Free Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. by John Turney Page B

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    The prisoner leaned backwards as far as the chains would allow.
    “This creep is here illegally,” Whitewolf said, his voice low and menacing. “I say let’s turn him over to I.C.E.”
    Idiota shot rapid glances between the two cops. “I want a—”
    “I don’t care what you want,” Rye snapped. He walked around behind the man. “You tell us what we want before I give a rat’s tail about what you want. What’s your name?”
    The Mexican shook his head.
    Rye leaned in closer and said, “Okay, Idiota, try this one on. Did you steal from the museum? Did you kill someone last night? ANSWER ME.”
    The man’s brow wrinkled. He looked confused. “I … I … I kill no one.”
    “So you were at the museum?”
    The man hesitated. “Wh … what museum?”
    Rye circled around to the front of the man and folded his arms across his chest. “Here’s what I think. You broke into our museum, stole a couple of artifacts, tried to sell them to your mysterious friend. You know, in the canyon where we found him butchered. When the deal turned bad, you killed him. Then you went to the diner to enjoy a breakfast. I think you’re here illegally. Am I right?”
    “I didn’t steal nothing from no museum. It was the crazy woman. A lawyer. I want—”
    “I don’t care. Lawyers are for US citizens.” Rye had just stretched the truth again but figured the prisoner wouldn’t know American jurisprudence. “You’re one scrawny dude. I bet there’s more than one bubba in the penitentiary who’d love to make you his girlfriend.”
    “No, no. That won’t happen. Demonio Amo won’t—” he stopped for several seconds, his eyes darting around the room. Then, Idiota continued with a defeated voice, “Allow it.”
    Rye wheeled on the prisoner. “And who is Demonio Amo? ANSWER ME!”
    The prisoner lowered his head and sobbed. He shook bodily from crying. When he looked up at Rye, tears stained his splotched cheeks and ran off his chin. “Please help me. Demonio is one very evil man. I fear him more than God. He sell drugs north of border and buy guns from some Americano gringo and bring south into Mexico.” Resignation filled the man’s voice. “Okay, my name I tell you. I am Rod Valdez, and I am now one dead man. Can I see a lawyer now? For my son, I need to make out—how do you Americanos say—my last will and testament.”

CHAPTER 6
LATE WEDNESDAY MORNING
    “We’re done here. Do the pre-book,” Rye told Whitewolf. “Escort Mr. Valdez to lock-up.”
    “Chief, we need to talk—” Whitewolf started to say.
    “Start the deportation process,” Rye said, glaring at the prisoner one last time before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and measured his strides down the hall, his footsteps squeaking on the polished tile floors. The desire to punch a hole in the wall would have overwhelmed him had he not pushed it deep down into his soul. Finding Juan’s killer took precedence, gnawing at Rye’s gut like a coyote gnawing at a rabbit carcass. A handful of Tums sounded good, but it’d have to wait.
    He pushed through a door on his right labeled
Squad Room
where
s
ix desks lined the walls. Teetering piles of paperwork buried Reese’s desk, whereas Whitewolf’s desk waited with neat stacks of paperwork arranged in OCD perfection. Two desks sat vacant, one used for collecting overflow papers and file folders. The other had been Juan’s. Neat stacks of paper and files awaited his return. Rye swallowed andshifted his focus toward two officers huddled around a monitor at the desk across the aisle from Zach’s.
    “Uh-mm,” Rye cleared his throat. The two spun in their chairs like teenagers caught looking at porn. Rye leveled his gaze at the monitor.
    The face of the young male officer reddened. “We’re just looking at the new surfboard I bought. It’s, like, a Channel Islands … I got it in the back of my SUV. If you’d like to take a look.”
    Rye shook his