Thin Air Page 0,54

didn't rate the good china-and tried not to think about the consequences of what was going on.

Look on the bright side, I thought. You don't have to worry about not having any cash. Free food and lodging.

The door rattled, and a new man came in. I didn't know him, either. He moved slowly, like he might be in pain. He had a badge showing, so he was another detective, maybe their secret weapon pinch hitter who was known for extracting confessions. Was he going to beat me? I didn't think so; he didn't look like he was in any physical shape for hand-to-hand, even though I was handcuffed to the table. I looked at him silently and sipped my coffee as he sank into the chair across the table from me.

And then he waited. I took the opportunity to study him. He was in his mid-to late forties, Hispanic, with graying hair and large, dark eyes as hard as obsidian. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and my feeling of stunned, low-level fear that had been with me for the past few hours, since they'd dragged me in here, was gradually ratcheting up to full-fledged panic.

He finally said, "I'm fine; thanks for asking."

Great. Another person I was supposed to recognize. Wonderful. "Glad to hear it," I said. I sounded tired. I felt exhausted, wrung dry by all the uncertainty.

"Your friend left me by the side of the road," he said. "I was lucky someone found me in time. Twenty-two stitches. Nearly lost my spleen."

Okay, I was definitely in over my head now. "Do I know you?" I asked slowly. And he actually blinked. His eyes revealed something at last, but nothing that was very comforting to me.

"Hard to believe you'd forget a thing like that," he said. Not a question. His lips curled, but there was nothing remotely smile-like about the expression other than the muscles controlling it.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but like I told the other detectives, I can't remember-"

"Amnesia. Yeah, they told me." He sat back, studying me, arms folded across his chest. "You know how many we get in here a year who claim to have amnesia? Dozens. You know how many actually have it? I've never met one. Not even one."

"Well," I said, "I'm busting your streak, because I really don't know you. I don't know anyone. If you tell me I killed this detective, this Quinn, then maybe...I don't know. But I don't remember!" I heard the hard, cutting edge in my voice, and closed my eyes and fisted my hands and fought for internal calm. "Sorry," I said. The chains fastening me to the table clanked softly when I shifted position. "It's been a tough day."

He leaned forward, staring. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that you don't remember me."

"No, sir."

"And you don't remember Thomas Quinn."

I bent over and rested my forehead against my fists. "I have no idea," I said. "Did I know him?"

He didn't tell me, not directly. He said, "My name is Detective Armando Rodriguez. I met you in Florida. I followed you. You remember any of that?"

I didn't bother to do more than shake my head this time.

"You told me things. Showed me..." He gave a quick glance toward the corner, where I was sure audio and video were being recorded. "Showed me things that I didn't know were possible. And you convinced me that maybe Thomas Quinn wasn't the guy I'd believed he was."

The frustration boiled inside me, hot as lava, and I had no place to let it loose. Why couldn't I remember? I had no idea how to play this, what to say, whether or not he was trying to trap me or even help me. There was simply no way to tell.

So I made it a direct question, looking him straight in the eye. "When I talked to you about Quinn, did I tell you that I killed him?"

Detective Rodriguez was quiet for a few seconds, and then he shook his head. "No. You said you didn't."

"Did you believe me?"

"I didn't drag you back here in handcuffs." His lips stretched in a thin, hard smile. "But then, I was on vacation. And out of my jurisdiction."

"Did you believe me?" My fingernails were digging painfully into the palms of my hands, and I leaned forward across the table, willing him to tell me the truth. Or at least the truth as he saw it.

"Yes," he said softly. "I believed you."

I let out a slow, careful