Off the Record (With Me in Seattle Mafia 3)

“Not a one,” Middleton replies. “In the nine years he’s been a guest at our beautiful resort, he’s had no visitors, no calls. No mail. He doesn’t send anything out.”

“I have Ivie doing a background search on him,” I murmur. “My sister-in-law is good at research. So, to clarify, he’s had no contact with the outside world at all in nine years?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not unusual,” Middleton continues. “These guys are the shitbags of society, Rocco. They’ve not only murdered. Many of them are rapists, have killed family members, and did all sorts of despicable crap that embarrassed their families. Hurt them. They don’t have loved ones. They gave that up long ago.”

“But I’ve heard about women who get off on establishing relationships with dudes on death row,” I say. “Do you get much of that here?”

“Yeah, some of the guys get letters now and then. I don’t get it. But we don’t have anyone married to someone they met while on the inside here.”

“No conjugal visits?”

“Hell, no. Not on death row. Besides, these aren’t the kind of guys most women want to fuck, you know what I mean?”

My stomach hardens.

Middleton pulls into his parking slot, and we walk through three sets of secure, heavy doors. Matt and I are relieved of our weapons, and we walk through metal detectors. I have to sign a book and a waiver.

Before long, we’re walking down an institutional-looking hallway lined with doors. The walls are grey. The floor is grey. It smells of disinfectant.

I guess death row isn’t supposed to be pleasant.

“You’re in here,” Middleton says and then points to the door just three feet to the left. “And we’re in here. The armed guards are in with you. If, at any time, you don’t feel comfortable, just say so and you can leave.”

“Jesus, is he going to try to eat my face or something?”

“We never know with these assholes.” Middleton sighs. “You can go in.”

I’m not one to stereotype. I didn’t have any preconceived notions when I walked in here today regarding what this Danvers would look like.

But when I walk through the door, the man sitting at the table is pretty much what I would expect when I think murderer.

He’s probably fifty but looks much older than that with wrinkled skin covered in tattoos from his hairline to the tips of his fingers. His brown eyes are hard and cold. His hair’s a long, tangled mess.

And when I sit across from him, he simply stares at me.

“Did they tell you who I am?” I ask.

“No.”

“I’m Rocco Martinelli. I’m here to talk to you because you were convicted of killing Vinnie Watkins nine years ago.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me.

“Vinnie was my uncle by marriage. I’d like to talk to you about the circumstances surrounding the case.”

“Read the fucking case files,” he says.

“I don’t want to. I want to talk to you.” I don’t lean forward. I don’t even blink. “I want to know who hired you to kill Vinnie.”

His impassive face doesn’t even twitch. “I don’t have to tell you shit.”

“Nope. You don’t have to. But you’re already here, man. It’s over. More people are dying. Three bosses killed last week. And their families.”

Now, his eyes narrow in interest.

“When we started looking at the big picture, it seemed like these recent murders are similar to when Vinnie and his wife died.”

“Been a long time,” Danvers says.

“Yeah. A long time. And in this business, people have long memories. So, I’d like to ask you, man to man, who hired you?”

“I ain’t in your business, man. Maybe my memory ain’t so good.”

“I think your memory is just fine.”

He watches me and seems to think it over. And just when I think he’s not going to say any more, he sighs and starts to talk.

“Didn’t nobody hire me. I didn’t kill him.”

I scoff, but Danvers shakes his head with impatience. “I’m telling you, I didn’t kill ‘im. I ain’t got nothing to lose here, man. I was his cellmate. Vinnie was a stupid piece of shit. Ran his mouth, thought his shit didn’t stink. Let me tell you, it did. He thought he was too good to be in here, but he got caught doing some shady shit, you know? Anyway, I didn’t like the fucker, but I was only in for a couple of years, got caught sellin’ some dope. Not a huge amount, just enough to get me a couple years, you know?”

Now that he’s started talking, he won’t shut up. And he says you know after every other sentence. But it’s fucking fascinating.

“So, one morning, I wake up, and Vinnie’s dead in his bunk. Bled through the mattress, too. Fucker. And I banged on the bars to get the guard’s attention. Next thing I know, I’m being hauled off to isolation, and then I’m standing trial for killin’ the son of a bitch. I dealt. I admit that. I was into some bad shit. But I ain’t never killed nobody, you know?”