Page 13 of Sinful Reality

“Excellent.” I scoop up the phone and nod toward the door to get Fletch moving. “We’re on our way. We really appreciate your assistanceon this, Warden. Danika Smith’s case has been a thorn in our sides for too long.”

“I saw the news coverage.” He exhales noisily, shifting in his seat so the movement of the phone creates static on our end. “She looked like a real sweet girl. As soon as my inmate told me what he knows, I figured we might’ve been on to something.”

I circle the table and leave behind the Diane Philips files. Aysha Quintana. Lorni May. Those three, and so many more, who never had a chance to grow up. Crossing the threshold and waiting for Fletch to do the same, I close the war room door and turn toward the escalators.

“We’ll see you in a bit, Warden. You’ve done a good thing today.” I end our call and glance across at Fletch. “I haven’t made contact with Danika’s parents yet.”

Quickly, he darts to our back-to-back desks and snags his coat, plus mine, then he jogs to catch up and tosses mine. Shrugging into his own, he fixes the collar and chews on the inside of his cheek while he thinks. “Probably best we don’t call till we know what we know, right? Inmates are notorious for selling information to cops, even if they get nothing for it except a day of entertainment and a break in monotony. Who is the guy, and what’s he in for?”

“Tarran McDermott.” I recite the name I’ve already pulled a rap sheet for. “Fifty-three years old. He’s in for a good long while after murdering his daughter’s boyfriend.”

Gritting his teeth, Fletch steps onto the escalator a single beat ahead of me. “Yikes. Daddy doesn’t share well?”

“Boyfriend tuned the girl up. Busted her face open, swelling on the brain, broken arm…” Not entirely different from the injuries his ex-wife recently died from. “She was in a coma for a few days until things settled. Boyfriend skipped town immediately after the alleged assault.”

“Alleged?”

“Well… He never admitted to it, the cops didn’t have a bunch of proof, and he ended up dead before it could go to trial. But the reports say concerned neighbors found her inside her apartment, beaten and bloody. Witness statements say they saw the boyfriend run, and that was only after they heard loud shouts and a scuffle between the pair. Boyfriend took whatever cash he could find and bolted. Cops were looking, but I guess they were too slow. Tarran lacked patience, hunted the guy down, and pried his skull open with a tire iron.”

Again, Fletch grits his teeth. “Ouch.”

“He didn’t resist arrest, confessed to what he did, told the story to the judge with pride, and accepted his sentence with a smugness in his expression. Some news outlets called him a psychopath, others said he was a hero. Either way,” we step off the escalator and move toward the front doors to collect a car. “He has never shown remorse for his actions, but his daughter—who is now married and has a little girl of her own—brings him cookies and cake once a week. He’s met his granddaughter through the glass, and gave his blessing when the guy asked to marry her. He has a life behind bars now and doesn’t seem to make too much of a fuss.”

“Until now?”

I pull a set of keys from my pocket and slip into the driver’s seat to start the engine. “He was earning privileges in prison, working the laundry room and all that shit, till yesterday.”

“So what happened yesterday?”

“Well…”

Alden Conroy is a decent warden, as far as I’m concerned. He runs his prison above reproach, his guards do the job without any of the power trip bullshit common within correctional facilities, and his inmates are looked after the way the state intends for them to be.

Better yet, he provides me and Fletch a meeting room, instead of two-inch-thick plexiglass and a crappy little phone to speak through. Thankful, I pull up a chair at a steel table bolted to the floor and study the inmate cuffed to it. His knuckles are torn up and bloody. But the rest of him… spotless.

His eyes are a glittering blue, his skin a sun-kissed olive, though I doubt he gets a hell of a lot of time outside. He holds my stare whileFletch comes around to sit on my right, and nods when I set a pen and pad of paper down in preparation to use it.

“Mr. McDermott.”

“You can call me T.” His tone is steely and hard. Gritty and rough. “Or Tarran. My father was Mr. McDermott.”

I settle back in my chair, resting my hands in my lap and crossing my ankles beneath the table. “Alright, Tarran. I’m Detective Archer Malone.” Then, I tilt my head to the right. “Detective Charlie Fletcher. We understand you formally requested, via your warden, a meeting with us today because you have information regarding an ongoing case we’re running.”

“About the girl.” He settles back, too, though only as far as his chains allow. “Danika Smith.”

“What is your relationship with Danika Smith?” Fletch speaks almost in monotone. Hard. Bored. Interested, and yet, not overly eager for whatever payoff Tarran represents. “You’ve been in here a while. How’d you meet her?”

“I have no relationship with her.” He slides his gaze across to my partner. “I’ve never met her. She’s dead.”

My stomach jumps, because although we can make a pretty fucking educated guess and assume she’s dead, no body means no confirmation. No confirmation means…

“She’s a missing person,” Fletch inserts. “What information do you have that could prove otherwise?”

“Got a new celly about six months ago.” He glances over my shoulder and eyes the guard posted in the corner of the room. “Could I get a cup of water? I’m pretty thirsty.” Then he brings his focus back to me. “Dude is one of those obnoxious motherfuckers. The kind who constantly thinks they’re kinda special, ya know? Like everything they do deserves a trophy and every thought they have needs to be heard.”

When the guard sets a Styrofoam cup on the table, Tarran drops his chin in thanks.

“I’m not saying a dude can’t speak or nothing. But there comes a point where I don’t give a fuck if you shit gold and feel the need to blow glitter to celebrate.”

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