mounted under the eaves. A wrought-iron fence that matched the gate circled a beautiful swimming pool. A lift chair was mounted to the stone deck. The screened porch was accessed via a ramp instead of steps. There was a large wheelchair van parked in the garage alongside a pick-up truck with landscaping tools in the back.
The screened door was made of wrought iron that matched the rest. Odd, since the screen could be easily sliced apart, but Faith wasn’t here to do a security evaluation. Heath hadn’t closed the door all the way. There was no way in hell she was going to step foot on that porch without being invited.
The security cameras. The gate. The tall fence. The targets on the Grant County mugshots. The bullet wound in Jeffrey Tolliver’s head.
Rebecca Caterino had been attacked almost a decade ago. That was a lot of time to be on high alert. Faith had seen what grief could do to a family, particularly fathers. For all the security, Gerald hadn’t stood up to inspect their IDs before opening the gate. The man’s online presence was riddled with anti-law enforcement propaganda. She wondered if he wasn’t standing up because he had a gun taped to the underside of the table. Then she wondered if she was being paranoid. Then she reminded herself that paranoia was the thing that got her home safe to her baby girl every day.
She realized they were already at a stand-off. “Mr. Caterino, I need your verbal authorization to enter your residence.”
His beefy arms were crossed over his chest. He offered a curt nod. “Granted.”
Will reached ahead of her to open the door. Faith kept her purse close to her side. Her bad vibe had crested into a tsunami of red flags. Everything about Gerald Caterino felt charged, ready to explode. He was sitting on the edge of his chair. His arms were still crossed. His laptop was closed. Timecards were stacked beside it. He was wearing black cargo shorts and a black polo shirt. Bright white skin showed between the V of the unbuttoned collar. He had a landscaper’s tan that stopped with his work shirt.
Faith glanced around. There was another camera, a bubble-type, mounted on the ceiling by the kitchen door. The porch was wide and narrow. The table Caterino was sitting at had three chairs and an opening for a wheelchair.
Faith offered her credentials. Several seconds passed before he took them. He put on his glasses. He studied the ID, comparing the photo to Faith. Will handed over his wallet and received the same scrutiny.
Caterino asked, “Why are you here?”
Faith shifted on her feet. He hadn’t told them to sit down. “Daryl Nesbitt.”
Caterino’s body grew exponentially more tense. Instead of volunteering that he’d been sending Nesbitt articles for the last five years, he looked out at the back yard. Sunlight bounced off the surface of the pool, turning it into a mirror. “What’s he trying to get this time?”
“Ultimately, we think he wants to be moved to a lower security facility.”
Caterino nodded, as if that made sense. And it probably did. The last time Nesbitt had made a deal, he’d been transferred from maximum. The move had probably cost Caterino around one hundred grand in legal fees.
Faith said, “Mr. Cateri—”
“My daughter was left out in those woods for half an hour before somebody realized she was alive.” He looked at Faith, then Will. “Do you know what that thirty minutes would’ve meant to her recovery? To her life?”
Faith didn’t think that question could ever be answered, but it was clearly something he was holding on to.
“Thirty minutes,” Caterino said. “My little girl was paralyzed, traumatized, unable to speak or even blink, and not one of those filthy, fucking cops thought to check to see if she was still alive. To even touch her face or hold her hand. If that pediatrician hadn’t just wandered by …”
Faith tried to keep her tone light as a contrast to the bitterness in his voice. “What else did Brad Stephens tell you about that day?”
Caterino shook his head. “Worthless little punk did what they all do. The second you ask a cop to go on the record, they clam up. That thin blue line is like a fucking noose around my neck.”
“Mr. Caterino, we’re here to get the truth,” Faith said. “The only line we care about is the one that separates right from wrong.”
“Bullshit. You dirtbags always cover for each other.”
Faith thought about Nick grabbing Daryl Nesbitt and