Rich Blood (Jason Rich #1)(14)

“If that’s how you want it to go, then we’ll just take you with us and be on our merry way,” Hatty added.

Pike sat up straight and folded his arms across his chest. His brown hair was disheveled, as if he’d been dragged out of bed, and his face was covered in several days’ worth of stubble. He looked at George first and then Hatty. “Dr. Waters?” he asked.

“Don’t play dumb with us,” George said. “Several of the Waterses’ neighbors remember you working on their house, and a Bridgeport woman has given a statement that you confessed to killing him.” That was a bit of an exaggeration. Tara Samples had said that Pike confessed to killing a doctor on the physician’s boat dock. He hadn’t mentioned Waters by name. “You remember Ms. Tara Samples,” George continued. “You met her at Fat Boys Bar & Grill last night and spent the rest of the evening with her.”

“She was drunk,” Pike said. “So was I. I didn’t say a damn thing to her.”

“She begs to differ. She’s a retired veteran with impeccable credibility.”

“Like I said, she was hammered.”

Hatty took a step forward and sat down next to George. “The Marion County Sheriff’s Office searched your mother’s home.” She looked up at the ceiling before lowering her gaze to the suspect. “They found the money.”

Pike bit his lip but otherwise managed to keep a poker face. Impressive, Hatty thought as she continued. “What’s a guy like you doing carrying around $14,000 in cash in a duffel bag?”

“Pretty risky to keep it in the house, don’t you think?” George chimed in. “At least bury it in the backyard or something. But, on the flip side, where does a guy like you hide that much money? I mean, it was under the floor. If your mother hadn’t told the officers where you keep stuff, they probably wouldn’t have found it.”

Pike’s mask of calm was teetering. He stared down at the table, his forehead and cheeks reddening.

“You have two outstanding warrants from other states for speeding and petty theft,” Hatty chimed in. “You’re still on probation for the arson conviction for which you served three years in the Limestone Correctional Facility, and those out-of-state arrests are a violation of your probation and your parole. You’re going to jail, Waylon. Probably back to prison regardless of whether you’re convicted of Dr. Waters’s murder.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “But we’re going to convict you. We have a statement that you said you did it.”

“That’s hearsay,” Pike said, meeting her eyes and darting his gaze to Mitchell. A tell. He was beginning to panic.

“Actually, Waylon, it’s not,” Hatty said. She’d heard Shay Lankford argue this exception in court enough to commit it to memory. “A statement made by a defendant to another person is considered a party opponent admission. It is by definition not hearsay. Tara Samples’s statement comes in.” She flung her hands up in the air. “Of course, what Marshall County jury is going to believe a retired veteran?”

“She was drunk.”

“You keep on saying that, but she remembers what you said very well. You were talking about ‘kills.’ She told you about her escapades in the army, and you had to say something, too, didn’t you?”

Pike glared at Hatty but said nothing. “What about the money?” she continued. “You didn’t get that from fixing someone’s boathouse. And why’d you leave Guntersville right after Dr. Waters’s murder?” She looked at George. “What do you think, Deputy?”

“I think it’s obvious someone paid Mr. Pike here a handsome fee to kill Dr. Waters.”

Pike glanced down at the table, keeping his arms crossed tight to his chest. An extremely defensive position. Almost got him. “Waylon,” Hatty said, lowering her voice, “tell us who hired you to kill Dr. Waters. It’s your only way out. If you don’t, you’re going to ride the needle. Brutally executing a human being and then kicking his body over the side of his boat dock? There’s no way a Marshall County jury won’t return the death penalty.” Hatty leaned back in her chair, letting her words hang in the air.

“What’s it going to be, Pike?” George asked.



Waylon Pike kept his gaze fixed on the table, not moving. His mind raced with possibilities . . . doubt . . . frustration. How could he have been so stupid? Leaving the money at his mother’s house. Telling Tara Samples about his kill. He blinked but didn’t look up from the table. Let’s not make it worse, he told himself.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been questioned by police officers. They want to deal, he knew. But if he started trying to negotiate, there was no going back. They’d know he did it.

Were they bluffing? He finally lifted his head and looked at the Black woman and her hard-ass partner. Both were staring at him with confident, calm expressions. If they were the least bit nervous about what he might do or say, they weren’t showing it. They’d told him they were going to arrest him. Were the money and Tara’s statement enough? He should get a lawyer, but, if they’d confiscated his cash, he couldn’t afford one. It had been a week since Braxton Waters’s murder, and he knew they had to be feeling pressure to do something. If he didn’t talk, would they charge him?