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48
Quint Bodine’s office didn’t look like it belonged in the Wild West any more than he did. Rather than old-world, it was painfully modern, with Swedish furniture that reminded Griffin of the IKEA warehouse.
Bodine nodded toward two chairs, and moved behind his very plain blond-wood desk, with only a computer and a phone on top. He sat down in his ergonomically engineered desk chair. He said nothing at all, merely steepled his long, thin fingers and gave them an emotionless look. Carson took Griffin’s cue and looked back blankly, waiting him out.
He finally said, “You have absolutely no evidence against my son. All you have is Dr. DeSilva’s statement she heard my son mumbling about the three missing teenage girls, which is ridiculous on its face. Or at least, that’s what you told Sheriff Bodine. Don’t push this, Dr. DeSilva.
“Agent Hammersmith, I suppose you’ll claim you’re only doing your job. Those three girls are missing, and an investigation is already under way, has been since Heather Forrester was taken here in Gaffer’s Ridge. But you’ve mistreated my son. You unlawfully entered Rafer’s house and broke his wrist. You also mistreated my brother. You had Booker threatened with machine guns and have occupied his office so he and his deputies can barely function. Yesterday you entered my own home without my permission and your Agent Savich physically attacked my wife. Believe me, I will be discussing this with our mayor, and he with our congressman. You should know I have other ways as well to deal with you.”
Griffin studied Rafer’s father a moment. He saw a man who was used to power, to wielding it with no hesitation whenever it would gain him what he wanted. “Do you know, Mr. Bodine,” he said slowly, “I’ve already been physically threatened more than once in this town. And now you give me a barely cloaked threat to use your influence. Or was your threat psychic?”
Bodine smiled, a shark’s smile, with teeth. “What do you think?”
“I think you could be capable of both. When we were at your home yesterday, your wife attacked another FBI agent, Agent Sherlock, and that is what led Agent Savich to protect her. Surely none of this is a surprise to you?”
“Of course she told me what Agent Savich said. It’s absurd, my wife wasn’t even close to Agent Sherlock when she fell to the porch outside the front door. My poor Cyndia was very upset.”
“So you’re denying what happened, what your wife is capable of?” Griffin asked.
“Cyndia is insightful, excellent, really, at understanding people, reading their emotions. Everyone who’s met her knows it. It can sometimes make people wary of her, uncomfortable. Yes, some people have claimed there is more to it, that she has some kind of psychic power, but of course, she’s never made that claim. It’s patently ludicrous. I would hardly expect it of the FBI.
“Tell me, why is this woman with you, Agent Hammersmith? She is not any kind of law enforcement. She is in fact a journalist from New York, here, she’s stated, to interview Dr. Alek Kuchar.”
“That’s right, Mr. Bodine,” Carson said. “I was here to do an interview, and your son attacked me.”
“I asked why she’s here with you, today, in my office, Agent Hammersmith.”
“In truth, Mr. Bodine? Here it is: I’m afraid to leave her alone in Gaffer’s Ridge. Someone, probably a Bodine, might try to kidnap her again.”
To his surprise, Quint Bodine drew back and laughed. It was a magnificent full-bodied laugh, an expensive brandy sort of laugh. “Kidnap her? In order to what? Sell her to a white slaver or something equally ridiculous? Isn’t that somewhat melodramatic, Agent Hammersmith? I’ll tell you what her coming here with you is about—it is harassment. You’re out to harm my reputation and that of my family. What with your making that public announcement to all the bank customers about the kidnappings when everyone knows you believe my son is guilty.”
Quint Bodine slammed his palm on his desk. “You know it’s not easy to sue the FBI, but I can sue Dr. DeSilva for slander. And believe me, my pockets are very deep.”
Carson gave Bodine her own shark smile. “Really? Well, my publisher’s pockets are so deep you’d get lost in them, Mr. Bodine.” She rose and leaned over his desk. “Bring it on.”
There was dead silence. Carson drew a deep breath, calmed herself, and sat back down.
Bodine was eyeing Carson with too much interest for Griffin’s peace of mind. As if he was assessing her, considering how best to deal with her, as if she baffled him.
Griffin then realized Quint Bodine had been playing them, and doing a good job of it. Griffin had to get the control. He decided he would try to goad Quint into losing it, maybe giving them more information. He sat back in his chair, swung his foot. He said with a sneer, “So you’re comfortable with the knowledge your son may have murdered three young girls.”
Bodine nearly levitated out of his ergonomic chair. Then he drew a deep steadying breath, even smiled. He slowly rose, shot his French cuffs, looked his fill once again at Carson, and said, “I invited you into my office, I have even been polite, answered your questions. But I want no more to do with you. It’s time for you to leave. Do not come back to this bank again. You may contact my lawyer if you wish, but not me, and not my son.”
He’d gotten too much of a rise out of Bodine.
Strained silence followed them out the door. Griffin took Carson’s elbow as they walked back down the narrow stairs to the bank lobby, where all eyes followed them again, watching.
Griffin nodded and gave a little finger wave to the citizens of Gaffer’s Ridge gathered in the Wild West lobby. Once outside, Griffin paused, looked back. “Quint Bodine knows, Carson, he knows everything.”
“Yes, you’re right, he does.”
He stopped at the corner to let cars pass. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
Up went an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Like you were prey.”
