Claudia watched Hendricks pour himself another glass of wine. He never offered one to his stepson, and his stepson didn’t ask. He wouldn’t even meet Hendricks’s eyes.
“So did you do Tinnerman yourself?” she asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“In that case, top me off.” Claudia willed her hands not to shake as she held out her glass. She needed him to keep drinking. He would if he had company. “I could use a good story right about now.”
The wind had eased, but rain continued to fall steadily. Hendricks watched it for a second. “Why not. We’ve still got time.” He gave her an amused look. “It’ll be interesting to see how much you knew, how much you guessed, and how you react when you learn how wrong you were.”
Chapter 35
In the business world nothing mattered but results, and you didn’t achieve them by poring over the latest management book on the bestseller list or leaving them up to committees under the guise of empowerment. No. You didn’t do that. You used money and threats to get results. Anyone told you different, they were lying.
Hendricks’s unwritten mission statement for AfLUX? Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten.
That’s what he told Claudia, and he told her in the same matter-of-fact tone he’d used to inform her that she would die in a tragic accident later. Of course, the “kill or be killed” philosophy wasn’t intended literally, but if push came to shove . . . well, you did what you had to do. In all matters you reacted swiftly and decisively. And you never, ever panicked.
But Boyd didn’t get it. He waffled on day-to-day matters. He panicked on big ones. Hendricks saw it coming—predicted it would come—and that’s why he sent Farina to baby-sit. He’d used Farina before. Hell, he’d even bought the man a clean identity just so he’d be available when needed. Farina was a business expense, and so was the house and car he gave him cash to buy. All of that, just to make sure Boyd didn’t screw up.
Claudia listened to Hendricks’s recitation with only an occasional interruption. The thing with Manning, for instance. Why give him Willow Whisper to develop at all? Why not give it to one of his sons? His blood sons. Made no sense.
Hendricks had switched to scotch on the rocks. He rattled ice cubes in his glass and took a swallow before answering.
“I got complacent, first and only time that ever happened. Last time, too.” He laughed bitterly. “Boyd’s mother was rich. Very rich. That was attractive to me, enough to marry her after her first husband died. Boyd was seven, and as whiny then as he is now.”
Claudia didn’t have to look at Manning’s face to know what it would show.
“My businesses were doing well before she came into my life, but they really took off with her money behind it. She never challenged me, and why should she? I built an empire. She never wanted, and neither did Boyd. Imagine my surprise when she died four years ago and I was presented with a last-minute codicil to her will. It dictated that the bulk of her estate would be held in escrow until Boyd was given a business of his own to develop. I would receive an annual stipend in the meanwhile, but it would expire within five years of her death if by then her son’s business wasn’t up and running. She had pancreatic cancer. It’s brutally fast, and she knew that.” He clucked. “She didn’t trust me to look out for him. Imagine that.” Then he sighed. “The good news is that the language in the codicil was hastily assembled and vague enough for liberal interpretation. Lawyers can tie it up in court for a while, but in the end ‘develop’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘own.’ It’s why I’m majority owner, and jerk-off here isn’t.”
Now Claudia did turn to look. Manning’s face was contorted with shock and rage, but Hendricks saw it first. With chilling speed he pivoted and aimed his .45 at Manning before the younger man could say a thing. “Not a word, Boyd. Not one. You didn’t know and now you do. So what? It changes nothing.”
But it did, thought Claudia. Manning had an expiration date on his head. Hendricks had complied with his late wife’s estate provisions and in less than the requisite five years; who could call Willow Whisper anything less than successful? Hendricks was positioned to collect. She wondered if Manning understood.
The rain drummed steadily and Hendricks returned to his story.
* * *
It was all very simple. The Tinnerman confrontation could’ve occurred anywhere; it just happened to take place behind the house that Hemmer was having built. What made the whole damned thing complicated was how Manning handled it. Instead of meeting Tinnerman’s demands and dealing with him after Willow Whisper was finished, what —five, six months away?—no, Manning had to panic and whack him on the head with a piece of rebar. How unbelievably pedestrian could you get?
