Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) by L.J. Sellers Page B

night watchman’s Ford Mustang was in his driveway and his front curtain was open. River dialed his number, and his greeting had a nervous quality that encouraged her. “Mr. Bromwell? This is Agent River.”
    “Yes?”
    “I’d like to come over and ask you some questions.”
    “When?”
    “Right now.”
    “I’m not home,” he stammered. “I had to help my mother with something.”
    River slipped out of her vehicle and headed for his walkway. “Then I’ll come pick you up and we’ll talk at the bureau.”
    “I told you everything. I’ve got to go.” The little shit hung up on her.
    River knocked on his door and called out, “FedEx.”
    A moment later, the door opened and Bromwell stood there, openmouthed.
    “Step outside and turn around.” River pulled out her handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. We don’t like to be lied to.”
    “I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I just don’t want my wife to find out.” His face crumpled with grief and fear. “Let’s just talk here. There’s no need to arrest me.”
    River gave him her best hard stare. “It’s twelve hours after the fact. I should have had this information last night. The eco-terrorist could be preparing for another attack today.”
    “I’m sorry. I was scared. If the affair gets out, I could lose my job too.”
    “Come with me and make a statement, and I’ll do my best to keep from informing your wife.”
    Bromwell ran a nervous hand through his thinning hair. “Let me grab a coat.”
    The booking area in the FBI headquarters served as an interrogation room but also contained an all-in-one machine that took digital fingerprints and processed them into the system. But there was no camera. The FBI preferred not to document their techniques—clips that could be shown later to juries. Instead, they had suspects and witnesses sign a statement of their testimony.
    River put Bromwell through all the motions but didn’t intend to turn him over to the federal marshal for arrest. She was curious to see if his fingerprints would come up in the database, or if he’d ever been arrested for trespassing or vandalism. The witness/suspect sat at the table fidgeting while she scanned the monitor. No print matches surfaced.
    River sat and opened her bottled water. The threatening letter to Rockman echoed in her mind—thirty-six billion plastic bottles a year—and she had a flash of guilt. But she always recycled, so she assumed she wasn’t part of the problem. “Let’s start at the beginning. Who came into the factory to see you and what time did he or she arrive?”
    “Candy Morrison. And it was just before eight.”
    The last name seemed familiar, as if River had seen it recently when looking at employee files. “Does Candy work at Rock Spring?” River made notes as she talked.
    “Yes, she works in the sorting room.”
    “What’s the nature of your relationship?”
    His face flushed pink. “We’re just friends.”
    River gave him a look. “I found a pair of your underwear in the office couch.”
    “Okay, we had sex.”
    “Why did you lie and not tell me about her presence in the factory at the time of the arson?”
    Bromwell’s mouth twitched when she said
lie
.
    “We’re both married, and Candy’s husband is the plant foreman. I was afraid we’d both get fired and probably end up divorced too.”
    She tried to empathize with him but couldn’t. “Does Candy have the code to the door or did you let her in?”
    “She has the code.”
    “Did you give it to her?”
    “Her husband has it too, so she already knew it.”
    River began to doubt her theory that Candy might be working with LTE. “How often did Candy visit you?”
    “I’ve only been on the night watch for two weeks, but she comes on Tuesday.”
    So it wasn’t a one-time thing.
“Why Tuesday?”
    “Her husband plays poker that night.”
    “Did anyone else know about Candy’s visits to you?”
    He shuddered. “Of course not.”
    “Would Candy