we can take him into custody.”
He looked stunned.
The other officer rose and joined us at the counter.
“What makes you think he’s here, Marshal?”
I read his name off the tag. “Because, Officer Breen, the chief deputy in Carter County explained that he was released to your department yesterday afternoon,” I said flatly. “Produce my witness or I’ll notify the state police and my boss will call your governor.”
Ian glowered, which was making the second guy, Gilman, edgy. I tried not to appear bored. I needed something to drink and, honestly, a nap.
“Would you wait right here, please.”
“You have ten minutes,” I informed him.
Both men walked to the far side of the room and a glass door with the police chief’s name stenciled on it, and Gilman knocked as Breen waited. Moments later, the sharply yelled order to enter was audible even from where I was. Both officers went in as Ian moved up beside me.
“Did you bring your spare, too, or only your primary?”
“For the hundredth time,” I said, turning to him. “I don’t own a secondary weapon. I only have one gun, no spare.”
His brows furrowed.
“How can you not remember that? It’s not that hard.”
“You need another gun, M. Glock has that new 42. Maybe we’ll get you one of those.”
“You pack enough firepower for both of us.”
“I—”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
The chief of police, Edward Holley—it said so on his door—greeted us as he strode across the floor. If I had to guess, I would have thought him in his midfifties. He was tall, with brown hair graying at the temples. He was very handsome, with deep laugh lines at the corners of his hunter green eyes and creases on his forehead that probably came from scowling as much as smiling. He had a warmth about him that came through as he stopped in front of us, the curl of his lip daring me to dazzle him.