But wait, it got worse. With the light beginning to fade but before darkness settled in, the body could draw attention. And that’s when Manning panicked again. Hemmer’s patio had been framed, but not yet filled with cement. Wonder Boy scrabbled at the dirt with a shovel and buried Tinnerman without even checking for a pulse. But then you could tell the earth had been turned, or at least Boyd thought you could, and he got it into his head that cement had to be laid now. Right now. He remembered a kid from one of the concrete crews, a Mexican who needed money and wouldn’t ask questions because he was an illegal and so you just knew he’d do it and not say a word because immigration would ask him questions, and then he’d be deported.
With trembling hands Manning used his cell phone to make a call. The pour for Hemmer’s patio wasn’t scheduled for another day, but he was the boss and he could divert a load if he wanted, and he could pick who he wanted for the job, and that’s what he did. Juan-Carlos Santiago came out, driving that big cement truck like he did it every day, even though he didn’t. He told Manning the cement wasn’t ready, the mix was rushed, it would come wrong, but he poured it and he didn’t ask why mesh hadn’t been laid or why the ground looked uneven. Right there in the waning light he poured the cement and smoothed it over with a rake and a trowel, and made it look good, and when he was done Manning hit him with the rebar, too.
“So what’s he got now, this whiz kid?” said Hendricks. “He’s got another body and a cement truck and Tinnerman’s car to explain away. Can you believe it?” He laughed. Ha, ha, ha. What a silly predicament.
Claudia didn’t dare appear distracted. But she could hear the rain tapering and with it her confidence. She forced herself into another round of slow breathing.
“Well, to make a long story short, Boyd finally called Farina, which is what he should’ve done to begin with. Farina’s no genius, but he gets the job done. And he did.”
With the two of them working together, playing look-out and digging a new grave, they got Santiago buried. Farina forged Tinnerman’s signature on blank permits that he got from the inspector’s car. Then he told Manning to call the concrete contractor and raise holy hell about Santiago abandoning the job before it was done, making like the kid all of a sudden got cold feet—thought the job was an IRS set-up or something. Hey, guys up and quit all the time, especially the illegals. But Farina told Manning to make it look good. Rant. Rave. And before anyone even thought about questioning the plausibility of Santiago abandoning the job midstream, ram it all home with threats of pulling the plug on anymore work. Santiago wasn’t important, but more work was. The contractor sent someone out to retrieve the truck. Farina got rid of Tinnerman’s car. Hoo, boy! What a day.
“So you weren’t involved in the murders,” said Claudia. “What happened to—”
“Oh, please. Farina reported to me. He told me what went down. And you know what? I think he liked that they happened. He was numb with boredom in your little town. Plus he had something to hold over Boyd, which gave him some kind of perverse kick. And of course Wonder Boy didn’t have the balls to—”
Manning screeched a profanity and launched at Hendricks, cutting off his words but not his reactions. With rocket-like speed the older man spun and shot out a fist. Manning caught the punch in an ey
e and pinwheeled back a few steps before thudding to the floor. Claudia moved a half-second later, but her legs failed her and before she was off the couch Hendricks snatched his gun and pointed it dead center at her chest.
“Good instincts, bad idea,” he said quietly.
She reclaimed her position, trying to appear less shaken than she felt. Wine had slopped onto her hand, but amazingly she’d never let the glass go, her fingers so tightly clamped to it that it seemed like an extension of her hand. She took an unsteady sip. An opportunity had presented itself and she’d blown it.
Manning rocked on the floor, his hands clutching his face. He moaned and shuffled backward to rest against a wall. Hendricks regarded him disdainfully, then set the gun back down, drained his glass and poured another drink.
“Where was I?”
Just like that.
“Farina.” She cleared her throat. “Right after he told you what went down at Willow Whisper.”
