Chapter Ten
"Good mornin', pretty lady. Sleep well?" Cross nodded at them casually the next morning as they walked across the interrogation room and sat across from him. He wasn't wearing his leather jacket this time and his arms and chest muscles pushed rigidly against his black t-shirt as he reclined as best he could in the stiff, plastic chair.
"Very. You?" Grace kept her voice light and innocent and chose not to read anything smutty in his question.
He shrugged and cast his hand dismissively, silver glinting from every digit. "You know local jails, honey. Prolly only a notch or two lower than what the state sprung for your hotel."
She snorted softly. She sat back completely and let the sound of shuffling paper fill the room.
Rigsby hadn't even looked at the man. He was fervently organizing four files from a briefcase, laying them out carefully on the table facing Cross. Once they were arranged to his liking, he tapped the first one closest to him, only then bringing his eyes to the old man's.
"Cody Croydon," Rigsby prodded expectantly.
"Pure, unadulterated trash." Cross's immediate answer.
"Still illegal to kill trash, Cross. You wanna start with him?"
"That's an emphatic 'no'." Cross jerked his head hard and once in each direction.
Rigsby inhaled hard through his nose and brought his fist down onto the file in frustration. "So now you're denying your involvement in his murder?"
Cross snorted disdainfully. "Jesus, son. Who'd you fuck to get into this outfit? When I answer in the negative that I don't want to start with him, you should infer that I don't want to start with him. Phrase your replies more carefully or go back to fuckin' law school and learn how. Now," Cross looked down at the files in front of him and completely missed Rigby's violent flinch. Grace, however, did not.
She watched him carefully as he continued to start at Cross's lowered head. What did Cross mean, law school? It felt like a cheap shot at Rigsby and people who studied law in general, but Rigsby was looking at him so fiercely. Had Rigsby actually gone to law school? Had he studied to be a lawyer? This was certainly the first she'd heard of it. And if it were true, how the hell did Cross know about it?
She stored the questions for the time being and concentrated on Cross. "Who would you like to start with then, sir?" Her Midwestern politeness escaped before she could censor it.
Cross looked up from the table and smirked softly, knowing hammered-in manners when he heard them. "I bet you answer the phone like a proper little angel, don'tchu, Grace? Pleases and thank yous every day. Send out birthday and Christmas cards weeks in advance. Pure, sweet sugar, aren't you?"
Grace didn't react. She didn't dare. But she felt Rigsby rise up dangerously next to her and worried that they'd lose another day to an angry, macho pissing match that ended with Rigsby storming out or Cross clamming up. The seeming inevitability annoyed her. What is it with men, anyway? Didn't they understand there was work to be done? Well she, for one, wasn't prepared sit idly by with a handkerchief held to her breast while these two cowboys squared off. She didn't give a damn about men besmirching or defending her honor. What she gave a damn about was murder confessions. The quickest way to get this one was to just cut through the bullshit. She put her hand on Rigsby's thigh. Stay, she told him.
"Yes. To all counts. Except for the sugar part. I'm polite as hell, Cross, but I'm not all that sweet."
"Aaaaah," Cross said playfully, "I disagree, pretty Grace. But perhaps there's a bit of spice in that sugar. Makes perfect sense. My boy here used to love Hot Tamales more than any other candy. Bright red. So hot his eyes would water. But he ate the entire box. Insisted that he loved the burn." He scoffed darkly. "I guess he found the perfect woman. Bright red, spicy and sweet."
Grace gripped Rigsby's thigh harder and spoke first. "Exactly. You hit the nail on the head. Now, please," she drew the word out pointedly, "if not Croydon, then who do you want to start with?"
Without looking away from her, Cross brought his right hand over one of the folders and, with his middle finger, slid it slowly towards her. She dropped her eyes, then lifted to his again. "Defrane," she said.
"Defrane," he confirmed. "Back in '97, I believe. That fucker took a round of buckshot to the chest at close range. 'magine his heart and lungs looked like Swiss cheese on the slab."
