Silas is hell-bent on keeping the intensity level up. I, personally, wouldn’t mind if we backed off a little, but I’m not in charge.
I will admit, it’s a welcome distraction from life at Mother’s. Miller’s been over every night this week for cards, and Lindy’s calls have been fewer and further between. If she tells me one more time to stop looking at my phone, it’s possible I’ll throw it at her.
But back to my digression.
Silas initiates a meeting with law enforcement, those who have, for the most part, taken over for Sheriff Paul.
“I sense no loyalty to Paul on their parts,” he says to me en route to the racetrack to see Armand. “What I do believe is that they’ll have our backs heading into this. I think they’re okay with everything, but we have to be cautious in our approach.”
Armand is not, as Silas has repeatedly pointed out, a resident of Middle Valley, near as we can tell. No leases, no property, generally not present on a day-to-day basis. But what a web he has woven.
We locate Armand’s office and walk toward the door. Silas knocks loudly.
“Police. Open up.”
The door opens and an older man stands in front of us. His jeans and boots are worn, his white t-shirt clean and a new Rolex hangs from his wrist. The office behind him is small and smells of cheap coffee and cigarettes.
I can see our backup in the hallway outside and I hope Armand does not.
His eyes widen, obviously taken aback at the sight of Silas’ badge.
“Who are you? What is this about? Why are you here?”
Silas pushes past him and clears the way for me. “Mind if we sit?” He pulls up two chairs near Armand’s desk, which is piled high with receipts, notebooks, message slips, and other paraphernalia. The walls are lined with pictures of local jockeys, horses, bumper stickers, and what appear to be awards with his name embossed on them. I note there are no windows or vents of any kind.
Silas proceeds to pepper Armand with many of the same questions we posed to Paul. He answers vaguely and attempts to excuse himself on several occasions, but Silas doesn’t stop. And, given that our chairs are conveniently blocking his access to the doorway, Armand doesn’t have a choice – at first.
He finally inches his way to the door.
“Don’t do it!” Silas yells.
At once, Armand opens the door and exits to the hallway where our police escorts are handy to greet him.
“We need to talk to you in detail about what has been happening in Middle Valley recently,” Silas says. “There are a number of issues that we need you to weigh in on. You can bring an attorney if you like but we don’t think it will be necessary.”
“Absolutely not,” Armand replies. “Your unannounced visit is highly irregular and, I would argue, even illegal. I see no need to cooperate with you under these circumstances. Please excuse me.”
Silas and I watch as Armand walks out of the building.
“Is there something we can do?” I ask him.
Silas shakes his head no. “We need proof,” he says, and I follow him out of the building.
Jenny Page