“Ah, yes. Farina.” Hendricks tapped his glass with a fingernail. “The interesting thing about him is that when he’s cleaned up he looks like a stand-up kind of guy, the ideal neighbor. So I told Boyd to install him on the homeowners association. I couldn’t do anything about the property itself without raising questions. Hemmer had already bought the house and would be living in it soon. All I could do was monitor things from a distance and I figured with Farina in place we’d be all right. Farina wasn’t about to jeopardize his ‘Bonolo’ alias. Well, you’d think not, but I imagine you’ve already guessed what happened next.”
Claudia took a sip of her wine to show she was still a party girl, and now she told the story. Farina’s boredom didn’t fade. He quietly started dabbling in porn again. Not a lot. Just enough to feel some action, maybe get something going of his own. But then . . . Hemmer. He wouldn’t quit about his house, so Farina orchestrated the scheme to turn him into a monster before Hemmer even took hostages and became one.
“Exactly,” said Hendricks. “He tried for a pre-emptive strike.”
In retrospect, he told Claudia, he supposed Farina’s campaign to make Hemmer look like a deviant made sense. Who better than Farina knew what kind of heat that could bring? But the hostage thing—even though it appeared to come out all right with Hemmer’s death, it only gave Farina new concerns.
“Right in front of you, Detective, Hemmer insinuated he knew what Farina was all about. Farina took it for fact. They’d just had an encounter outside that stupid little bookstore.” He laughed. “By the way, I love that you took Gloria here down, even for a while.”
Addison sat zombie-like in her chair, her eyes unfocused, her body slack. Claudia thought she had probably gone into shock, and almost wished she could follow her into the same oblivion. But Hendricks had moved on, reciting details in a voice that deviated from matter-of-fact to sarcastic only when talking about his stepson.
During Hemmer’s brief flirtation as a hostage-taker, he’d hinted not only about having knowledge of Farina’s porn activities, but about having additional homeowners association files in the house. Even if it was all talk, it was too risky to let sit. Farina’s idea? Eliminate anything even remotely incriminating and plant a video to reinforce the image of Hemmer as a pornographer. Manning contributed the key for Farina to get in, then moved to buy the house from Sandi’s grandparents. They could save their asses and come out looking good.
“Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy,” said Hendricks, shaking his head. “But it still could’ve worked out if Wonder Boy hadn’t panicked all over again when you started asking questions, the gist of which the good mayor was only too happy to pass along. Boyd got it into his head that you would mysteriously find the Mexican’s body, and no offense, Detective, but there wasn’t a damned thing in the world that would’ve led you in that direction, no matter how insightful you might be.”
He was right and Claudia didn’t bother with a denial. Hemmer had copies of the forged building department papers. From those, she might’ve eventually unearthed Tinnerman. But maybe not even that. She glanced at Manning. He’d stopped moaning, but continued to rock slightly, his hands at his face, his back pressed against the wall. He was down for the count.
“Boyd, though, he apparently thought you had some kind of divining rod that would lead you to the Mexican, so he took it upon himself to remove the body.”
“Which he couldn’t pinpoint some two years after the fact,” Claudia supplied.
“And,” said Hendricks, “which would’ve been efficiently plowed under when the final phase of Willow Whisper got under way.”
“It would’ve been soon,” she said.
“Very soon.”
“No one had to know.”
Hendricks nodded. “Too bad that so many people do now.” He looked meaningfully toward Lane and Addison.
“One thing,” said Claudia. “I know this sounds like a cliché, but you’ll never get away with all this. Never mind the ‘loose ends’ in this room. You’ve still got Kurt Kitner, Jennifer Parish, Farina—”
“Parish I’m not worried about. Kitner and Farina are already dead.” He saw the shock in her eyes. “Just business.”
“Wow.”
Hendricks took it as flattery. He shrugged modestly. “It’s like I told you, Detective, in business you move swiftly and decisively. And though an investigation might be messy, here’s another cliché to keep in mind: dead men tell no tales.”