"Why use buckshot?" Grace asked.
Cross' eyes slid towards Rigsby. "Son? Remember your lesson on shotguns?"
Rigsby coldly broke eye contact with him and turned to Grace. "There's no bullet type to match with buckshot. Police can't ID individual shotguns as easily in shooting victims."
"And?" Cross pressed him.
Rigsby pulled a face of extreme distain. "It's messy."
"Correct," Cross looked mildly pleased that his gruesome lesson had stuck.
"Why is messy advantageous?" Grace asked.
"Because killin' people is onerous business, sugar. Their amigos want revenge. Cops eventually show up asking piss-ant questions. It's a pain in the ass. Best way to fuckin' eschew killin' people is to rip the ones you do kill into curly fries. Ribbons of guts everywhere gives upstart assholes looking for a fight somethin' to consider."
"Huh," Grace said noncommittally.
"Just a pearl of wisdom, should you ever segueway into the criminal element, sweetheart."
"Thanks for the tip, but Cross? Can you please stick to 'Grace' for me?" she admonished slightly.
Cross gave her a deep, obviously phony chastened look. "Pardon my over-familiarities, Grace."
"Defrane?" Rigsby tapped the chosen file.
"Ah," Cross drew his shoulders back, turning from Grace and facing them both evenly. "Defrane. As I said, shot him point-blank in '97. Near Bakersfield. Left him spread eagled in a dirt road intersection. Burned his truck for good measure. I assume you found a piece of charcoal that fits that description?"
"They did," Rigsby confirmed.
"Well, there you go." Cross lifted his hands in a 'finito' gesture.
"Why did you kill him?" Grace asked.
"I'm afraid that's all you're going to get on Wild Bill, honey."
"Grace," she corrected, "and why?"
"Never you mind why. Just take down what I said and add his murder to my tab."
Rigsby sat back. "I'm afraid we can't admit your confession unless you give us motive."
Cross barked a laugh. "Horseshit. I'll give you every last detail of his miserable end. Shit no one else could ever know. But my reasons are my own. Let it lie."
"Please," Grace said, "it's important we know what happened."
"No," Cross disagreed, "it's satisfying to know what happened, not essential. I shot Wild Bill Defrane and left his sorry ass in blood-soaked dirt as a warning to others like a farmer would with a coyote skin on a fence. We're done with that bastard now." He pushed Defrane's file back in line with the others. "Clear, honey?"
Grace didn't bother to rebuke him this time. She turned to Rigsby, waiting for her superior's call.
Rigsby and Cross regarded each other closely. The room was so silent that the tick of the clock on the wall could be heard. She felt Rigsby struggling to let it drop, the gears grinding hard in his head, as if being forced to change direction. Finally, he exhaled loudly and his annoyance seemed to lift. "Fine," he said at last. "We'll take your confession as is for William Defrane." He reached out and removed the file from the line, sliding back into the briefcase on the floor. He sat up straight again and gave a hard tap on each of the three files remaining. "Who's next?"
Cross was silent. Slowly, he tilted his head back and yawned so deeply that Grace was once again put in mind of a lion, his huge jaws stretching wide. He resettled as best he could on his chair, making a point of looking uncomfortable. At last he spoke.
"Grace? Darlin', would you mind going out and getting me a coffee? I didn't sleep much last night and all this disclosure is draining me. Be a dear?"
Again, Grace looked to Rigsby. She knew it was a flimsy excuse for Cross to be alone with his son, but she figured that Rigsby might also have some things to say that were best said between the two of them. If this were her father, she'd certainly want to air some laundry. She awaited his decision.
He cocked his head at her and nodded. "Go ahead, Grace."
She rose from her seat and looked at Cross. "How do you take it?"
Rigsby surprised her by answering. "Black, two sugars."
Cross, mildly amused, replied, "You really do remember everything, don'tchu?"
