Free Murder on Sagebrush Lane by Patricia Smith Wood Page A

seat, and as soon as that’s done, they’re headed for Mom’s house.” He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He suddenly felt very tired. “I might as well get this over.”
    The man waiting in the den stood at the French doors, looking out towards the patio area. He was about 5 feet 11 inches, with a muscular build, dressed in an expensive dark blue suit. He turned when he heard the door open, and focused icy blue eyes on DJ. He had blond hair clipped close to his head. He didn’t look like a person you’d want to mess with.
    DJ took out his credentials and extended them for the man to see. “I’m Special Agent DJ Scott. I understand you asked to speak to the FBI. How may I help you?”
    The man studied the credentials briefly, then handed them back, and nodded to DJ. “Thank you for seeing me. I was beginning to think the FBI wasn’t interested in what I had to say.”
    DJ said, “I assure you, if you have any information about our victim, or know who might have murdered him, we are definitely interested. May I ask who you are, and what is your connection to Michael Rinaldi?”
    “My connection to Michael Rinaldi is—complicated. My name is—well, you can call me John.”
    “Do you have a last name, John?” DJ felt irritation creeping into his voice, and he made a concerted effort to curb it.
    John’s smile bordered on arrogance. “Smith.”
    “Very well, Mr. Smith. Shall we sit over here?” DJ indicated the large game table by the fireplace. When they were settled, he took out his notepad and pen. John Smith watched him but didn’t speak at first. DJ wrote on the notepad, and then looked up.
    “Where do you want to start?”
    “I’ll start at the end. Just in case you’re wondering, I did not kill Michael Rinaldi. I had no reason to kill him. On the contrary, he was more useful to me alive.”
    “And why is that?”
    “How much do you know about Michael Rinaldi?”
    DJ paused and capped his pen. “Mr. Smith, you asked to speak to a representative from the FBI. I’m here, ready to take down whatever you have to tell me. But I won’t be answering any of your questions. This is a murder case and a possible national security breach. Either tell me what you came to say, or this interview is over.”
    Smith raised his eyebrows. “All right, no need to get angry. You can’t blame me for trying.”
    DJ didn’t respond, and the two men stared at each other. Finally, John Smith dropped his gaze and shook his head. “I had a deal with Rinaldi. He was supposed to acquire an object for me. He told me he had it, and would give it to me today. We arranged to meet at a coffee shop this morning. When Rinaldi didn’t show, I decided to come here. I saw all the police cars and cops milling around. One of the neighbors was standing out in her yard and was only too happy to tell me what had happened.”
    “What was Rinaldi supposed to give you?”
    “I don’t know exactly.”
    DJ frowned and shook his head. “What is your game, Mr. Smith?”
    Smith stood and walked over to the French doors again. He appeared to be interested in the neat rows of vegetables, just beginning to bloom in the garden area. An antique wall clock ticked softly in the stillness. When he turned back, he seemed to have made a decision.
    “I don’t know what he was supposed to give me because I wasn’t the person he made the deal with. I intercepted communications between Michael Rinaldi and a person of interest we’ve been watching. This person was a very nasty man who met a rather terrible end two days ago. I thought I could take his place and pick up the package.”
    DJ studied this man, and all his alarm bells went off. “What agency are you with, Mr. Smith?”
    Smith’s face was void of expression. “I’m not at liberty to say just yet. You can assume it’s an agency with several letters, doesn’t like publicity, and keeps a very close watch on certain people. It wasn’t Michael Rinaldi we