“Vision? Heaven forbid,” Foote said sardonically. “What about Goodwin?”
“Pawn.”
“She had her hand on his tiller, you might say?”
Shaw liked this man. He nodded. “Guarantee she’ll turn evidence and blame him for the whole thing. But you’ve got your witness.”
“You.”
“And the forensics. And you can get a psych workup. I’ve had experience with sociopaths. She’s a classic example. She lived with three other men. She might’ve been thinking of trying the same thing with them — a meal ticket — but I’d guess they wanted prenups or just saw through her.”
The actual motive, however, was one for the prosecutor to wrestle with.
Foote spotted the state police crime scene van pulling up and excused himself.
Shaw spotted Ron Matthews stepping from the ambulance and walking up to the yellow tape surrounding his car, in whose trunk he would have spent a harrowing two hours after Goodwin kidnapped him.
Shaw joined him. Neither spoke for a moment. Matthews stared at the sedan.
“You know the AMG story, Colter?”
“I don’t.”
He was a camper-and-motorcycle guy pretty much exclusively.
“Started in the sixties, the company did, making racing engines. Founded by Hans Werner Aufrecht and Erhard Melcher. That’s the A and M. The G is for Grossaspach, Aufrecht’s hometown. Mercedes bought them. I always aspired to sell them. I could’ve gone places with a Mercedes dealership. Was my favorite car in the world.”
Colter nodded. He had nothing to add, knowing he was listening to the ramblings of a man talking himself through the first moments of grief.
“I’m dumping it,” Matthews said then. “Getting something different. Can’t afford the lease anyway. Colter, be honest. You think Evie had... had this in mind all along?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “killing me.”
Shaw didn’t share his earlier thoughts. “That’d be quite the elaborate plan.”
“I suppose it would be.” He took a kernel of comfort from Shaw’s words. The man wiped away a tear, making no bones about it this time. Then cleared his throat. “I owe you that reward. The ten.”
“There’s no hurry.” Which meant two things. First, there was no hurry. And, second, yes, you do owe me that ten, even if things didn’t turn out like you’d hoped.
“What’s next for you?” Matthews asked.
Shaw had personal business in Berkeley, California. Some unfinished matters about his father. But he said only that he was going to the West Coast for a while.
“We went to the Getty once,” Matthews said, “Evie and me. California, Malibu. Flew there on a whim on a private jet. They had one painting I liked. Out of everything, only one painting. Can you believe it?” A sigh. “My father sold lawn mowers. Reconditioned. I moved up to forklifts and platforms. Your father? He into this reward thing too?”
Colter Shaw, a man who rarely smiled, smiled now. “No.”
Matthews wiped his brow with his sleeve. He seemed to notice for the first time his clothing was torn and filthy.
Shaw said, “I’m not leaving till the morning. I can give you a ride back to Indianapolis.”
“Could use that, thanks.”
“My rental car’s around here somewhere.” Shaw scanned the weedy lot and spotted the Toyota, parked beneath a maple whose leaves were dusty and going late-summer pale.
“Don’t know if you’re interested,” Shaw said, “but I could use some food.”
“I guess.”
“Chinese?”
Matthews uttered a faint laugh. “Sure. Let’s try it again.”