Page 77 of The Dollmaker

“Thanks.”

“He’s hungover, but he should be clearheaded enough to answer your questions. I’ll bring him to the interrogation room.”

“Thanks.”

Sharp settled in the small room with grayish walls, a simple desk, and two chairs. There were no windows in the room, but a camera nestled in the upper-right corner shot down at him.

The door opened, and the deputy escorted in a wiry man with a crew cut. He wore a white shirt spoiled with sweat, jeans, and flip-flops. He looked at Sharp with bloodshot eyes. Sharp immediately recognized the man from surveillance footage as Jimmy Dillon.

Sharp sat back in his chair, opened his notebook, and clicked his pen several times as Dillon took a seat across from him. Dillon’s pale face made the unshaved stubble on his chin all the darker. The deputy remained in the corner, arms folded across his chest.

“Mr.Dillon,” Sharp said. “I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police.”

Dillon yawned, and as he rubbed his eyes, the handcuffs around his wrists clinked softly. “Why does state police care about me speeding? Ain’t you got real criminals to catch?”

“I was hoping you could tell me about Terrance Dillon.”

“I don’t know a Terrance Dillon.”

Squashing a jolt of anger, Sharp reached in the side pocket of his notebook and pulled out a surveillance picture of Terrance Dillon laughing beside his father at the gas station. “Is that you with your son, Terrance Dillon?”

Dillon didn’t bother to look. “I haven’t seen my kid in ten years.”

Sharp tapped the picture. “So this isn’t you in the picture?”

“Nope.”

Sharp leaned forward. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He understood playing it nice often earned him more information from a suspect, but right now it was all he could do not to break this man in half. His voice dropped to a low growl. “Take a second look at the picture, Mr.Dillon. Are you sure this isn’t you and your son?”

Dillon shifted in his seat. “So what if he’s my son? Why do you care?”

He watched Dillon carefully. “Terrance was found dead on Monday morning. He was stabbed, and the medical examiner estimates his time of death sometime between midnight and two a.m.”

Dillon shook his head as he rubbed cuffed hands under his chin. “Terrance is dead? What kind of bullshit is that? Why would you say that?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I sure as shit don’t. Cops like you play games.”

“I don’t play games like this.”

“Bullshit. You lie, hoping I’ll admit to some other crime also not my fault.”

The old man’s shock and outrage rang true, but then the best con artists could sound as innocent as a child at the drop of a dime. “The kid is dead. I witnessed his autopsy a couple of days ago.”

“Bullshit.”

Sharp removed another picture without saying a word. It was the boy lying dead on the medical examiner’s table.

Dillon stared at the picture a long moment. He blinked. And then he leaned back in his chair. “That picture is fake. I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me or not. I don’t care. But know this, I’m filing murder charges as soon as I can get the commonwealth’s attorney on the phone.”

Dillon’s eyes widened. “Murder. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Murder. As in the next twenty to thirty years in prison.” He tapped the pictures again.

Dillon shook his head, careful not to look at the pictures. “I didn’t fucking kill the kid. He was my son.”

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