Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [61]
Perdue glanced over her shoulder at Derek and barely restrained the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
“You’re not cops, just PIs.” Hines frowned. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t have to talk to us,” Perdue said. “But one call and I can have the Carey PD out here in ten minutes flat. If you’d rather talk to them—”
“Who hired you?” Hines looked from Perdue to Derek. “One of them bitches from that movie? Writing fan letters isn’t against no law. I haven’t done nothing illegal.”
“Would you prefer to have this conversation out here for all your neighbors to see and speculate about, or would you rather invite us in?” Derek asked.
Hines glanced around and saw that several of the trailer park’s occupants were milling around outside their trailers and doing their best not to be conspicuous about their curiosity.
“Come on in.” Hines stepped back inside his trailer and left the door open.
The interior, though shabby and cluttered, looked and smelled fairly clean, which surprised Derek. Hines swiped a stack of magazines off the sofa and copies of Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler scattered over the floor.
“Take a load off.” Hines pointed to the seen-better-days plaid sofa.
Derek waited for Perdue to sit and then he sat beside her, leaving a couple of feet between them, making sure he didn’t invade her personal space.
“Before I answer your questions, I want you to answer mine—who hired you?”
“Our agency represents the families of two of the Midnight Masquerade actors,” Perdue said. “You probably know the actors as Dewey Flowers and Woody Wilson.”
“Dewey Flowers,” Hines sighed. “Now there is one sweet piece of…” He caught himself before finishing the vulgar expression and looked right at Maleah. “I’ve had more than one wet dream starring Miss Flowers, believe you me.” His puzzled expression scrunched his face. “Did her family hire you to track me down and warn me to stop writing her? ’Cause that’s all I’ve done—just write her some letters telling her how much I like her.”
“When was the last time you wrote to Ms. Flowers?” Derek asked.
“Hmm…” Hines rubbed his thumb over the beard stubble darkening his chin. “Sometime last year. Never heard back from that one.”
“You didn’t happen to send any letters to her home address this year, did you? Letters telling her that she was going to die?” Perdue focused directly on Hines.
“Hell, no! Is that what’s going on here? Somebody’s written Miss Flowers and threatened her? It wasn’t me. Swear to God, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t harm a hair on that pretty little head of hers. Besides, where would I get her home address?”
Derek’s gut told him Duane Hines was probably telling the truth. No doubt he was a sexual deviant and an altogether reprehensible human being, but those undesirable qualities did not make him a murderer.
Derek and Perdue exchanged brief looks that he interpreted to mean they were in agreement about Hines. And ten minutes later, they left the trailer park and headed back to the airport where they would eat supper and catch a night flight to Laredo.
Once on the road a few miles from the trailer park, Derek broke the silence between them. “My educated guess is that whoever our killer is, he has the means to buy airline tickets from wherever he lives to Knoxville, Memphis, and Arizona.”
“Yeah, I agree. And Hines looks like he doesn’t have two nickels to rub together.”
“Our killer isn’t necessarily wealthy, but not only does he have to have enough money for airline tickets and enough to afford the fancy masks he left on each victim, but possibly fake ID, disguises, and hotel rooms. And he has to be able to take time away from his job.”
“Travis Dillard could afford to pay for airline tickets to just about anywhere and it’s possible he still owned the