| |
I turned around slowly as directed.
Henry Nixon was standing just inside the front door, holding a small handgun.
He kept the gun pointed in my direction with his right hand, then turned the deadbolt lock to the front door with his left. He twisted the plastic piece next to the wooden blinds attached to the door, shutting the blinds and cutting down on the light in the room.
He smiled. “Closed for lunch.”
“What are you doing, Henry?” Renfroe asked. “A gun? Really?”
“Really,” Henry said, pointing it at him for emphasis. “It has bullets and everything.”
Renfroe went back to being nervous.
Nixon moved to his right, keeping significant distance between him and myself as he swept in an arc toward Renfroe's desk. Renfroe pushed himself back from his desk, his roller chair bumping against the back window. Nixon peered down at Renfroe's desktop. He picked up the second pile of papers Renfroe had printed off. Gentry's offer.
He whistled. “Hoo, boy. That's some cash money right there.” He smiled at me. “Makes my offer look a bit underwhelming, don't you think?”
I didn't say anything.
He picked up Gentry's offer and dropped it in the wastebasket that Renfroe had deposited his sweaty tissue into. “We won't be needing it.”
I looked at Renfroe. “I apologize about the car questions. I know it wasn't your car.”
Renfroe looked at me like I was still speaking a foreign language.
“The Porsche,” I said to Nixon. “The Macan. “It's yours, right?”
Nixon stared at me, a little amused. “That's what I drive, yes. Why?”
I shook my head, irritated with myself. I should've guessed better. After I'd realized Rose Henderson had nothing to do with her husband's death or intimidating Anne, I'd shifted my focus to Gentry, zeroing in on his persistence and his arrogance.
Which might've been annoying, but they weren't motivators.
Gentry had money. He had the big contracts. He had the connections.
Henry Nixon did not.
I looked at Nixon. “Brake lines? Or something else?”
Nixon blinked and licked his lips. “What?”
“Did you cut Mitchell's brake lines so he'd crash? Or did you sabotage the car in another way?”
Renfroe sucked in a breath.
Nixon shifted from looking like he had command of the room to looking nervous.
“There's video,” I told him. “From highway cams. Of the accident. Your car is on it. Just after he went off the bridge. I assume you were just making sure?”
Nixon bit down on his upper lip.
“Oh, and we've got it on Mission Boulevard, too,” I said. “Right about the time you broke into the motel.”
“What?” Renfroe said. “What are you talking about?”
Nixon said nothing.
“My guess is that if we look hard enough, we can find it on some street cam near Anne's home when you left her the little present that you set on fire for her,” I said. “You're not very good at this, Henry.”
“What is he talking about, Henry?” Renfroe demanded. “What is he talking about?”
Nixon frowned at the lawyer. “Would you just shut up for a minute?”
I looked at Renfroe. “He did something that caused Mitchell Henderson's car to go off that highway. He broke into The Blue Wave and caused some damage. Left a threatening message. Then he took the time apparently to build a small-scale model of the motel and took it to Anne's house. Where he set it on fire. A not-so-subtle message.”
“Oh my God,” Renfroe whispered.
“If Henderson wouldn't have been so stubborn, we wouldn't be having this conversation,” Nixon said.
“Also if you hadn't killed him,” I said.
“Oh my God,” Renfroe repeated.
“I was trying to help him out,” Nixon said, shaking his head. “I knew the motel was struggling. I was trying to help him out and take it off his hands. But he just wouldn't listen.”
“So you took the decision out of his hands,” I said.
“I just didn't know the motel was going to that other woman,” Nixon said, disgusted.
I thought for a moment and it clicked. “You thought Rose was getting it.”
“Of course I did,” he snapped. “And I knew from my conversations with Henderson that she wanted to sell it. She wanted him to unload it as much as I did.”
“You just had different reasons,” I said.
He shrugged.
I looked at Renfroe. “So, what was the deal? You skew the numbers and make it look more dire than it already was and you'd get a cut of the sale?”
Renfroe's chin was tucked to his chest, the bowtie pinched against his body.
“Everyone gets a little cash?” I continued. “50-50 split?” I looked at Nixon. “Or did you go 70-30, figuring you should get the lion's share since it was your idea?”
“You don't know what it's like,” Nixon said, shaking his head.
“No? Tell me what it's like then.”
“Every day, I go up against guys like Damiano,” he said through clenched teeth. “And every day, I lose. Every day. I am barely keeping things afloat at my company, alright? Just barely.”
“Like Mitchell Henderson.”
