by Sandra Brown
“At that point in time, the grieving was still very raw.”
“Then why did you agree to the interview?” she asked.
“To make Tiffany’s killers nervous. They didn’t know what track the interview would take, whether or not you would ask me something about Tiffany’s death. For all they knew, that was to be the context of it. I wanted to make them squirm, even if just a little.”
Kerra looked to Trapper, whose subtle nod prompted her to continue. She sat forward and spoke to Wilcox with the delicacy the subject required. “Trapper and I were told that Tiffany died of an overdose of heroin.”
“True. The needle was still in her arm when she was found.”
“Who found her?”
“A policeman on patrol. Her car was parked alongside the road at the edge of a municipal park, not more than a mile from the riding academy where she’d spent the afternoon practicing her jumps and then had stayed to groom her horse.
“She’d called to say she would be a few minutes late for dinner, for us to start without her. I told her we would wait. ‘Okay, I’ll be there in a few. Love ya.’ That was the last time I heard her voice.”
This man had robbed Kerra of her mother, but his bereavement was genuine, and it was difficult for her not to feel some empathy for him.
The same might also be said of Trapper, who’d lost a child to miscarriage. His hand was cupped over his mouth and chin as though to keep his compassion from showing.
Wilcox cleared his throat before continuing. “Tiffany was found sitting in the driver’s seat, but slumped over. Given the amount and strength of the heroin, and the toxins in the substances it had been mixed with, the ME told us that she probably died within five to ten minutes of ingestion. It’s believed, hoped, that she would have been unconscious for much of that time.”
Nobody said anything until Kerra broke the silence in a voice that had gone hoarse. “She’d never done drugs?”
“No. And I’m not an oblivious parent now in denial. Even if she had decided to experiment, it wouldn’t have been that way. She was terrified of needles. Paraphernalia was found in her car, in her lockers at school, and at the equestrian center, but I know with absolute certainty that all of it was planted.”
“No clues ever led to a suspect?” Kerra asked.
“No. Joggers and bicyclers who’d been on the park trails that day were interviewed and dismissed. None claimed to have seen either her car or anyone sinister. There’s a dog run in the park within walking distance of where she was found. I surmise, although I don’t know, that someone looking like the frantic owner of a runaway dog flagged Tiffany down. She was the kind of person who would have stopped to help. Whoever killed her was quick, thorough, gone within minutes.”
“Who was it?” Trapper demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Who was behind it?”
“I’m not ready to name names.”
Whatever sympathy Trapper had been feeling toward the man vanished. He now looked ready to strangle him. “Look, Wilcox, I can still call the police. They’ll arrest you and your musketeers for vandalism if for nothing else, and I could persuade them to throw in assault with a deadly weapon.”
“None of it would stick.”
“Of course not. You’d have a highly paid lawyer at the jailhouse within an hour. But Kerra and I would make damn sure the media was alerted. It would be on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper and reported on every local TV station. Being camera shy like you are, I don’t think you want that kind of publicity.
“And you sure as hell don’t want to raise the ire of your…‘associates’…by being put in the slammer even for a short time. Who knows what kind of deal you’d try to cut? Wondering might make them edgy. Now, goddammit, give me something to keep me from making that 911 call.” He’d pushed the last few words between his clenched teeth.
Wilcox eased back, putting more distance between him and Trapper, as though realizing that he’d come to the end of a short and unraveling rope. “All right. Let’s pretend that I did entertain an occasional visitor—”
“Who left the meeting looking poleaxed.”
“That was your word.”
“Berkley Johnson’s, actually. What word would you use to describe your new recruit?”
“I wouldn’t use any word,” Wilcox said. “You’re the one who maintains that such meetings took place. I haven’t conceded that they did. Nor have I said anything about recruits.”
“Come on, Tom. Let’s be straight. You were piecing together, one member at a time, your personal feudal army. You were assembling a clan. No pointy hats or silly costumes, no rallies around bonfires, no chanting, although I wouldn’t rule out a blood oath. But whatever was at the heart of this conclave, you were the high priest, the head honcho who could get men to do your bidding.
“What did you indoctrinate them to? No offbeat religion like Koresh’s. No Aryan nation. What was it? Hmm? Tell me. Confide. Just between us. Kerra’s off the record. The office isn’t bugged.”
“I know. I swept it with a detector.”
“So talk. And let’s leave off with the double-talk and euphemisms. Plain English.”
Wilcox shook his head. “It stays metaphorical.”
“Until after you’ve made your deal with the feds.”
“Which is where you come in.”
“And if I tell you no soap?”
“You’ll forever remain a hero’s son who couldn’t hack it.”
The two men eyed each other, warring silently but with palpable hostility.
Kerra spoke Trapper’s name softly. He turned his head to look at her. “Let him tell it his way,” she said.
Grudgingly he motioned for Wilcox to continue. “But it had better be good.”
Wilcox said, “After years of holding the leadership role in this so-called clan, let’s say the high priest senses grumbling in the ranks and confronts the loudest grumblers. They’re bold in their criticism of him. They accuse him of going soft, of passing up opportunities that should have been seized, of calling for caution and patience when muscle should be flexed.”
