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“That’s the last time I saw her.”
If what he said was true, anyone could’ve picked her up. Butch knew that, of course. He’d concocted his story to create doubt, to suggest that some mysterious killer might’ve come upon her after he’d driven off. The chance of that happening wasn’t great, but it was a chance, and that was all he needed to create reasonable doubt. “Why are you so forthcoming with me, Butch?” she asked.
“Because I’ll have to talk to the police, anyway, and you’re making more out of Saturday night than it was. I’m an innocent man. I don’t need you or anyone else causing me trouble. I have a family to support.”
She pinched her lips as she considered him. “An innocent man doesn’t try to terrorize a woman.”
“I flirted with her online, took her out to dinner and had consensual sex with her. I didn’t terrorize her.”
“I’m talking about me,” Francesca said.
Lines of frustration appeared on his forehead. “I already explained that. I thought you were hired by my—”
“No, at my house,” she broke in. “What were you doing at my house?”
His frustration gave way to confusion. “You’ve lost me. I’ve never been to your place.” Stretching to reach the air conditioner, he adjusted the knob to high, which started the fan spinning so loudly she was worried the police wouldn’t be able to hear what was coming through her wire.
She raised her voice to compensate. “You came over and cut my phone line.”
He put his feet down one at a time and leaned halfway across the desk. “Maybe someone cut your line, but…It. Wasn’t. Me.”
It was. Francesca was sure of it. Maybe she hadn’t been able to make out the details of his face, but she’d seen his size and shape. And the timing couldn’t be a coincidence. Besides that, the person who’d come hadn’t actually attempted to break in. Why would anyone cut her telephone line for no reason—unless it was an act of revenge, a message like the one she would’ve expected to receive from Butch?
He was playing with her. It was almost as if he knew she was wearing a wire.
She had to get him to say something that might make the police realize he was dangerous. Otherwise, his explanation of their encounter at the salvage yard, and his claim that he hadn’t been to her house, could seem plausible. If Butch managed to convince Finch that he wouldn’t hurt her or anyone else, Finch wouldn’t waste the man-hours necessary to continue surveillance. “Stop it. I know better.”
“It couldn’t have been me,” he protested.
“Why not?”
“Because I was here all night. Ask my wife.”
She gripped her purse with both hands. “I’m getting the impression your wife would say anything to protect you.”
“We stick together. But she’s not lying, and neither am I.”
“What you’re telling me doesn’t make sense,” Francesca said. “Who else could it have been?”
He slapped the top of his desk. “How the hell should I know? It could’ve been anyone. A Peeping Tom. A meddlesome neighbor. A jilted lover.”
She shook her head. “It was you.”
Some of the anger slithering beneath the surface of his control was beginning to show. “Why would I waste my time?”
“Because you weren’t happy when I left here. Because you wanted me to feel vulnerable. Because you’re sick in the head. Take your pick.”
He stood. “I shouldn’t have tried to talk to you. You’re not listening. You’re too paranoid. I came after you when you were here because I’m sick of the investigators my girlfriend’s husband keeps sending over. I wanted to make it clear I wouldn’t put up with being spied on or harassed, especially on my own property. That’s it. Nothing to do with murder.”
Francesca wasn’t making any progress, so she decided to take the conversation in a different direction. “Have you ever heard of Bianca Andersen?”
“Who?” he said, but he’d jerked at the name as if he’d recognized it, as if she’d surprised him.
“Bianca Andersen.”
His expression darkened. “No.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me who she is? Or why I’m mentioning her?”