Rigsby didn't answer and Grace gave a nod. "All right. Be back in a bit."
She walked out and the two men were left alone.
They sat.
They stared.
Alone for the first time in 23 years, words made no appearance between them.
Rigsby, for one, merely slipped back into his old method of dealing with the man before him. Unlike Grace, he felt no pressure of speech. He went mute. The power of refusing to speak insulated him and made him feel secure, as it had for two whole years of his life. His own little ocean of hush. It welcomed him back as though he'd never left it.
Cross, an old timer comfortable with hours and sometimes days of silence, save for the Harley engine, sat as still and as stoic as his son.
The tick of the small, plastic clock amplified to the echoing thwack of its bell tower cousins. A chair creaked slightly.
The silence held.
Finally, whatever reason Cross has asked Grace to leave forced him to break the silence. Were it not for her imminent return, the two of them would probably have sat in stone silence for days.
"She's a beautiful girl."
Rigsby said nothing. He didn't move a muscle.
"She reminds me of me."
"Shut up." Two words only.
Cross smirked softly. "Just like you remind me of Sarah."
"I said shut up. We're nothing like either of you."
" 's that so?"
"Damn straight, that's so."
"I see," Cross appraised him closely. "So, you wouldn't throw everything away for that woman? You wouldn't give up your life, your career? You wouldn't follow her to the ends of the earth? You wouldn't offer yourself to her in every way, even it meant despair and pain like you've never felt in your life?" He paused in his description of Sarah. He paused in his description of his son. "You wouldn't die an early death if it meant spending every day with her?"
Rigsby inhaled sharply, angry that he'd emerged from his ocean, throwing himself headlong into it again and diving deep into the stillness. He tried to bury Cross's words in it. He tried to chain them up and sink them, never to buoy to the surface again. But like air bubbles, the words slipped through his fingers and rose up, floating between them. He was forced to process them.
Rigbsy was all of those things. As he'd told her many times, Grace owned him. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Nothing. But the idea that he was bound to her with the same pathetic devotion that Sarah had been to Cross filled him with revulsion. The things Sarah had sacrificed. The abuse and neglect she bore with no complaints. The child she exposed to the same treatment. He suddenly felt sick.
"I love an angel," he choked softly. "Sarah loved a monster."
Cross nodded slowly. "That only means you made a wiser choice. But the fact remains that Grace could cut your balls off and you would ask for more. Screaming in pain, perhaps, but asking for more. It speaks well for Grace, being an angel and all, that she wouldn't. But how does it speak for you?"
"You don't know me," Rigsby whispered hotly, tears building just behind his eyes. "You don't know her."
"I know all I need to just by lookin' at you, son. You grew up big, like me. But you grew up soft, like Sarah. All that beef on you, and all you could do was hand that woman your leash and pray she didn't destroy your…what did she call it…your purity?"
A single tear fell from Rigsby's eye. He cursed it and refused to blink, knowing it would only dislodge more of them. But not blinking only caused them to gather with more force to combat the dry air. Another fell. And another. He fumed at his own weakness. Cross still sat, leaning back and watching him with an air of pitying disinterest. One of Rigsby's tears fell from his face and onto his right hand. His right hand, on his thigh. Next to his gun holster.
In an instant, Rigsby felt an insane, exhilarating answer building up inside him. A way to end all of this. To make all of these horrible words just stop. A loud bang, a slight mess, then it would be over.
He wasn't thinking about Grace. About the job. About his loyalty to justice. They'd been pushed out, and like an upsurge of magma, rage boiled to the surface and destroyed all other considerations.
Shoot Cross. Just kill him. Bang bang, hush hush. No more words. No more worries about him killing people. Killing happiness. All he had to do was snap the leather case open and draw. It would be so, so easy.
The soft click of the door startled him and he swung quickly towards the sound. Grace stood in the frame, two cups of coffee in her hand, looking on with innocent curiosity.
"I thought you'd want one too. What did I miss?"