Chapter 36
The rain had stopped and it was time. Not all roads would be passable yet, but Hendricks believed enough water had receded for his purposes. Manning owned a Corvette and a Dodge Ram. Claudia didn’t need to guess which one they’d use. Hendricks ordered her to her feet, not even a flicker of regret in his eyes.
She seized wildly for an opportunity—a hint of hesitation, a moment of distraction—anything. Hendricks had downed three drinks to her half-glass of wine. If he was affected, though, he didn’t show it in slurred speech or sluggish behavior. He was all about business and this was business, and that’s all he showed. She rose unsteadily with her glass and tried to work the pinch from her muscles.
“Can I pee first?” she asked.
Hendricks smiled. “In the end, people facing death will do absolutely anything they can to postpone it.”
He nonchalantly picked up his gun and strolled toward Lane and Addison. The mayor trembled uncontrollably, his face contorted with fear. Addison merely closed her eyes. Claudia wondered how he intended to do away with them. He’d only spelled out his plans for her, though she was sure he had theirs carefully drafted as well.
“It’s instinctive, of course,” Hendricks continued. “To delay death people will endure the most horrendous pain. They’ll invoke the name of every saint. They’ll tell you about their children and fumble through their wallets to pull out family pictures.” He stopped behind his captives and with his free hand toyed with Addison’s hair, lingering in a way that under other circumstances would seem affectionate. “The walking dead will cry and scream. They’ll beg. And,” he said pointedly, “they will ask to pee. Sorry, Detective, but no.”
He moved to Manning and barked at him to get up and fetch what they needed. Manning didn’t protest, but when he moved too slowly Hendricks gave him a sharp kick in the ribs. Claudia winced and looked away, her gaze falling on the bank of windows behind them all. They stood floor to ceiling, on a bright day altars to the quiet splendor of the outside. Now they loomed cold and black, colossal gaps against the monotony of the walls, and sinister in the absence of rain. In full throttle the rain had been her enemy. Then her friend. Its demise meant her own now, and indeed the only remaining evidence of a storm at all announced itself in weak flickers of lightning far away. The windows were tinted and the night so black she could barely see even that, and a second later she realized that she hadn’t. The lightning was just an illusion.
Manning hobbled off and she caught Hendricks watching her.
“You’re wishing for more rain?” he asked, amused.
<
br /> “It’s just . . . yes.” She exhaled. “One more drink?”
“I’m afraid not.” He tsked. “You’ve heard the whole story, most of which you already knew.”
“Except I’d figured Farina for the killer.” She rolled her neck, tensed her muscles. “I knew Manning had to be involved, but maybe not all the way.”
“It’s a minor detail. Farina would’ve killed them, too. Boyd’s panicky nature simply got them dead faster.”
Claudia moved slowly to avoid alarming him, and held out her wine glass. “Come, on. You’re way ahead of me, you know.”
“Your delay tactics are unimaginative and beneath you.”
“Okay.” She paused, letting him know she was thinking. “Umm . . . well, how about this one? Someone’s got a weapon trained on you through the window.”
“What, like this?” Hendricks swiftly leveled his .45 at her.
“That’s about right.”
He snorted. “That’s the oldest one in the book, Detective.” He waggled the gun at her. “Enough, already.”
“No, really. Look.” She pointed and Hendricks must’ve thought it was funny, really funny, because he started to laugh outright, laughed until the window exploded in a boom and bits of glass cascaded everywhere, sparkling like diamonds in the glare of the flashlight behind them. Claudia lurched for her gun, rolled once, and came up with it in her hands. From the corner of her eye she caught Suggs clambering through the shattered window, his flashlight erratically splaying light against the walls.
She swiveled into a crouch, sweeping the room with frantic eyes, the .38 frozen in her grip. No one had screamed. Lane and Addison couldn’t. But someone had been hit. Blood flecked her right arm and blotched her eyeglasses. She could taste it on her lips. Not her, though. Not the chief; he was in and frozen in his own crouch, an uncertain expression on his face.
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