Trapper said, “Rumblings of an overthrow of power? I doubt the high priest would stand for that kind of saber rattling. How does he react to this threat of mutiny?”
“He calls their bluff.”
“They call his. They flex muscle.” Kerra could tell the moment it clicked with Trapper. He said, “They kill his pride and joy.”
Wilcox acknowledged it with a nod, then turned to her. “Kerra, about the tragedy that befell your parents, I was glib before. I apologize. I know the excruciating pain of loss.”
She didn’t address that but asked a question. “Does your wife believe that Tiffany was experimenting with drugs?”
“Greta accepted the medical examiner’s ruling that she died of respiratory arrest due to an accidental overdose. But, to this point, it’s been too painful a subject for us to discuss, even privately. She’s been shattered.”
Trapper said, “Like the people who lost loved ones to the Pegasus bombs.” He was eyeing Wilcox with unmitigated contempt. “Kerra may forgive you for the agony you brought about that day. That’s her prerogative. But don’t expect me to.”
“I don’t.”
“You tell a sad story, Wilcox. And I’m not being glib. I mean it. I hope the bastards who did that to your girl are captured, castrated, and then drawn and quartered. It would still be too easy on them. But am I supposed to be so moved by your personal tragedy that I’ll go to the FBI, or whoever, and advocate that they let you off the hook?”
“No, I don’t expect you to do anything for my sake.”
“Then what’s to motivate me?”
“These are the same men who tried their best to kill your father, tried to kill Kerra.”
Trapper and Kerra exchanged another glance, then both of them went back to Wilcox and simultaneously asked, “Who are they?”
But it was Trapper who, when Wilcox di
dn’t answer, lunged out of his seat, braced his hands on the desk, and shouted into the other man’s face. “Who? Tell me, damn you.”
“No.” Wilcox rolled the desk chair backward and stood up. “You can’t beat it out of me, either. Nor would you try. Because you still need me.”
“Let me get this straight,” Trapper said. “Bottom line. Your bargaining chip for immunity in the case of the Pegasus is to finger the men who tried to kill the hero of it?”
“There’s symmetry in that, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that you’re a piece of shit.”
Before Trapper took a swing at Wilcox, which he seemed on the verge of doing, Kerra nudged him aside and faced Wilcox across the desk. “Why was the attempt made on our lives so soon after the interview?”
“I think you’ve figured that out,” he said, dividing a look between them.
“They’re afraid of my memory?” she asked.
“Should they be?”
Trapper said, “Don’t answer that.”
“He’s right, Kerra,” Wilcox said. “Until these men are arrested, whatever you remember of that day, you should keep to yourself.” He looked between them again, but landed on Trapper. “I want to see the people who killed my daughter brought to justice.”
“Then why didn’t you sic the police on them when it happened? Why sweep it under the rug? Oh, wait. I know. You couldn’t expose them without your own crimes coming to light.”
“Not entirely.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“If I’d implicated them, the backlash would have been unmerciful.”
“You would have been knocked off next? Or your wife?”
“Oh, no. They would’ve punished me on a much grander scale. A school bus full of children would’ve been disintegrated. A nursing home’s heating system would’ve malfunctioned, and everyone in it would’ve been asphyxiated. Those were only two of the possibilities suggested to me.”
“Jesus.”
“Are you serious?”
Kerra and Trapper had spoken at the same time. Wilcox said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’re ruthless. They’ll stop at nothing.”
“They learned from a damn good high priest,” Trapper said.
The other man lowered his head for a moment and exhaled, but he didn’t own up to it.
Trapper tilted his head in puzzlement. “One thing I don’t get. Why haven’t they just popped you?”
Wilcox’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Because I have an assassination-proof life insurance policy.”
“Bulletproof vest?” Trapper said. “Life preserver? Food taster?”
“Something much surer.”
“What?”
Wilcox smiled. “Not until we’ve made our deal, Mr. Trapper.” Wilcox checked his wristwatch again and stood. “This has gone on too long. You don’t have to give me an answer tonight. But until you do, your life is in jeopardy, along with Kerra’s and The Major’s. You’ve made clear what you think of me. But balance their lives against your enmity toward me, and your decision should become clear. The sooner we strike our deal, the better for all concerned.” He extended his hand. “May I have my pistol back, please? You may keep the bullets, but the gun is a valuable artifact.”
Trapper regarded him closely, then reached around to the small of his back, pulled the revolver from his waistband, and handed it over. Wilcox thanked him and dropped the pistol into the pocket of his overcoat.
“I’ll leave first,” he told them. As he moved past Kerra, he paused and looked at her as though he would say something more, then he went out without further comment, the broken door glass crunching beneath his shoes.
They heard the whirr of the elevator. “Isn’t the entrance kept locked?” Kerra asked. “How will he get out?”
“If he managed to get in…” Trapper said. He went over to the window and peered through the blinds.
“Is he leaving?”
