Friends Like These(62)

Hoff closes his eyes, shakes his head again. “Mike Gaffney, okay?” he says finally. “That’s who I saw. Coming out of the woods near where those girls were killed. I was only driving past and I only caught a glimpse. But he was wearing one of those red Ace Construction hats, and he had on this damn ugly plaid shirt I’d seen him wearing the week before when he came into the Cumberland Farms.”

When I come in, Finch Hendrix is slumped across the table in interview room 2. He’s gripping his right side with one hand, the other propping up his head. He’s pulled his shoulder-length hair back in a headband, which makes him look significantly less attractive.

“You do know I’m going to sue the shit out of you?” he asks, but in a tired voice, as I pull out a chair and sit. “I have a show to put on tonight. A delay costs me actual money.”

“Killing one, maybe two, people does have a tendency to limit one’s financial opportunities,” I say. Shock value is never a bad place to start. Also, I’m hoping it might help me focus on this conversation. Because I’m fixating on Mike Gaffney and Jane— all alibis are not created equal, and I never went back to double-check Mike Gaffney’s myself. He’d said he was on a remodeling job at the time, but it’d be good to confirm that again.

“I didn’t fucking kill anybody,” Hendrix says. “This is bullshit, and you know it.”

“Where’s Crystal?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The girl you picked up on Thursday night from the Farm,” I say. “Before going back down to the city and pretending to come back up for the first time with everyone else on Friday.”

Finch glances up from the table. “So I knew some girl? That’s not a crime.”

“But stabbing someone is. Was Crystal your accomplice?” This theory’s half formed at best, but wild accusations can sometimes dislodge the actual truth. “If Crystal was involved, I’d get that on the record. You could be the one who makes a deal here. Because I’m betting she’ll be game to talk as soon as we find her.”

“Wow, you are so fucking lost,” Hendrix says, with an uncomfortable amount of confidence. “It’s comical.”

“Help me out then,” I say. “Enlighten me, Mr. Hendrix.”

He is quiet, studying a spot on the wall above my head. “When I left on Saturday morning, Crystal was in bed with Keith,” he says. “He brought her home from the bar Friday because he was hoping to use with her. I don’t know what happened to her after that. And I sure as hell don’t know what happened in that car with Derrick and Keith. I was long gone by then.”

“Who did that to you, Mr. Hendrix?” I gesture toward his swollen lip.

He’s quiet for a long minute, staring now at the back of his hands, splayed out against the tabletop.

“Derrick,” he says finally, looking up at me. His gaze is steady. “Okay? Derrick, that insane motherfucker, beat the shit out of me.”

“Was this before or after you stabbed him?”

He shakes his head, but his stare doesn’t waver. “You can keep saying that. It won’t make it any more true.”

“So tell me what did happen. Why did Derrick do that to you?”

Finch smooths his palms across the table, like he’s wiping something away. “I found some pictures in his bag. I gave him a hard time about them, and he did not appreciate it.” He points to his face. “In case you don’t know, Derrick’s got a temper.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” I say. “And yet you were still his friend?”

Finch frowns, looks a little bewildered himself. “History. We’re always trying to claw it back, aren’t we?”

“I heard you were also always trying to elbow your way into this group. Sounds a little desperate.”

Finch laughs arrogantly, but then winces again. “Listen, I’ve got whole rooms of people showing up to spend time with me. A calendar full of invitations. Why would I give a shit about these fucking people?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they didn’t want you?”

He squints just the tiniest bit. I’ve hit the nail exactly on the head. Finch wanted in with this group because they didn’t want him. Famous artist, arrogant, maybe even a little bit of a sociopath. Rejection could have been too much for him to take. Maybe he wanted to inflict a little pain of his own.

“And Crystal?” I press on. “You were seen at the Farm picking her up. Why?”

Finch hesitates for a long time, staring again at that same spot on the wall.

“I paid her to end up with Keith,” he says finally. “Came up here a few days before, tracked down somebody who I thought would work— pretty enough, smart enough, high enough. Gave her cash for a few days in a hotel. She was supposed to have drugs on her by the time we met at the Falls and Keith was there.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was pissed at Keith for how he fucked my London show.” He drives a finger against the tabletop. “Keith betrayed me. Letting me work my balls off for something that wasn’t ever happening? It was seriously messed up.”

“So you sent a drug addict to have sex with him?”

“No, I sent a drug addict to confirm that he was a drug addict. I suspected, but I didn’t know for sure. And I’ve got a representation contract with Keith that I’d very much like to get out of without financial penalty. For that I need cause, like proof of a drug problem.” Finch laughs. “Real question is, what’s his friends’ excuse for not stepping in to stop him from having sex with a drug addict? Despite what this group seems to think, standing by while your friend slits their own throat isn’t some act of devotion.”