He scowls. “I planned to be a psychologist, like Miss Holier-than-Thou Whoremistress Isabel. But I got fucked over. Couldn’t get into grad school, because I’m a white male.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I went into social work, thinking I’d get my psych doctorate once I had some work experience, but that never happened. So I was stuck listening to druggie losers all day. That’s when I hit on a plan to make some extra cash. I started getting details from my clients and going after their suppliers. Cutting my own deals. Five grand here, ten there … It adds up. I made a better detective than you, Casey. I climbed higher and higher up the food chain until I was trading serious info for serious cash.”
“Until you climbed too high and attracted the attention of the wrong people. A cartel.”
“Apparently. So I ran, and now they’ve found me. Obviously.”
“Why ‘obviously’? What made you think Garcia was after you?”
He looks at me like I’m a moron. When I don’t react, he taps his cheek.
“You recognized him?” I say.
“Exactly how many Mexican marshals do you think are out there? Obviously he’s with a cartel.”
I stare at him. Then I turn to Dalton. “Better let Phil know we’re shipping Artie home.”
“What?” Artie says. “You said if I had an excuse—”
“You don’t,” Dalton says. “We’ll verify your alibi, and then you’re gone.”
NINETEEN
I let Petra out of the cell. I have to. Last week we doubled our secured space by constructing long-term lodgings for Brady. Now we’ve got Roy in there and Petra in here, and we need someplace to stash Artie.
Petra’s incarceration has served its purpose. The council has been advised that we’ve charged her with the murder of Oliver Brady. And they’ve said nothing. Phil desperately wanted to talk to us about that, so I’m presuming he notified them, but Émilie didn’t comment on the situation. I’m not sure what to make of that. At this point, I no longer care. I’m back-burnering this murder to solve one where I don’t know whodunit.
“So this is like … bail?” Petra says when I tell her she’s free to go.
“We’ve been told to release you,” I say.
“By who?” She gives a soft laugh. “Nice try, Case, but no one said to let me go. You need the cell space, and you know I’m no danger to you or anyone here.”
I wave for her to leave.
“I mean that,” she says. “I’m here to help. I’m on your side.”
“Good night, Petra.”
“Well, I suppose I should thank you for locking me up. Otherwise, you’d be accusing me of shooting this marshal guy. Someone did you a favor there, too, from what I hear.”
“Yeah, murdering an on-duty US marshal? I can’t see how that could ever turn out badly for us.”
“The council will take care of it.”
“Like they took care of Oliver Brady?”
She says nothing.
“You know what I wish?” I say. “I wish people would stop doing us favors.”
I escort her out the door before she can answer.
* * *
No one has “done us a favor” here, and I spend far too much time seething over Petra’s words. A dead marshal is serious trouble. Even if it wasn’t, it’s wrong. This wasn’t Oliver Brady. It wasn’t Val Zapata. It wasn’t even my