“Got it. I’ll ask the lawyer if they’re ready to talk to us.”

It took another twenty minutes, but Rozwell agreed to the interview. Since it wasn’t Red’s first day at the beach, he figured Rozwell assumed they’d all do a first pass, gauge the opposition, and restart in the morning.

Michaela had it right about Rozwell—a good-looking guy with a five-hundred-dollar haircut that allowed just a hint of silver at the temples, just a few strands of it through his dark brown hair. Dark brown eyes, smart, savvy. Clean-cut and handsome with a trim body.

But he paled against Sparks and his movie star gloss. Even a few hours in a cell, even the orange jumpsuit didn’t dull it. Gilded sun-streaked hair with just a hint of curl fell thick around a golden tanned face with carved features—the cheekbones, the heavy-lidded brown eyes, the full mouth.

And all that on top of a sleek, muscular build.

He played it—because in Red’s estimation of Sparks and his type, everything was a role to play—nervous, anxious, with no anger and just a hint of remorse and sorrow.

Red sat, turned on the recorder, read the necessaries in.

“Sheriff, Deputy, first, I appreciate you meeting with us tonight. I understand you’ve put in a very long day.”

Rozwell’s face stayed sober, his voice smooth. “At this time I’d like to inform you that I intend to file a motion for dismissal in the morning on a number of the charges made against my client. While my client is appalled at the part he inadvertently played in these events, any minor participation came at the behest and request of the minor child’s mother, and with the belief said minor child was being abused by her father. As he was unaware of Ms. Dupont’s scheme to extort from the Sullivan family—”

“Sorry, can I just stop you there?” He kept all the affable, just a county sheriff in his voice. “No point in wasting your time. Long day for you, too. So let me put some of that to rest. We have Charlotte Dupont’s written statement, Frank Denby’s written statement.”

He smiled at Sparks as he said it. Red had been very careful to keep those arrests, interviews, deals under his hat. “There’s direct corroboration in those statements, and evidence in hand supports that. As does the statement of the minor child.”

“It’s Mr. Sparks’s contention that Ms. Dupont and Mr. Denby worked together on this scheme, duping him.”

“Did they dupe you into sticking a needle full of propofol into that little girl’s throat?”

“I didn’t—”

“Cut it. You wore a wig—which we recovered—and sunglasses, but Caitlyn has eyes. Good ones. And ears. You spoke to her before you jabbed her, and you spoke to her behind the wolfman mask—also recovered—you used to scare a ten-year-old girl. You jabbed her, stuffed her into a serving trolley, then drove away from a good man’s memorial, from an already grieving family.”

“Sheriff, a child under such duress would hardly be able to, without a reasonable doubt, identify voices in this way.”

Michaela let out a laugh. “You haven’t met this child. Put her under oath, in a courtroom, I can promise you a jury will hang on her every word. The word of a child whose own mother plotted with her lover to use her, to drug her, to terrify her. For money. Your voice is on the phone, too, Sparks, demanding ten million dollars in exchange. They didn’t call the police, but they recorded the calls.”

“Your partners rolled and rolled hard. Denby’s pretty steamed you made the deal with him for two million—fifty-fifty—when you asked the Sullivans for ten. That opened him up like a steamed clam. And if you actually think a woman who’d bang her personal trainer in the same bed she shares with her husband, a woman who’d trade her own daughter’s sense of safety, allow that child to be drugged and terrorized, has any sense of loyalty, you’re an idiot.”

He shifted to Rozwell. “I’m laying this out for you because I’m tired, I’m disgusted, and I’ve used up my tolerance for bullshit today. Both Dupont and Denby have taken a deal. Your client’s last in line, and I figure everybody in this room knows the last in line gets shit. Maybe this fuck gave you a sob story, played the horrified dupe, and how sorry he is about the poor kid caught in the middle, but we have evidence that blows all of that aside.

“To sum it up, your dickbag of a client spotted Dupont for a mark, the last in a long line of wealthy women he bled for money. We have names, and will get statements to corroborate that. With Dupont, he saw a big-ass payday, enough to retire in style, starting with Mozambique.”

Layering it on, Red sent Sparks a pitying look. “You had a bunch of searches on Mozambique—no extradition treaty—on your laptop, asshole. He hooked up with his sometime partner, Frank Denby, to run the con. Blackmail—pictures taken with his camera, also now in evidence—of his mark and himself in—what’s that phrase?—in flagrante delicto. Said mark, being the worst shit of a mother in the history of mothers, agreed to the kidnapping for ransom—Sparks and Dupont boosted the price to screw Denby. She set up the kid, told her where to go for a goddamn game of hide-and-seek, where Sparks was waiting with the needle, the trolley, the van.”

As if revolted—not a stretch—Red rose, turned away. “Pick it up, Deputy. I need a minute to settle my stomach.”

She did, and seamlessly, snapping out the rest, or at least the high points.

Rozwell’s face showed little. Red figured he’d handle a poker game as well as he did a courtroom. But everybody had a tell. He had to look for Rozwell’s, but he caught it.

Just the slightest tightening at the corner of the mouth, a muscle twitch that brought out a tiny dimple.

When Michaela finished, Red sat again. “There isn’t a judge in the world who’s going to dismiss a single one of the charges. There isn’t a jury in the world that’s going to look at that sweet little girl and not convict. And your client gets life without parole.”

He glanced at Sparks. “Keep playing the game, and that’s your grand fucking prize.”

“I did it for love!” Sparks filled his outburst with grief.

“Jesus,” Red muttered. “Same coin, same mold.”

“Charlotte swore she—”

“Be quiet, Grant.”

“Mark, you have to believe me. You know me. I would never—”

“I said be quiet.” This time Red heard more than a hint of weariness. “I’ll need a few moments with my client.”

“Take it. I need some air anyway.”

When he went out, Red realized he actually did. “I’m going to step outside and breathe a minute, Mic.”

“Do you think he’s going to bail? The lawyer?”

“I’d say he’s considering it. Give me a holler when they’re ready.”

Outside, he looked up at the sky, found himself grateful the night was filled with stars. He might wish he still had the energy left to sneak into Maggie’s bed for a late-night booty call, but since he didn’t have the stores left, a star-strewn night sky would have to do.

It calmed him, reminded him life offered a whole bounty of good things from the simple to the amazing. You just had to take a few minutes now and then to find them.