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“Did you come to kill me?”
I study the man, intrigued by his presumption.
“Why would I want to kill you?”
There’s something there in his expression I don’t recognize. It’s not fear.
“How’d you get in?”
“Came around the side of the house.” That’s not true at all. I parked my car outside the neighborhood and hiked through the golf course.
He shifts in his chair. His chest rises and falls, and his facial muscles relax. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He points to my backpack. “You always carry a backpack with you when you make house calls?”
The man spent his career in the gun industry. He recognizes backpacks that double as gun cases. He’s also leading the interrogation.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Do I have a choice?” His question concedes weakness. He’s fitter than he used to be, but he doesn’t have my training. And he’s unarmed.
I drag a chair over and position it to his side. He shifts his chair, so he faces me instead of the pool.
“What can I do for you, Sophia?” There’s genuine curiosity in his tone, and it’s distinctly different from his original greeting.Did you come to kill me?
“I’m hoping you’ll talk to me.”
His gaze pointedly zeroes in on my gloves. “You planning on using some of your fancy government torture techniques?”
“Do I need to?” I wait, watching his eyes dart around the perimeter. “I’m here alone,” I say to set him at ease. Plus, it’s the truth. The words of an FBI guest instructor come to mind. Set them at ease, work to understand their humanity. “Did you love my mother?”
I don’t believe he did, not by my measure of love. But people apply a subjective measurement system to love.
“You know I did.” He looks me straight in the eye and his hands remain still. His words are crisp. He believes himself. And he’s defensive.
“I believe you loved her.” His eyes narrow into a distrustful squint, and I amend my words. “In your own way.”
“Why are you here? To talk about your mom?”
“I want the list.”
He lifts his glass and sips with a watchful gaze. When he sets the glass back down on the armrest, he asks, “You can’t let it go?”
I chose a career in law enforcement. Clearly, I have no intention of letting it go. I inhale deeply to curb my irritation. “When I visited you, you mentioned a list.”
“I told you, there’s no one else.”
I narrow my eyes, mimicking his skeptical expression. “We both know you couldn’t talk in prison.” Fisher was right. My visit to him in the penitentiary had been a fool’s errand. “Someone could’ve been listening. Out here, it’s just us. No one’s listening. You can deny anything you say.” He blinks, hands folded over his belly. I can’t be certain what he’s looking at. Maybe the pavers. Maybe my shoes. “Think of my mom. If you loved her, don’t you think you owe her?”
He covers his eyes with one hand. My question pains him, and I mentally file that observation. With his eyes still closed, he pinches the bridge of his nose. With a heavy sigh, his hand falls back to the armrest, and his gaze falls to the right of the base of my chair.
“You already know the players. Mark Sullivan.” He breathes out deeply, and it sounds like resignation. “He’s dead.”
“Senator Talbot,” I say, prompting him. We all know the senator is a conduit.
“He might’ve been involved, but I’ve got no evidence. Nothing for you to use in a court of law.”
