Payoff by Alex Hughes Page B

and cheerfully gave me advice as to the best way to legally threaten suspects. A good guy, steady, hard to rattle, hard to surprise.
    I’d sent Bellury ahead to talk to the trucker a few minutes ago, to act as friendly as he could, and to offer him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. The sandwich wouldn’t ever appear; neither Bellury nor I was giving up our lunch today. But the coffee was doable, and we’d at least get him thinking the moment wasn’t as hostile as it looked.
    The files were props, cases solved when my grandparents were in diapers, full of pictures of various shock levels and lightly printed notes you couldn’t quite read upside down. I probably wouldn’t need them this time around, but I’d be lying if I said they didn’t make me feel better.
    I paused at the door, put down the files and coffee on the floor, and messed up my hair. Unbuttoned the top button of the shirt, set the collar crooked. In an ideal world, I’d grab a set of old-fashioned glasses too, since they’d announce like a highway board that I didn’t have the money for the corrective procedure. But I didn’t want to spend the time. We had a full interview docket today and I couldn’t afford to get too behind.
    I took a breath. Thomas Hunter. Considering the hat . . .
    “Tommy,” I said in bright tones as I entered the interview room. Bellury looked up, found himself a chair in the corner with an amused look.
    “Tom,” the trucker said firmly. He backed up from the table, clearly preparing to move if a fight should come up.
    “Sorry about that,” I said, jovially. Or at least, as jovially as I could pull off; cheerfulness wasn’t a specialty. Bellury stifled a laugh, but I don’t think the suspect noticed.
    Tom was too busy moving his weight forward, watching me carefully to see what violence I’d bring on. This was a man who’d been in more than a few bar fights, I thought. The question was, how’d the hijackers take him down without at least a few bruises? I couldn’t feel any pain coming off him, just wariness and a tinge of guilt not inappropriate for his situation. He’d lost a shipment, after all. For the second time.
    “Mind if I sit?”
    “It’s your table.”
    “You know, you’re right.” I settled into the chair like I didn’t have a care in the world. This was the clean interview room, the table in good repair, the walls spotless and empty except for a small mirror on the wall.
    I fanned out the files on the table and made a show of looking for a pen. Bellury behind me had one, but, as requested, he waited a good forty seconds before offering. I wanted to look as bumbling as possible.
    Finally he held out that pen.
    “Thanks,” I said, and took it with an uncomfortable laugh. Might have overshot; the trucker was looking at me oddly. I hurriedly opened the file—the one without the pictures—and made a show of reading it. Just when the trucker seemed to be getting uncomfortable, I looked up. “Says here your truck was hijacked by robbers.” I added a questioning lilt to the end of the sentence, the kind of raised tone most people heard as indecisive.
    “That’s right,” Tom said gruffly.
    “Armed? They had guns?”
    “That’s right. I already told the other guy all of this.”
    I made a show of blinking in surprise and went back to pretend-reading the file. “Oh, gotcha. You were transporting electronics components.”
    “Yeah? So?”
    “Things that could be made into illegal Tech.” The raised lilt again, like a question.
    “I suppose.”
    “Well, there’s special procedures for these situations. Paperwork stuff. If you’ll work with me, we’ll get you out of here as quickly as possible.”
    Up close, Tom looked less stereotypical. His shirt, while worn, was scrupulously clean. The fishhook on his cap looked usable. He was completely without a sunburn. And there was a light in his eyes, an awareness of his surroundings that made me size him up differently. There was muscle under