Friends Like These(49)

His puffy mouth contorts. “What the— where did this even happen?”

“Mr. Hendrix, I’m afraid I’m going to need you to fill in some gaps for me before I can share any more details. This is an ongoing investigation.”

Hendrix glares at me. He’s not stupid. He knows he’s got a choice to make.

“What do you want to know?” I see his body tense.

“Admission records say that you were brought in here from the train station at four this morning. Can you tell me where you were before that?”

“I fell asleep there, waiting for my train,” he says.

Passed out, as the result of a beating, not fell asleep— I already know that much.

“But you left Jonathan’s house early yesterday,” I say. “That’s nearly twenty-four hours unaccounted for.”

Hendrix shakes his head, a flicker of sadness passing across his face.

“I’ve known Derrick since we were kids,” he says, ignoring my question about the gap in his timeline. “I’m going to be— it better not be him.”

“What about Keith? I thought he was your agent.”

“Art dealer. And that isn’t the same thing as a friend,” he says. “Keith and I have been having problems lately anyway. Or rather he’s been having problems that have been causing me problems.”

“What kind of problems?” I ask, playing dumb.

“He’s a fucking addict.” Hendrix sounds disgusted. “An addict without enough money to support his habit. Without enough money, period. Fucking pathetic. Not exactly the kind of person you want having a hand in your finances.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Yeah, it is bad. Totally unprofessional, verging on illegal, actually. Keith cost me one important show already. In London. Obviously, I don’t wish him dead, but . . .”

“You wouldn’t be sorry if he is?”

His eyes flash. “I didn’t say that.”

“So you don’t know what happened in that car, Mr. Hendrix?”

“How could I? I left yesterday, remember?”

“What about a local girl named Crystal?” I ask. “She was at the house. Did you see her?”

“No, ma’am,” he says instantly. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Any chance Keith or Derrick is responsible for these injuries of yours?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes still on me.

“I’ve heard Derrick Chism has a history of violence, one that you, specifically, disclosed this weekend. And then here you turn up the victim of an assault. That seems like a big coincidence.”

“Coincidence is all you’ve got?” With a grimace he pushes himself off the bed, grunting as his feet hit the floor. “You can’t fucking hold me on coincidence, you and I both know that. Besides, I’m the fucking victim here.”

“Victim of what, Mr. Hendrix?” I ask. “That’s all I want to know.”

But Finch Hendrix just shakes his head as he takes off his hospital gown. His well-defined chest and abdomen are covered in the beginnings of spectacular bruises, his left side taped along his ribs. He makes one attempt to put on his T-shirt, then pauses to take a deep breath. The second time he gets it over his head, but has to stop again and rest, before finally managing to tug it all the way down.

“You know what I think?” I say.

“What’s that?”

“I think maybe you and Keith Lazard finally had it out in Derrick Chism’s car. Lazard got physical, and you took the upper hand. Derrick intervenes on Keith’s behalf. Eventually you picked up a weapon to defend yourself. And accidentally, someone got killed. It was two against one— you have a great case for self-defense.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, squinting at me. “Except none of that happened. I was never in Derrick’s car. Keith Lazard never laid a hand on me. And I sure as hell didn’t kill anybody.”

“Well, you weren’t passed out in the train station for twenty-four hours either, not without anyone noticing. That much I know for sure.”

Hendrix shrugs, gestures vaguely into the air. “All I can tell you is what I can tell you,” he says. “And I don’t know what happened in that car. You want me to guess, I bet it’s some drug thing. Keith probably wanted to buy. Derrick probably tried to talk him out of it, but took him anyway. Derrick can be easy to lean on. They probably ran into the wrong people. That’s why you shouldn’t fucking do drugs.”

He pats his pockets as he looks around for something. Finally he spots a set of keys on a small table near the door, and stiffly makes his way over to pick them up. I watch him reach for them with his left hand.

“Mr. Hendrix, why don’t you just tell me where you were for the nearly twenty-four hours between when you left the house and when you were found passed out and bleeding internally at the train station? Tell me that, and then you can go.”

“How about I just go now? How about I just walk right out that door without telling you anything?”

“There’s an armed officer on the door who will stop you, Mr. Hendrix.”

This is a lie. I can’t stop Hendrix from leaving. There’s definitely more to his story, but nothing that a judge would believe constitutes probable cause to hold him. And so I watch as Hendrix makes his way somehow both arrogantly and gingerly toward the door, taking with him my best chance to make Seldon happy— a real live suspect who doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Kaaterskill.