Rapid Fire (16 page)

“Don’t
bother. I’m ready for them.” He paused and thought a moment before he said,
“Meet me tonight on the Bear Claw Creek overpass. I have a new job for you.”

“You got
it. See you then.”

When the
line went dead, the Mastermind replaced the receiver, but kept his fingertips
on the handset for a moment, thinking of the conversation and planning the next
step.

The next
death.

Chapter
Nine

Maya
should have been thrilled that Thorne had gotten them access to Henkes. She
should have been relieved by the prospect of finally getting some answers.

Instead,
she was nearly sick with worry.

Why was
he doing this after he’d made such a point of diverting her away from Henkes?
Was this on the chief’s orders or his own initiative? And why?

But
Thorne evaded her questions on the drive to the Henkes mansion in the cushy
suburbs east of Bear Claw City, bringing another worry to the fore.

He’d said
he didn’t want her job, but the previous night Cassie and Alissa had made it
clear they thought otherwise. What if the chief had offered him a deal?

Thorne
already knew too much about her, about the alcohol. What if this interview
wasn’t aimed at Henkes at all? Thorne could be looking for confirmation that
she’d been drunk when she accosted Henkes.

Hell,
Maya thought, what if I was?

Nerves
sizzled through her as Thorne turned his car between the pillared gates of the
Henkes estate and eased through the open gates. On either side of the bricked
driveway, green lawns were clipped golf course short and misted by hidden spray
heads. Sandy-toned rock walls curled around carefully planted flowerbeds and
shrubs, then flowed up to the main house in an artful transition that looked
stiff and artificial to her eye.

Thorne
parked at the apex of the circular drive, right near the dozen or so marble
steps that led up to the house. She sat for a moment, unmoving, staring up at
the stone facade of the three-story house.

“Do you
remember coming here that night?” he asked, voice carrying the soothing tones
of a trained counselor.

A trained
interrogator.

Of
course, she wanted to say, it was all planned. I already suspected that Henkes
could be the Mastermind. I was trying to trick him into showing his hand.

Instead,
she shook her head. “No. I don’t remember ever having been here.”

She’d
seen the crime scene photographs, the blood spatter from Henkes’s bullet wound,
and the corner of the marble-topped coffee table where she’d supposedly hit her
head when she and Henkes had struggled for control of her gun. She’d driven
past the huge house several times, trying to jump-start the memories.

But she
didn’t remember pulling into the driveway and knocking on the door as Wexton
Henkes and his wife, Ilona, said she had done. She didn’t remember anything
until she’d awakened in the hospital three days later with a pounding headache
the doctors had called a “natural response” to the head trauma she’d sustained.

She
feared the headache—and the coma—had come from something else entirely.
Something she wasn’t ready to share with the others.

“You
ready?” Thorne asked. He’d slid his shades up the bridge of his nose, leaving
her to stare at the reflective surfaces and wonder what he was hoping to get
out of this interview. Evidence against Henkes?

Or
against her?

She took
a deep breath to settle the nervous churn in her stomach. “Ready when you are.”

They
walked up the wide marble steps together, as though they were partners rather
than…what? Friends? Adversaries? She didn’t know anymore, maybe she’d never
known, and the question unsettled her.

Thorne
rang the doorbell, which tolled deep within the house. Moments later, the door
swung open to reveal Wexton Henkes’s wife, Ilona.

With her
golden hair softened to pale by early strands of gray, and her athletic body
thickened with her fifty-two years and a few too many dinners out, Mrs. Henkes
should have seemed soft and motherly. Nurturing. But her eyes were hard and angry,
her lips pressed together in a flat line. “I do not approve of this interview.”

Thorne
nodded. “I apologize for how awkward this must be for you. But as the chief
explained, we have some questions for Mr. Henkes and we’d like to have Officer
Cooper sit in on the meeting.”

Ilona
nodded stiffly. “She can come in, but only because William called and asked
personally.” She fired an angry look at Maya. “Kiernan isn’t here. Otherwise
you’d be headed back to your car this instant.”

Mindful
that she needed the woman’s agreement for her to enter the premises—which were
protected by a restraining order—Maya inclined her head but didn’t comment. She
and Ilona had met only once before, at the hospital when Kiernan’s initial
injuries had prompted Child Services to call the PD.

No, Maya
realized as Ilona stepped back and stiffly gestured them into the house. They
had met another time, at least according to Ilona’s testimony. She had been
there that night. She had been the one to let Maya into the house and lead her
to the living room, where the struggle had occurred.

And she
had been the one to call 911 when the shooting started.

The
moment Maya stepped into the house, vague memories crowded around her,
half-formed wisps of thought and cobweb images that might mean nothing, might
mean something. She tried to grab on to them as she followed Thorne down an
echoing marble-floored corridor, but the brown-tinged thoughtlets danced out of
reach, leaving her frustrated and upset.

Then
Ilona gestured them through a heavily paneled wooden door into a side room, and
things got even stranger.

