Seeing Red(68)

Wilcox’s expression didn’t change.

“Kerra, anything moving outside?”

“No. But the four are still on the street.”

Trapper continued. “I wrote my tipster off as a kook who had singled me out because of my relationship to The Major. I recommended he have his meds better regulated and told him not to bother me again.

“Weeks went by, and I’d almost forgotten about him. Then one day he called again. Frantic. He told me that a family-owned factory was squatting on acreage where a group of investors wanted to put a new sports arena. Heading that conglomerate was Thomas Wilcox. He forecast that the factory was as good as history.

“No way, I thought. The guy had to be either misinformed, misguided, vengeful, drugged to the gills, or outright crazy.” He stopped and waited several beats. “I was proved wrong.”

With remarkable calm, Wilcox said, “The site of the sports arena was previously home to a clothing factory that was tragically destroyed by fire. That’s common knowledge.”

Trapper squeezed the grip of his pistol. “Two night watchmen died in that blaze. Their bodies had to be identified by their teeth, which was all that was left of them.”

Kerra made a small sound of dismay, but Wilcox was unfazed by it, and Trapper didn’t let himself be distracted. He was racing the clock. In under six minutes, absolutely nothing might happen. But something might. And if it came down to a shootout, Kerra would be the first to die.

He continued. “I told my superiors about the tip I’d gotten on the factory fire, but I didn’t want to give up your name yet. Not until I’d checked it out. It took me weeks to identify my anonymous caller. His name was Berkley Johnson. He drove you and acted as bodyguard. He’d pledged an oath of secrecy and silence.

“But he’d found Jesus and could no longer live with himself for not reporting conversations he was privy to. He and I had several clandestine meetings. He gave me a lot of stuff but was skittish about talking to anyone but me until I could arrange for witness protection for him and his family.”

“What happened to him?” Kerra asked.

“Ask Mr. Wilcox here,” Trapper said.

“Berkley Johnson died while in my employ.”

“He didn’t die,” Trapper said. “He was shot in the head during a carjacking. His family lost their livelihood, and I lost my witness who would’ve put you away. I also lost credibility with my bosses, who said I’d been led down the primrose path by a disgruntled employee. I was asked if I genuinely believed that Thomas Wilcox had committed a carjacking. To which I said, hell, no. He hasn’t got the balls to do his own dirty work.”

“Was that insult worth the precious seconds it cost you?” Wilcox asked.

“You had Berkley Johnson executed. How close or far off am I, Tom?”

“Keep going.”

From her place in front of the window, Kerra gasped. “This is all true?”

Wilcox said only, “It’s a captivating story,” which could have meant anything and validated nothing.

“No one was ever arrested for that factory fire,” Trapper said. “I asked permission to reopen an investigation into the Pegasus, and I had to justify it by explaining how it could be traced back to you. My superiors told me to back off that, that it was preposterous. But, being me, I did some digging anyway. And guess what it yielded. Thomas Wilcox. Just like Berkley Johnson said it would.”

“Two minutes,” the millionaire said.

“What was Wilcox’s connection to the Pegasus?” Kerra asked. “Why wasn’t it found before?”

Trapper replied, “The authorities had a confessor. Why dig deeper? Without Berkley Johnson I wouldn’t have.”

“Exactly what did you discover?”

As he answered Kerra’s question, Trapper kept his eyes trained on Wilcox. “He wanted the Pegasus to be the hub of an entertainment complex he wished to develop. But the oil company who owned the hotel wouldn’t sell. They thumbed their noses at his repeated offers. This bargaining went on for a year or two. Eventually he realized that it was the plot of ground he really coveted. The Pegasus could be replaced with a newer, flashier hotel. So he obliterated it. Never mind all the people inside.”

Trapper made a scornful sound. “You peaked early, Tom. You never topped the Pegasus. It was your opus, your Super Bowl ring. In the process of obtaining it, you killed Elizabeth Cunningham, and made her husband, James, a quadriplegic, effectively robbing their little girl of both her parents.”

In a voice vibrating with grief and wrath, Kerra said, “My mother was crushed to death.”

Wilcox looked over and spoke to her back. “I didn’t detonate those explosives. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to go about making a bomb. A man confessed. Those are facts.” Coming back to Trapper, he said, “Isn’t that so?”

His unflappability made Trapper seethe. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to shoot you. I want to tear out your throat just to see if your blood will run warm like all the blood spilled that day. Or does your blood always flow cold?”

For the first time, Trapper got an involuntary reaction. Wilcox’s right eye twitched. “It’s always cold. But it turns icy whenever I think about the men who murdered my daughter.”