To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

Riley laughed. “Hey, at least she cares, right?”

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.” Emily made a sharp right, causing Riley to grab the bar by the handle. “So, are you going to tell me about your date with my brother last night?”

  “We had a nice time.”

  Emily snorted. “Well, that’s really filling in the details.” She laughed as she made another sharp turn. “Where did he take you?”

  “Um, the visitor’s center.”

  “That’s closed at night.”

  “I know, but he got us in.”

  “Interesting.” Emily pulled into a parking lot to a duplex. “But there’s not a place to eat there.”

  “Right. He brought a picnic lunch.”

  “Get out! Hayden brought a picnic lunch?” She put the car in Park and turned off the engine. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.” Riley opened the door and followed Emily to her apartment.

  Emily opened the door and let Riley enter first. “It’s not much, but I like it.”

  “It’s nice.” Riley meant it.

  The living room was decorated in deep browns and subtle blue. Comfortable and soothing color scheme. The furniture, while sparse with only one chair and a small love seat, was placed in a welcoming arrangement. The slate-top table held a bowl with color-coordinated glass balls.

  “Sit down. I’ll call in the pizza. What kind do you like?”

  After they’d decided on a meat extreme and Emily called it in, she sat in the chair with the plush ottoman. “So, my brother took you on a picnic. I’m pretty impressed.”

  So was Riley. “At the base of this waterfall, he set out those Japanese lanterns everywhere. It was beautiful.”

  “Sounds like he’s got it bad for you.”

  No worse than she had it for him. “It was just a second date.”

  “Let me tell you something about my brother—he doesn’t go all out. Most times, there isn’t a second date. And I’ve never, ever, heard of him doing a picnic, period.”

  “Why not?”

  Emily shrugged. “He says not much point in leading someone on if he didn’t feel something. Whatever that means.”

  Warmth spread from Riley’s stomach to the tips of her toes. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like him.” Her face had to be redder than all get-out if the heat of her cheeks was any indication.

  “I’d say the feeling is quite mutual.” Emily smiled.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “That was fast.” Emily shot up, grabbed the cash they’d counted out and set on the slate table, and opened the door.

  And froze.

  Thomas Vince stood there, a glare on his face. “How dare you turn me down?” His proper accent wasn’t apparent now. “Don’t you realize women fawn all over me? Don’t you understand how lucky you are that I bother to show any interest in you?” Despite his slight limp, he charged Emily, backing her into the apartment.

  Riley stood.

  He caught sight of her and took a step backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company, Emily.” He nodded at Riley, contempt fighting the scowl he wore. “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Baxter. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” What a bully! The scrawny, little, effeminate . . .

  “I’m glad you’re doing better.” He cut his gaze to Emily. “I don’t want to intrude, so I’ll just speak to you later.”

  “No, Thomas, I told you already. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

  His smile was as fake as his front teeth. “I’m sure we’ll find a better, more private time to discuss this.” He nodded to Riley again. “Nice seeing you again. Give my regards to your brother.”

  “Oh, I will. Certainly.” And she’d tell him to kick the little jerk too.

  With a puckered brow and final glare at Emily, he left. She slammed the door shut. “Sorry. Obviously, he’s not taking my breaking it off with him very well.”

  “You need to tell Hayden about him. That man has a lot of hate in his eyes. He could be dangerous.”

  Emily snorted and flicked her hand. “He likes to act big and talk a good game, but that’s about it. As you said, he’s effeminate. And his leg is fake, remember, so he’s handicapped.”

  Riley pointed to her face, where the gash was healing rather quickly. “But he does have a temper.”

  “Yeah.” Emily shrugged. “I’ll see. If he comes by again or calls, I’ll tell Hayden.”

  Another knock sounded.

  Emily jumped up. “About time the pizza got here.”

  Riley nodded, but she couldn’t stop the feeling that Thomas wasn’t going to just go away. Not by a long shot.

  “We’ve been at him all night. Taken turns questioning him. He’s about worn down after our in-depth interrogations.” Deputy Ingram nodded at the window. “He hasn’t lawyered up.”

  Job Wilder sat handcuffed at a table in an interview room. Ingram, Rafe, and Hayden watched him through the two-way mirror. The man didn’t look nervous. Not at all. Matter-of-fact, he looked pretty relaxed.

  “Let’s go,” Rafe said.

  Ingram led the way into the room. “You remember FBI Agent Baxter, don’t you, Wilder?”

  Wilder glanced at Rafe, shrugged, then stared at Hayden.

  “Ah, that’s right, you remember Police Commissioner Simpson. He’s the one who disarmed you.”

  Pure venom shot from Wilder’s stare, but he said nothing.

  “So, you want to tell us about your little business? The killer-for-hire gig?” Ingram sat on the edge of the table closest to Wilder. “We’ve got you for two murders, one attempted murder. Want to tell us who hired you? Maybe the judge will be interested to know you helped us.”

  Wilder cursed, then spit on the floor.

