“I noticed some change, a couple beer bottles and some cigars on the landing,” I say. “Right by the fishing pole.”
“You sure he hasn’t been fishing out there since it snowed?” Marino picks up my thought.
The expression in her eyes makes it evident that she isn’t sure. I wonder just how much she really knows about her undercover boyfriend.
“Any illegal shit going on at the motel that you and Mitch are aware of?” Marino asks her.
Mclntyre starts shaking her head. “He never mentioned anything about that. Nothing like that. His only connection to the place was fishing and being nice to the two boys, on occasion, if he saw them.”
“Just if they happened up when he was fishing?” Marino keeps pushing. “Any reason to think Mitch might have ever wandered over to the house to say hi to them?”
She hesitates.
“Mitch a generous guy?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Very much so. He might have wandered over. I don’t know. He really likes kids. Liked them.” She tears up again and at the same time simmers.
“How did he identify himself to people around here? He say he was a truck driver? What did he say about you? You supposed to be a career woman? Now, you two weren’t really boyfriend and girlfriend. That was just part of the front, right?” Marino is on to something. He is leaning forward, his arms braced on his knees, staring intensely at Jilison Mcln-tyre. When he gets like this, he fires questions so rapidly, people often don’t have time to answer. Then they get confused and say something they regret. She does that this very moment.
“Hey, I’m not a fucking suspect,” she snaps at him. “And our relationship, I don’t know what you’re getting at. It was professional. But you can’t help being close to someone when you live in the same damn townhouse and act like you’re involved, make people think you are.”
“But you weren’t involved,” Marino says. “Or at least he wasn’t with you. You guys were doing a job, right? Meaning, if he wanted to pay attention to a lonely woman with two nice little boys, he could do that.” Marino leans back in his chair. The room is so silent, it seems to hum. “Problem is, Mitch shouldn’t have done that. Dangerous, fucking stupid in light of his situation. He one of those types who had a hard time keeping his pants on?”
She doesn’t answer him. Tears jump out.
“You know what, folks?” Marino scans the room. “It just might be that Mitch got tangled up in something that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with your undercover operation here. Wrong place, wrong time. Caught something he sure as hell wasn’t fishing for.”
“You got any idea where Mitch was at three o’clock Wednesday afternoon, when Matos checked into the motel and the fire started?” Stanfield is putting the pieces together. “Was he here or out somewhere?”
“No, he wasn’t here,” she barely says, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “Gone. I don’t know where.”
Marino blows out in disgust. He doesn’t need to say it. Undercover partners are supposed to keep track of each other, and if Agent Mclntyre didn’t always know where Special Agent Barbosa was, then he was up to something that maybe wasn’t germane to their investigation.
“I know you don’t even want to think it, Jilison,” Marino goes on in a milder tone, “but Mitch was tortured and murdered, okay? I mean, the guy was fucking scared to death.
Literally. Whatever someone was doing to him, it was so awful, he had a fucking heart attack. He wet his fucking pants. He was taken somewhere and strung up, gagged and then has a weirdo key put in his pocket, planted, what for? Why? He into anything we ought to know about, Jilison? He fishing for more than bass out there in that creek by the campground?”
Tears are rolling down Mclntryre’s face. She wipes them away roughly with the tissue and sniffles loudly. “He liked drinking and women,” she barely says. “Okay?”
“He ever go out at night, barhopping and that sort of thing?” Pruett asks her.