Chapter 46 #2
“Gutsy. Hopefully this is the guy. Wouldn’t that be something?
Catching the Confession Artist out here in little ol’ Kalispell, Montana?
Or more likely, you being targeted by some copycat.
No less someone involved in your own work.
” He grimaces. “Hell, you never even being the real target of the actual Confession Artist, now there’s a story. ”
I give him back a smarmy smile like I, too, think it’s all worth a laugh. Ha ha, joke’s on me: Crosbie Mitchell’s not even worthy of the real CA.
Does he have any idea what a relief that would be?
“What are you doing out here? Aren’t you going to watch this guy get interrogated?”
“You’ve forgotten. I don’t have clearance anymore without my badge.”
“Ahh,” he says. “Well, you’re in luck.” He flashes his. “Follow me.”
What the hell? I have no idea why Ewing would be going out of his way for me. Is this my reward for backing the blue with Railes? If so, I feel even worse. I want to shake the slimy feeling suddenly clinging to me like a coat of acid, corroding away at me second by second.
But also, I’m reading something else in him.
Something sincere, like there’s an ounce of his conscience bubbling up. An ounce of generosity. Perhaps regret?
Either way, I’m happy to swoop up the break.
He shows his badge to the palace guard and says, “She’s with me.”
I follow him into the elevator and walk beside him down several halls to the observation room. Ewing knocks on the door.
Alderson opens it, and I’m glad it’s him and not Greene, who’s told me to stay away.
“I see you’ve enlisted local help,” Alderson says when he sees me standing behind Ewing. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
“That she is,” Ewing says.
“Is Greene in there with him now,” I ask, “or are you still letting him stew?”
“Greene’s with him now.”
“Can we come in?” I say.
“No, you can’t.”
“Why? I’m the target here.”
“She has a point,” Ewing adds.
Alderson rolls his eyes but doesn’t shoo me away. “Wait here a sec,” he says, and shuts the door.
I lean back against the cool hallway wall and look at Ewing. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I feel like it. Because no one should be in the situation you’ve been in this week.” There’s a sincerity in his voice. It dawns on me that, maybe—just maybe—he’s got some guilt of his own to work through.
But I also want to say, No one should be in the situation I was in with Hartley and all the harassment at work. I eat my words, though. Getting into an argument after his generous favor here makes zero sense.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Ewing says. And walks off.
Alderson reopens the door. “Where’s what’s his name?”
“Just left. What’s going on?”
He holds the door to the observation room open and I step in. I immediately look through the one-way. Greene is with Lasserio, staring him down, apparently waiting for an answer to something she’s asked.
“Have you gotten anywhere with him yet?” I say.
“Yes, quite a bit,” Alderson says. “When we showed him the video of his arm grabbing the marker and told him we knew it was his tattoo, he came clean on a few things.” Alderson fills me in on what they’ve learned: that Ridgeway had hired Lasserio to keep an eye on me when Ridgeway learned I was investigating Clarissa’s death.
When he realized I was a dead ringer for the sketch, he seized the opportunity to keep me freaked out and distracted.
“When we showed him the video at the storage unit,” Alderson says, “he said he knew you were tracking him. So he called his brother, Sawyer Lasserio, to come and scare you. When you didn’t look sufficiently frightened out at the dump site, they both went by your house intending to try something there but ran into all the reporters.
That’s when he and Sawyer changed tack and decided to go after your sister. ”
Seeing the baffled that is completely bonkers expression on my face, Alderson laughs.
I’d like to return the laugh, but everything inside me goes cold. If they simply realized I looked like the sketch and then acted, that means the real CA is after me.
But Lasserio could be lying. It still could be them who put the sketch out.
“None of it was very bright or logical,” Alderson says. “When we asked Lasserio why they didn’t simply let the six days play out instead of getting involved, you won’t believe what he said.”
“What?”
“That he wanted to take the opportunity to prove to his boss that he was worth more than Ridgeway gave him credit for.”
I shake my head at the stupidity. “What’s he not saying, though?” I’m still clinging to the idea that he and Ridgeway put the sketch out.
“A lot. Have a listen for yourself.” He waves to the interrogation room. “She’s hit a brick wall asking him about last night.”
“If he shot Deputy Zane, he’s in for a whole lot more than trouble around damaging private property.”
“Running errands. Getting groceries and gas,” Lasserio says to Greene from behind the glass.
“Your girlfriend says she doesn’t know where you were last night, that you weren’t home with her, so let me repeat, where were you?”
“And let me repeat . . . gas, groceries.”
“Are you sure about that?” Greene asks. “Because we were at your place. It didn’t look to us like any new groceries were bought recently.”
“It’s stuff you wouldn’t notice. Soap and stuff.”
“You have a receipt or two?”
“I don’t keep receipts. I used cash.”
“Which stores did you go to?”
He goes silent.
“So,” Greene says. “You have no alibi for yesterday evening around the time a deputy was shot at Crosbie Mitchell’s house?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.” Lasserio folds his arms over his chest.
“All right. Let’s change gears. The other video? Tell us about the backpack you were bringing out of your storage shed. Whose pack was it?”
“Mine,” he says.
“What was in it?”
“Tools.”
“Hmm.” Greene exaggerates looking perplexed. “That’s strange, because we have reason to believe the pack belonged to Clarissa Haynes, the reporter.”
“It’s mine.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Don’t remember.”
“What was in it?”
“Told you. Tools. Screwdrivers, measuring tape, and stuff.”
Greene goes around and around with him until she says, “Let’s take a break, shall we.”
She stands and exits, leaving Lasserio to stare at the blank, white cinder block walls.
Tension clenches in my guts. I want to confront him about the pack to the point of bursting. But I don’t let it out. I keep my calm.