“With the musketeers flanking him.” He continued watching for a time, then whispered, “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“There was a fifth. He just came out of the building across the street, carrying a rifle case. They’re going, him and his armed escorts.” When he came back around to her, he said, “Or those guys could be his Tuesday night poker group, and he’s just telling us bogeyman stories to throw us off.”
“He might have lied about everything else, but I don’t believe he lied about his daughter and how she died.”
“Me either.”
“And the rest of it?”
“I tend to believe that, too,” Trapper said grimly. “He’s spooked, or he wouldn’t have been here. And those guys were too good to be poker buddies. I didn’t know they were there.”
“Will you intercede on his behalf?”
“With the feds, you mean?” He huffed a laugh. “He’s got a whole lot more faith in my influence than I do.”
She looked down at the wall outlet. “What was hidden in there?”
“Wilcox made a lucky guess.”
“You’d put everything on a flash drive?”
“Yep. Copies of every scrap of information, names, dates, transcripts of interviews with people who survived the Pegasus, and a recording of Berkley Johnson spilling his guts to me.”
“On video?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want Wilcox to know about that. Not yet.”
“Did you ever show it to anyone?”
“My immediate supervisor. He debunked it, believed it to be an elaborate lie Johnson concocted because of a grudge against his employer. He was a recovered alcoholic and in his youth had served time for committing a series of burglaries. They were penny-ante crimes, but his record brought his credibility into question.
“I suggested we depose him, where he’d be under oath—plus under pain of death from me if he was lying. But before that came about, he was killed.” He moved behind the desk, crouched in front of the hole in the wall, and stuck his arm inside up to his elbow, feeling around. When he stood up, he dusted his hands.
Kerra deflated. “They got it?”
“They got one of them.”
“One of them?”
A slow smile spread across Trapper’s face.
“Where’d you find it?”
Jenks replied, “Behind a wall outlet. Last place I looked.”
The other man pushed the flash drive into the computer port. “Where you find something is always the last place you look.”
The deputy chuckled. “Before I got to that outlet, I had the pleasure of turning the place inside out. Trapper won’t recognize it. Or his apartment, either.” He raised his glass of whiskey and saluted his own success.
“Let’s see what we have.”
Jenks scooted his chair closer so that he could see the computer monitor. The files on the drive were numbered, but not named. “May as well start at the top,” Jenks said.
The file opened onto a video screen. The play arrow was clicked on. For several seconds the screen remained black, but audio began playing. It was a percussion beat.
Then the video fade-in showed three naked people on an unmade bed, two women and a man, in flagrante delicto. A ménage à trois to the accompaniment of a monotonous thump, thump, thump.
Chapter 21
Kerra sputtered and then laughed out loud when Trapper told her what the vandal would find on the flash drive. “How many such videos did you put on there?”
“Ten or twelve. But after the first file is opened, he’ll know he’s been had.”
They’d left his office within minutes of Wilcox’s departure and were back in the ugly car borrowed from Carson’s brother-in-law. Trapper was driving.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before someone came searching to see what I had on the bombing and determine whether or not it was cause for concern. In light of this week’s events, it was almost a sure thing. I’d even asked Carson to keep his eyes peeled.”
“T
he file cabinet?”
“All for show. Trash, just like I told Wilcox. It wouldn’t have taken the intruder long to figure that out. I hid that flash drive behind the outlet so he’d think he’d found the mother lode.”
“Genius.”
“Not so genius. I still don’t know who he is, who they are, if there was more than one. Remains to be seen how many members there are in Wilcox’s fucked-up band of brothers.”
“Berkley Johnson didn’t specify?”
“He ‘couldn’t say for sure,’ and he might have been telling the truth. He could have lost count over the years. Or he was afraid to tell too much until he got into witness protection, which I think is more likely. I know he was scared of reprisal.”
“Rightfully.”
Trapper sighed. “Yeah. I live with that every day. I should’ve kept much better watch over him.”
“Blame the people responsible, Trapper. Not yourself.”
“Easier said.” He’d failed Berkley Johnson by not doing enough, soon enough, to protect him, which was why he was determined to keep Kerra in his sight. Not that having her within touch was hardship duty.
Trapper took a circuitous route from downtown, driving through residential neighborhoods, entering parking lots on one side and exiting on the other. Where traffic was heavier, he wove in and out of lanes, shot through yellow lights, made sharp turns at the last possible moment, constantly checking the rearview and side mirrors for a tail.
When he was certain they weren’t being followed, he backtracked in the same zigzagging way and now pulled to the curb in front of a neat, cottage-style house in one of Fort Worth’s established but recently refurbished neighborhoods.
Looking at the house, Kerra said, “This isn’t where I envisioned you living.”
“I don’t.”
“Then whose house is it?”
Disregarding the question, he said, “Come on.”
He got out on the driver’s side and went around. He ushered her up the front walk to the small, square porch where matching pots with narrow evergreen shrubs flanked a brick-red front door. An iron light fixture hung above it, but it was off.
Ignoring Kerra’s stare, which was demanding an explanation, he pressed the doorbell. It could be heard chiming inside. He continued to look straight ahead at the glossy surface of the door until the light fixture came on, the door was pulled open, and he was looking into the face of his former fiancée.