Next Victim by Michael Prescott Read Free Book Online Page A

Tess knew that Hayde had already been Mirandized. Michaelson was getting down to business, trying to undermine Hayde’s explanation for why he moved out of Colorado.
    "I didn’t think it would be only four months," Hayde said. "They were still talking about extending MOS Three."
    "MO-what?"
    "MOS. Minimum Operable Segment. The Red Line is divided into three self-contained sections. MOS Three was finished last. Originally, it was supposed to extend farther east and west. The contractor fed me a line of bull, told me they had a shot at getting the additional funding to proceed with the extension."
    Tess moved toward the bank of TV sets. Linda Tyler looked up and acknowledged her with a smile. Tyler had been civil, even friendly, from the start. Maybe it was the camaraderie of being two females in an organization still dominated by men. Women made up only fifteen percent of the bureau’s 11,500 agents, and many of the female agents had been relegated to the least glamorous squads, offering the lowest profiles and the smallest chance of advancement.
    Hart and DiFranco barely noted her arrival. To them, she was the outsider, the intruder on their turf, and they didn’t seem as convinced as Larkin that her skills at office politics were no threat to their own careers.
    The two men kept their gazes fixed on the monitors. An array of cameras with miniature lenses, concealed in the walls and ceiling of the interrogation room, provided comprehensive surveillance without being as obvious as the traditional two-way mirror. The entire interrogation was being digitally videotaped and audiotaped.
    "You must’ve been pretty pissed," Michaelson said. "To come all this way for a new job and have it disappear after four months."
    "I thought about going back to Colorado. But I was able to find work here."
    "So I guess you’ve learned to like LA?"
    "I told you, it’s okay."
    "This time of year, you can’t beat it. Easter weekend and it’s eighty degrees."
    "Nice weather."
    "And that breeze off the ocean—man, we even get it here, and we’re four miles inland."
    "It’s terrific. I thought you were with the FBI."
    "I am, Bill. I showed you my ID. We both did."
    "I know that. But I was starting to wonder."
    "Were you?"
    "Yeah. I thought you might be with the chamber of commerce, what with all this crap about the weather."
    DiFranco stifled a laugh. William Hayde wasn’t buying Michaelson’s just-getting-to-know-you routine. And it looked like he hadn’t Stockholmed, either.
    Tess allowed herself to study the image in the nearest monitor.
    The interrogation room looked as it always did, a drab, spartan chamber with no clock on the wall and no windows. A steel table, gunmetal gray. Four straight-backed steel chairs, deliberately uncomfortable.
    Two of the chairs were occupied by Michaelson and Gaines, a third by William Hayde. Gaines was seated next to the suspect, while Michaelson sat on the diagonal. This was standard procedure. Never sit directly across the table from the person you’re interrogating. You need to be able to lean close and invade his space, then back off if he starts to confess. Like the room itself, the techniques of interrogation were designed to put the suspect at the greatest possible psychological disadvantage.
    Michaelson wore a dark gray suit and a blue tie, and he was leaning forward, his hand on the table near a tape recorder that was ostentatiously recording the interview. The tape recorder was for show. The real recording was done by the audio equipment in the surveillance room.
    "You’re right, Bill," Michaelson said. "We’re not here to talk about the weather. We’ve got a little problem, you see."
    "Looks like you think I’m the one with the problem," Hayde answered, unperturbed.
    Tess stared at his face on the screen. A smug, unlined face. Thin lips, sharp cheekbones, eyes that squinted without humor. He was clean-shaven, his cheeks ragged with a hint of stubble. His hair was cut short, blondish on