  Rafe was on him in a flash, pressing his face against the metal table. “Let’s try that again. Who hired you to kill the woman?” He relaxed his hold on him slightly, just enough to let Wilder sit upright again.

  A little spot of blood where he’d bit his lip dotted Wilder’s mouth. He wiped it off on his sleeve. But he didn’t speak.

  “There’s no way you’re getting off on any of these, so you might as well tell us who hired you. Why should you go to prison and he walk around free?” Ingram stood and paced the small room like a caged lion.

  Rafe slammed the side of his fist against the table. “I’m going to ask you one more time . . . who hired you to kill the woman?”

  Wilder lifted his gaze to him. His eyes traveled up and down Rafe’s length, then he sneered.

  Rafe lunged but Ingram grabbed him.

  Wilder didn’t even blink.

  Ingram rattled off information regarding the two murders he worked. Still, Wilder sat like a stone statue.

  His eyes were cold . . . dead as he moved his stare to Hayden.

  Rafe and Ingram took turns asking the same questions. Wilder stared at Hayden as if in a trance.

  The questions didn’t stop.

  Finally, Wilder spoke, his stare never faltering from Hayden. “Why didn’t you go outside too?”

  Hayden knew exactly what Wilder was talking about. “Gut instinct. We hadn’t cleared the kitchen.”

  Wilder shrugged.

  Hayden held his breath. The suspect had formed a connection with him. If Hayden made one false move, the connection could be broken, and they wouldn’t get anything else from him. He was tired, worn down, exhausted.

  Ingram headed to the door, Rafe on his heels. They said some nonsense about evidence, a witness . . . something. Hayden recognized it as a ploy so he’d be alone with Wilder.

  Wilder probably knew that too. Still . . .

  The door shut with a click. Hayden refused to say anything. Wilder remained silent. A minute passe
d. Two. Three. Four.

  “Which case is yours?”

  “The woman.” Hayden’s blood rushed, but he forced his voice and demeanor not to change.

  “That’s right. You told me she was somebody close to you so you considered shooting me.” Wilder smiled. “Was that true? That you thought seriously about shooting me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. Man in your position.”

  Hayden just raised one eyebrow. Emily hated it when he did that. She’d told him one time it looked very intimidating.

  “You must be falling for her. I can understand. She’s pretty hot.”

  Baiting him. Hayden didn’t fall for it. He sat still, allowing no change in facial expression or body language. But if it weren’t for his training . . . “You know, if you tell me what’s what, I’ll see if the prosecutor will give you a deal.” He shrugged. “No guarantee, of course, but I’m a man of my word and I’ll check into it.”

  Silence followed. A very long, very uncomfortable silence.

  And then Wilder spoke. “I don’t know who hired me. Order came via phone call and money got wired into an account I specified.”

  Hayden forced himself not to react. He paused for at least two minutes. “What was the order?”

  “To take her out. Plain and simple. Kill her.”

  The hairs on the back of Hayden’s neck stood at attention. “I need your account number to trace the wire.”

  Wilder tried to stare him down. It didn’t work—Hayden had mastered the art by having Emily as a little sister.

  “Bank of Remco, account number 2011181121.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “But you must return to your God; maintain love and justice, and wait for your God always.”

  HOSEA 12:6

  “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to drive alone.” Ardy fretted in the living room, staring at Riley with indecision imbedded in her face. “Maybe I should drive you. Or we could call Hayden and ask him.”

  Just what she didn’t need or want at the moment. “I’m fine. I promise. The doctor told me as soon as I wasn’t taking pain medication every four hours, I could drive. I haven’t taken a pill since before church yesterday.”

  “I’d feel better if I drove you.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I have no idea how long I’ll be, and you have your friends coming over to try out the new julienne recipe.” Riley snagged her keys and flashed a smile brighter than she felt. “The police have the man who shot me in custody. I’ll keep my cell turned on. If I need anything, anything at all, I’ll call. Okay?” She didn’t know if it was right for her to be so happy that the assassin was behind bars, but she was.

  “I suppose.” But Ardy didn’t look assured.

  Riley used the hesitation to her advantage. “See you later. Have fun cooking.” She slipped out the front door and headed down the steps, careful not to jostle her shoulder too much. The last thing she needed was for Ardy to catch her wincing. She’d be on the phone with Hayden as fast as stink on a gar fish.

  She gave a little wave to the window where Ardy’s face looked whiter than the curtains and drove off. Whew, that’d been a close one. She hadn’t a clue what she would’ve done if Ardy had held her ground.

  Thank goodness for the ladies scheduled to try out recipes with Ardy.

  Riley pulled off to the side of the road and plugged in the pawnshop’s address into the GPS. Hayden hadn’t said Cam Thayer was still the owner of the shop, but she bet he was. The GPS pinpointed her location, then calculated the route to the pawnshop. Riley pulled back on the road and followed the directions.

  Riley still didn’t know what to make of her date with Hayden last night. And that kiss—wowie! She still felt like swooning just remembering it.

