The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,49
people who can vouch for your presence and activities at the party?” Clay asked. He sat back, making the settee creak. Cline was thinking how he’d dispose of the piece of furniture after the sheriff was gone. Perhaps he’d burn it. “Was there someone with you for a majority of the event?”
“I didn’t sneak out of my own party, leaving my house and my personal property unguarded in the presence of hundreds of strangers, so I could go and blow holes in the house of a man I barely know, Sheriff.” Cline rolled his eyes. “Everything in this house, everything in this room, is expensive. That lamp at your elbow is Baccarat Eye. It’s worth twelve thousand dollars.”
The sheriff looked at the lamp and seemed startled by its presence. He shifted his bulging body to the edge of the settee, apparently not wanting to make physical contact with anything in the room if he could possibly avoid it. “I can see you’re a man of taste, Mr. Cline,” the sheriff said. “You said you were in the importation business?”
“I did.”
“What do you import?”
“Focus, Sheriff.” Cline leaned his chin on his hand. “You’re not here about me. You’re here about the drive-by and the overdose. Don’t lose track.”
“Mr. Cline, I’ll ask whatever questions I deem necessary for the investigation,” the sheriff said. Cline smiled. He enjoyed a little pushback, flickers of power and protest in the fat man’s eyes, but the sheriff’s tone of voice hadn’t sold what he was saying. He was the mongrel in the room, and Cline was the purebred Doberman.
“What do you make, Sheriff?” Cline asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your salary. What is it?”
“I make a hundred and eighteen thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars.” Clay straightened on the settee. “That’s the base.”
“And that keeps you comfortable?” Cline let his eyes wander over the creature before him. “I suppose your living costs are meager. Your room at the Inn can’t cost much, and you don’t look like you blow wads of it indulging in the single man’s footloose lifestyle. That watch. Where do you even get a watch like that? Walmart? Dollar General?”
Clay turned the plastic watch on his wrist self-consciously.
“Maybe you lost everything in the divorce.” Cline yawned. Turner was on the phone in the hallway. Cline heard him murmuring, “What do you mean? How badly? A police car?”
“Now I’m the one who feels like we’re getting away from the point of my inquiry here tonight, Mr. Cline,” the sheriff said.
“Haven’t you ever dreamed, Sheriff?” Cline asked, leaning forward, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “Haven’t you ever fantasized about who you could be in the world? Before you started shoveling down Pop-Tarts and Miller Lite to drown your self-loathing, before you realized you’d be stuck here forever in Bumfuck Nowhere because your parents raised you as an unimaginative, codependent hick, didn’t you at least flirt with the idea that you could be something?”
Clay struggled. Cline watched as the sheriff glanced at the men guarding the doorway of his office as though seeking their assistance. Always looking somewhere else for help.
“I’ll give you a million dollars,” Cline said, throwing a hand out as though he were tossing bills into the air. “I’ll even tell you what to do with it so you don’t blow it all on cheap hookers and a yellow Hummer. Go and get gastric-band surgery. Liposuction. A brow shave and some cosmetic dental work. Put some of the cash into fast rollover investments. Hire a personal trainer, a stylist, and a speech therapist and get yourself a decent watch, for fuck’s sake. If you like law enforcement that much, get a cover job—consult for a private security firm, something that gets you into a suit every day instead of a Halloween costume with a toy cowboy badge. In twelve months, your life will be unrecognizable.”
The sheriff’s pudgy mouth opened and closed a few times. Cline waited, but the words that eventually came out were not what he expected.
“I like my life,” Clay said. His face suddenly darkened, shifted. Cline was looking at a man for an instant. An equal. “And you’ve just offered me a bribe, sir.”
The sheriff stood. Cline looked up at him, impressed and amused, yes, but mostly annoyed.
“I’m going to forget what you just said and bid you good night,” Clay said.
Cline sat in the dark for a long time after Sheriff Spears was gone. Eventually Cline let a sigh escape his lips. He looked at Turner, who waited expectantly for a command.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
MIDNIGHT, WHEN