Crush - Alan Jacobson [88]
“No. Next question.”
“So if we search your house, your garage, your cell phone records, text message transcripts, none of it will implicate you?”
“We were friends, that’s it. I knew him from high school.”
“And you had nothing to do with the fire,” Brix said.
He looked at Brix with an unwavering gaze. “Nothing.”
“Then maybe you can help us out. What can you tell us about Walton and Scott?”
“I knew Scott better. He was a good guy. Walt is, too, but I don’t spend much time with him.”
“What’s he like?” Vail asked. “Someone who’s likely to get into trouble? Honorable?”
“Pretty honorable, yeah. Never did anything a typical teen wouldn’t do. Other than that, I’ve never seen him get into serious trouble.”
Here’s where it would get a little dicey—but she wanted to see his reaction. “That’s interesting, Mr. Nance, because Walton said you and he and Scott worked together to set the fire that nearly killed me.”
Nance leaned forward, invading Vail’s space, and placed a hand on the table beside hers. He was now six inches from her face.
Vail was tempted to head butt him. A quick crack across the bridge of his nose. It would hurt like hell—but it’d also feel quite good. She did not take well to men intimidating her. An image of her ex-husband, Deacon, flashed through her thoughts. There’s no way Nance would pull this on a man; she knew that.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Why the hell would he say that?”
Vail rose from her chair, driving him backwards. She stepped forward, now invading his space and causing him to tilt ever so slightly onto his heels. “Oh, he did more than just say it, Mr. Nance. He wrote it. Three pages worth. Describing how, and why, you guys set the fire. Something to do with Congressman Church running for governor— and taking the three of you along with him and naming you to important posts in his administration.”
Nance tugged at his tie, loosened the knot. “First, it’s all bullshit. And second, Walt wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what, write it all down or set the fire?”
Nance narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then I guess we’re even,” Vail said. “Because we don’t believe you, either.”
“And I’m done talking.”
Brix rose from his chair. “Then that’s two things we agree on. Because we’re done talking, too.”
LEAVING THE TIMOTHY NANCE MATTER to Sheriff Owens to sort out, Vail and Dixon headed out of the county building.
Dixon pushed open the front door. “What’s your take?”
Vail held it open for a large man who was entering. “Nance is cool, no doubt about it. But Silva had no reason to lie. Nance is guilty, but whether or not you can prove it is another matter. And making a case against him might be difficult. Unless we find more forensics around his place, the case is Silva’s word against Nance’s. Who’s the jury going to believe?”
Before Dixon answered, Ray Lugo came walking up the steps.
“You’re late for the party,” Dixon said.
“Oh, yeah? Judging by the look on your faces, it doesn’t look like I missed anything. But here’s something we don’t want to miss.” He held up his cell phone. “Just got a call. Kevin Cameron wants to talk.”
THIRTY-THREE
Kevin Cameron had physically aged in the past two days. As he stood by his open front door, he had the darkness of depression in his eyes, which were puffed, glassy, and bloodshot. His hair was uncombed and his cuffed dress shirt had days-old wear-creases.
Ray Lugo gave Cameron a shoulder hug, then reintroduced him to Vail and Dixon. The four of them stood there, silent, until Lugo said, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
Cameron nodded, then motioned them to a path around the back of the house, which led to a compacted, decomposed granite path that cut through a rose garden. Twenty paces ahead was a well-tended vineyard. A couple of workers were down one of the aisles, huddled around a vine.
They walked in pairs, Lugo and Cameron ahead of Vail and Dixon. Their shoes crunched the walkway as they waited for Cameron to start talking. When he failed to initiate the conversation, Vail glanced at Dixon, who nodded. Vail said, “Kevin,