The
moment Maya stepped inside, she knew she’d been in that room before. She sucked
in a breath when she recognized the rows of books—mostly paperbacks—on the
built-in shelves, and the ponderous, heavy-bellied mahogany desk on its
ball-and-claw feet. She even recognized the chip in one claw, and vaguely
remembered a voice telling her that Kiernan had done the damage with a
remote-controlled car, and that instead of punishing the boy, Wexton had
hunkered down on the floor and played with his son, seeing how much damage they
could do with a lightweight radio-controlled dune buggy.

Memory or
imagination? Maya wondered, though deep down inside, she damn well knew it was
a memory.

She had been
inside this room. Someone—maybe even Wexton himself—had told her the story. But
that didn’t make any sense, Ilona had testified that she’d let Maya in the
front door that night, and led her straight to the living room, where the
struggle had later taken place.

According
to the reports, Maya had never been in Wexton Henkes’s study before. But she
had been, she was sure of it.

Someone
was lying. But who?

And why?

A cough
drew her attention to Wexton Henkes, who sat behind the mahogany desk. In his
early fifties, with his bald spot covered with a peewee hockey team ball cap
and wearing a summer-weight sweater over an open-neck shirt, Henkes looked the
picture of casual wealth. But his eyes were cool when he said, “Welcome to my
home, Officer Coleridge.” His expression chilled further when he shifted his
attention to Maya. “Ms. Cooper.”

The door
opened again moments later to admit a younger, dark-haired man in a severely
tailored navy suit and snugged-tight tie. He carried a briefcase and the slick
assurance of a professional.

“Slade
Pennington,” Henkes said. “My lawyer. He’ll be sitting in on this interview to
make sure there are no…irregularities in the police procedure this time.” His
lips twisted on a parody of a smile, and when he gestured to a trio of chairs,
his movement was stiff and pained.

Though
more than three months had passed since the incident and the bandages were long
gone, it was clear that the bullet wound high in the muscle of his right arm
still bothered him.

Maya felt
an unexpected pang of guilt.

They sat,
and Thorne asked for and received permission to tape the interview. The lawyer,
Pennington, sat quietly, his eyes fixed on Maya as though he were waiting for
her to attack his client at any moment.

The
intensity of his regard made her jittery.

“This
interview has been requested by Chief William Parry, and may be terminated at
any time by the interviewee, Wexton Henkes,” Thorne said for the benefit of the
tape. He then listed the date and time, and named each of the individuals in
the room before he asked, “Where were you between the hours of eight and ten
o’clock this past Monday morning?”

Henkes
glanced at his lawyer, then back at Thorne, mid-brown eyes inscrutable. “I had
a meeting at the Chuckwagon Ranch.”

Adrenaline
zapped through Maya, bringing her upright in her chair.

He’d been
where?

“I
thought this was about Ms. Cooper’s inquiry.” Henkes looked from Thorne to
Maya, expression darkening. “I thought you had come to talk to me about the
civil suit I’m considering filing against the PD. Harassment. Brutality.
Defamation.” His voice climbed. “I love my son, damn it! Don’t you get that? I
would never do anything to hurt him. Ask him yourself. He had an accident!”

Maya
snapped, “That would be two accidents. Within a week. Accidents that he
couldn’t explain to the satisfaction of the ER doctors.” Anger rose in her
chest, nearly strangling her with its hot force. Though her own childhood had
been safe, if constricting, she had met too many abuse victims in rehab and
later through her work. She’d seen too many instances of abusers being
protected by their families, by a society that preferred to look the other way.

She tried
to make each abuse case personal. If this one had gotten more personal than
most, nobody needed to know why.

That,
like so many other things, was in her past.

Henkes
bristled and glared full at her. “Listen, you—”

“We’re
not here about your son,” Thorne interrupted, his sharp tones cutting through
the rising tension. “We’re here about another case. And I need to know why you
were at the ranch the other day. Where did you go, and who can verify your
whereabouts the entire time you were on the premises?”

“I would
like a moment to confer with my client in private,” Pennington said. “You two
can wait in the hall.”

“No,”
Henkes countered. “I’ll answer. I have nothing to hide—you can’t pin that bomb
threat on me. I was meeting with a group of investors who have expressed
interest in purchasing my portion of the ranch.” He rattled off the names and
contact numbers of his associates, then smiled and leaned back in his chair,
looking as though nobody could touch him and he damn well knew it.

Though
Thorne fired off several follow-up questions, he wasn’t able to shake the smug
bastard.

Less than
ten minutes into the interview, Pennington stood. “That will be all for now.
Mr. Henkes has answered your questions fully and openly. Please feel free to
contact me if you need to speak with my client again.”

His tone
suggested the request would be denied.

But as
Ilona Henkes led Maya and Thorne to the front door and ushered them through it
with a sour, hateful look, Wexton’s voice followed them down the hall. “Wait
one moment. I have a question for Officer Coleridge.” He appeared in the
doorway moments later with a nasty gleam in his pale eyes. “Haven’t you ever
wondered why she went after me in the first place? Don’t you wonder why she’s
still after me?”