  Her knees had gone weak, and she would have fallen had Hayden’s strong arms not supported her. The man did strange things to her. Made her feel things she’d never thought she’d feel. Dream of a future she never thought she’d have.

  No, she couldn’t think about him like that right now. She had to concentrate on her career, her story, her series. On Armand being the innocent man his family believed him to be. That she believed him to be.

  Riley couldn’t be wrong about something so important.

  The April day was clear and cool. Perfect weather. She let the windows down in the car, the wind whipping through her hair. She smiled. How long had it been since she enjoyed driving with the windows down, speeding along the highway? How long had it been since she relished just being alive?

  Did this attitude have to do with being shot and living, or Hayden’s kiss?

  She shook her head. No, she’d just enjoy the wind and being free and alive.

  “Exit ramp right.” The female computerized voice interrupted her joy.

  Riley slowed and took the exit. The drive had been way too short. Or maybe she’d just enjoyed driving alone more than she had in a long time.

  Four turns and three traffic signals later, and she pulled into the parking lot of the pawnshop. Her hand shook a little. She flipped down the sun visor and opened the mirror, smoothing down her hair as best she could with one hand. It’d have to do. She wasn’t here to win any style contest. She was here to get the truth.

  Riley strode into the shop as if she owned the place. Confidence was the surest way to get to speak to the person you wanted to. Journalism 201. She walked straight to the counter, smiling at the young man wiping the glass display case with a rag. “I’d like to speak to Cam, please.”

  He eyed her. “You a friend of his?”

  “A friend of a friend of a friend, you could say.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What would you say?”

  She swallowed down the uneasiness twisting in her stomach. “I say you should let Cam know he has someone who’d like to speak with him.” She gave him the stare of Rafe’s she’d mimicked for years. “Now would be wise.”

  “You a cop?” But the kid didn’t sound so ornery now.

  She gave him a wry smile. “Do I look like a cop?” She gestured to the sling.

  He pointed at the sling. “Got a wire in there or something?”

  “No, I don’t have a wire. I’m not a cop. I’m here to talk with Cam, and now my patience has run out.” She stared him down.

  He tossed the rag onto the counter. “Wait here.” He disappeared behind a closed door.

  Riley glanced around the pawnshop. A couple of people walked up and down the rows, talking and sometimes laughing.

  The kid returned, motioning her forward. “He said you’re pretty, so he’ll talk to you.”

  Oh, so that mirror behind the counter was two-way. Interesting. She smiled at her reflection as she followed the kid. He opened the door and pointed toward a suite of small offices, then shut the door.

  A hulk of a man wearing a white “wife-beater” tank top and tight jeans that had seen one too many washings stepped into the hall. “Well, now, darlin’ . . . what can I do ya for?”

  She swallowed down the revulsion scorching the back of her throat. “I’m a reporter working on an article on the Louisiana State Museum robbery four years ago. I understand you were the star witness. May I ask you a few questions about that?” Riley smiled and batted her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d flirted to get someone to talk.

  “Yep, I was their witness.” He crossed his arms over his chest, flexing his biceps as he did. “They wouldn’t have had a case without me.”

  She widened her eyes. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah, sweetheart. Come into the conference room.” He waved her into a room holding nothing but a long table with five chairs on each side. She didn’t sit, just rested on the edge of the table.

  “So you made their case?”

  He p
uffed out his chest. “My eye-witness account of that security guard was the only thing that got the prosecutor to take the case to trial.” He nodded. “And they needed someone to be found guilty.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for the insurance companies. That stuff they didn’t get back was insured. If no one was found guilty of stealing it, the company wouldn’t pay out as quickly. They’d have sent their own investigator and it could’ve taken years for them to get any money. My brother, for instance, he had some Confederate coins and buttons stolen. Because they caught one of the robbers and he went to prison, insurance paid him right off.”

  Interesting. His brother was one of the guys who had something stolen and gotten an insurance claim paid. With him being the main witness, wasn’t that a conflict of interest? “I see.”

  “And then there was that guard who got shot.” He shook his head. “The prosecutor’s office needed to up their conviction rate on violent crimes.”

  Riley chewed her bottom lip. For a pawnshop owner, he sure knew an awful lot about insurance claims and conviction rates. “That must have put a lot of responsibility on you.” She smiled as sweetly as she could muster. The man disgusted her.

  “Well, yeah, but I could handle it.” He leaned in, crowding her space. “Don’t you worry, darlin’. I was fine. I never forget a face.”

  She grabbed a picture from her purse. It was of a man, about the same age and build as Armand, with the same hair color, but with very different facial features. She handed it to him. “Him?”

  She pulled out the picture of Armand. “Or him?”

  He glanced at the photographs, not even taking the time to really study them. “It’s Armand Wilson.”

  Funny he remembered the name right off the top of his head.

  “But which one is Armand?”

  “I think you’d better leave.” His tone went harsh as he shoved the pictures into her hand. “I can see you probably bothered someone else.” He gestured toward her sling.

  “But you didn’t even look at the pictures. You said you never forget a face. So which one is Armand? You can’t identify him, can you? You don’t know.”