“Just like Mitchell Henderson,” he said, nodding. “And if he hadn't been so goddamn dumb, we could've helped one another out. But he wouldn't listen.”
“So, instead, you killed him,” I said. “With friends like you...”
Renfroe jerked up from his chair and Nixon pivoted, aiming the gun at him.
“Enough,” Renfroe said, his entire body shaking. “Enough.” He looked at me, his eyes furious. “I had nothing to do with Mr. Henderson's death and I had utterly no idea that Henry was involved. None. And I certainly wasn't involved in vandalism or threatening anyone.”
“So, just a little book cooking?” I asked.
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Yes. Book cooking, as you put it. I manipulated some numbers in order to create a false picture.”
“For how much?”
He swallowed again and his hands were quivering. “Ten percent of the eventual sale price.”
I whistled just as Nixon had done. “You came cheap, Kirby. Bet you were wishing you held out for more when you saw Gentry's number.”
His cheeks flushed, color returning for the first time in a while to his face. He turned to Nixon. “But I had no idea of what you were doing. None.” He swiveled to me. “He came to me after Mr. Henderson was...gone. And proposed the deal to me. I stupidly agreed. We both thought the property would be left to Mrs. Henderson and believed she would sell it quickly.”
“Except it didn't go to her,” I said.
“It did not,” Renfroe said quietly. “But I swear, I've done nothing to that woman and had no idea it was occurring.” He moved his eyes back to Nixon. “I won't be a part of this.”
“You already are,” Nixon said, frowning. “So just settle your bow tie down there.”
“No,” Renfroe said, shaking his head. “I will accept my punishment for doing something foolish in the pursuit of money, but I will not take responsibility for whatever other horrible things you've done.” Renfroe turned back to me. “I'll admit my culpability. I'll testify. I'll do whatever I need to. I knew I made a mistake the moment I agreed to this stupid plan. But I never agreed to murder or extortion or anything of the sort.”
For what it was worth, I believed Kirby Renfroe. He seemed genuinely shocked at what he'd learned and he hadn't tried to deny his role for too long. He was now in ass-saving mode.
And that wasn't sitting well with Henry Nixon.
“You will do what I tell you to do,” Nixon said, raising the gun so that it was even with Renfroe's chest. “I knew I needed to come in here.” He glanced at me. “I got here so I could take a look at Gentry's offer, but he told me you hadn't been here yet and shooed me away. So I went and grabbed some coffee, then hung out by the front door. Conversation was going on a little too long for my taste and I knew my pal Kirby here might start saying things he shouldn't be saying.” He looked back at Renfroe. “So you will do what I tell you.”
“No, I will not,” Renfroe said, his voice wavering. “I will not.”
I stood up and Nixon pivoted in my direction.
“Sit down,” he growled.
“I don't think I will,” I said. “You aren't going to shoot anyone, Henry. You're in a bind and you got caught and you don't know what to do. You're trying to buy yourself some time, but it's over. I can tell you've never held a gun in your life and that means you've never pulled the trigger.” I paused. “It's not an easy thing to do. I don't recommend it.”
The gun was shaking ever so slightly in his hand. “I will. I will.”
“You're trying to convince yourself,” I said. “It's over. Don't make it worse.”
“Make it worse?” he said, laughing derisively. “How exactly could I do that at this point?”
“By shooting me,” I said. “By shooting Kirby. Don't make it worse.”
“I have nothing left,” Nixon said, shaking his head. “Nothing. What's there to save?”
I almost felt bad for him. He was clearly desperate. I wondered if he'd done other criminal things when times got tough. He didn't seem like the type, but I hadn't pegged him for the type to kill someone, either.
“I will not go down with you!” Renfroe yelled.
Renfroe charged at Nixon. He tackled him and they both tumbled to the floor, the gun pinned between their bodies. The gun discharged and the wrestling stopped.
Renfroe rolled off of Nixon, his chest heaving, his bow tie askew.
Nixon was on his back, the small gun laying flat on his chest. Tears rolled out of his eyes and down the sides of his face.
Renfroe patted his chest, looking for a wound, some sign that he'd taken a bullet.
I walked over and picked up the gun.
Nixon's eyes were someplace else, his body starting to tremble as he cried.
The smell of sulfur drifted off the pistol.
I fingered the red, plastic circle in the barrel.
“Cap gun,” I said.
Renfroe audibly sighed, clearly relieved that there was no bullet in his body.
And Henry Nixon laid there, tears running down his face, his desperation now replaced with sadness.