“I’d be more than happy to tell every other reporter in town that you’re obstructing justice for personal clout,” Michael said with a dangerous smile.
Emilio chuckled derisively. “And ruin my stellar reputation? Come on. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Look around you. Look atme. Do I look like someone with a reputation to protect?"
“You look like someone who’s not currently in prison,” Faith pointed out.
“There are different kinds of prisons,” Emilio countered, “and the worst prison is mediocrity.”
“Would you care to test that assumption?” Michael asked.
Emilio sighed. “Look, you guys are gonna get paid, right? For solving this crime?”
Faith had an idea where he was going with this. “Yes,” she said reluctantly.
“Well, I think it’s only fair that I get a little something too, for providing information that helps you solve the case. The FBI offers rewards for information leading to the arrest and capture of suspects all the time. If anything, asking for an exclusive interview is a bargain. Unless you have ten grand burning a hole in your pocket.”
Faith and Michael shared an irritated glance. “We can give you the first interview,” she relented grudgingly, “but I can’t guarantee exclusivity.”
“First is fine,” Emilio said with a smile. “That’s essentially the same as an exclusive, in a practical sense, anyway. All right. Come on inside.”
The interior of his home was just as bland as the outside. It was a sharp contrast to the well-appointed homes of Isabel Montgomery and Darlene Jeter. Franco sat heavily on an easy chair in the living room and gestured for the agents to sit. He looked Michael up and down and said, “You’re in good shape for a guy your age. What are you, thirty-five, thirty-six?”
“Thirty-nine.”
"Christ, I turn fifty, and everyone starts looking young to me. I used to look like you too. Not when I was thirty-nine, but in my twenties. I wasn't as tall as you, obviously, but I had nice abs. Damn, I miss my abs. Hey, your dog’s housetrained, right?”
Turk cast a longsuffering look at Faith. She suppressed a laugh and said, “Yes, Mr. Franco, Turk won’t relieve himself on your linoleum.”
“It’s not linoleum,” he corrected her. “I don’t know what it is, actually. Some kind of laminate. I don’t know. I don’t care much about the house. I’m a car guy. Well, not anymore. I wish I could be, but I don’t make the same kind of money these days. It was the tornado that messed all of that up, you know.”
“How so?”
“Those survivors? That was supposed to be my meal ticket. I was going to write a book where I interview all of the survivors. That was the worst tornado we'd seen in fifty years. It was sensational. It was going to be my big break. I would publish the human side, you know? From ground zero. What was it like when you were there, kind of thing? Instead, an even bigger tornado happened in Waco, Texas, ten days later, and everyone forgot all about this one. I only managed to interview nine people before the Waco story broke, and the book was useless. I managed to sell a few to the local paper, but that didn't get me my job back at theIowa Press.”
“Do you have copies of the interviews?”
He looked at her in wonder. “Why on Earth do you want copies of the interviews?”
“I’m curious,” she said.
He stared at her a moment longer, then chuckled. “I like you, Special Agent. You got a good sense of humor. Sure, I have copies of them. Hold on, I’ll print ‘em out for you.”
“A digital copy is fine,” Faith replied.
“It’ll have to be paper. I don’t have any flash drives.”
“Paper it is,” she said.
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a few minutes later with a stack of papers about a quarter-inch thick.
“Shouldn’t take too long to read through. I only asked ‘em a few questions.” He stared down at the papers with a mixture of regret and disgust. “These are really bad interviews,” he said. “God, what was I thinking?”
“Did you ever contact anyone you interviewed again?” Faith asked.
He shook his head. “No. The copy of the interviews is the only self-torture I allow myself.”
In the car, Faith scanned through the interviews while Michael drove them to a nearby fast-casual restaurant for dinner and called the precinct to let them know they were okay to release Ulysses Pratt. When he hung up, he said, “I haven’t had a good burger in a long time. I just realized that.”
“Good for you,” Faith said drily.
