Ben hadn’t moved from the counter.James was reorganizing the printouts Daniels and Begaye had been examining, his hands steady, his face set.
“Washington,” James said.
“I’ll fly out Monday.Present everything in person.But I’m not going empty-handed.By the time I sit down with Public Integrity, I want the physical evidence to back up every document in that package.”He looked at Ben.“Which means we need to talk about the airfield.”
“I’ve been ready to talk about the airfield since I got out.”
“Not tonight.We plan this properly—routes, timing, contingencies.And we wait for Kari.She’s close to finishing her case.When she does, Marshall comes with her, and we have federal authority that isn’t compromised.”
Ben pushed off from the counter and stretched, the ankle monitor visible for a moment as his jeans rode up.“How long?”
“Days.Maybe less.”
"Then let's use the time.I'll draw what I can of the airfield from memory—the trailer, the hangar, the access road I crossed on the way out.It's not much.I wasn't exactly taking a tour.But it's a starting point."
James found a legal pad and a pen.Ben sat down at the table and started drawing—slowly, hesitantly.
Daniels watched him work and thought about the distance between where they were and where they needed to be.Washington.The airfield.The DOJ office where someone he’d never met would decide whether twenty years of conspiracy and murder warranted the full weight of the federal government’s attention.
The wind pressed against the windows.Ruth’s loom had gone silent.Tomorrow the planning would start in earnest.
Tonight, Ben drew maps.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kari had interviewed killers who knew exactly what they’d done and felt nothing.She’d interviewed killers who didn’t remember and were horrified when told.She’d never interviewed one who remembered and yet didn’t understand.
Marshall arranged the interview for a Tuesday afternoon at the Ashford estate, where the court-appointed caregiver reported that Ashford had been having a run of lucid days.His attorney—a criminal defense specialist from Albuquerque named Weiss—was present, along with a forensic psychiatrist Marshall had brought to evaluate Ashford’s competency in real time.The psychiatrist, Dr.Lena Flores, would observe from a side room through a video feed and could halt the interview if Ashford’s mental state deteriorated below a threshold she’d defined in advance.
Kari sat across from Ashford in his own living room, in one of the leather chairs she’d sat in during the search.The Steinway still had dust on its lid.Ashford was dressed in pressed khakis and a blue oxford shirt, his silver hair combed, his hands folded in his lap.He looked like a man receiving a visitor for afternoon tea.The tremor was visible in his fingers when he unfolded them, a fine oscillation that he seemed unaware of.
“Mr.Ashford, do you know why I’m here?”
“You’re the detective.”He said it with mild interest, the way someone might identify a species of bird.“You were here before.With the other woman.The one with the badge.”
“That’s right.I’d like to ask you some questions about your art collection.”
“Of course.”He brightened.“Would you like to see the gallery?I’ve made some recent acquisitions that I’m very proud of.”
"The gallery is being processed by our forensic team right now.But I'd like to talk about some of the artists whose work you've collected.Specifically, Leonard Redhouse, Linda Tafoya, and Raymond Honanie."
At the mention of the names, Ashford’s expression underwent a change that Kari watched with close attention.No alarm, no guilt—instead a flickering between recognition and confusion, as if the names opened doors in his mind that led to rooms he could no longer navigate.
“Leonard,” he said slowly.“Yes.The dancer.I have his dancer.The one with the red—the ceremonial...”He trailed off, his eyes losing focus for a moment before sharpening again.“Leonard understood something about movement that most painters miss entirely.The dancer isn’t frozen.He’s between moments.That’s what makes it extraordinary.”
“When was the last time you saw Leonard Redhouse?”
“I see him every day.”Ashford smiled.“In the painting.He’s there, in the brushstrokes.If you look long enough, you can feel him moving through the paint.”
“I mean Leonard Redhouse the person.The man who created the paintings.”
Ashford's brow furrowed.The tremor in his hands increased slightly."Leonard is...I spoke with him at his studio.He showed me how he mixes the pigments.The red comes from—it's a mineral, I can't remember the name.He grinds it himself."He paused."That was recently.Wasn't it?"
“Mr.Ashford, Leonard Redhouse is dead.”
“No.”He said it simply, without distress.“No, that’s not right.I was just with him.We talked about the dancer.”
Weiss, the attorney, shifted in his chair but didn’t intervene.Dr.Flores, watching from the side room, sent a text to Marshall’s phone:Competent to continue.Confabulation present but he’s tracking the conversation.
