“Yeah. I didn’t know it was still around. Simon keeps everything. I said I couldn’t remember the two unidentified men, and Sean didn’t believe me. He was fired up and angry. Got in my face. Said his research told him Lincoln was involved with some nationalist groups and shoved the pocket watch in my face like it was some sort of proof. I told him he was full of shit, but he was raging.” Harlan glowered. “Then he asked about Cynthia Green’s disappearance.”
Surprise struck Zander. “He figured out you were involved in that?”
“Not exactly. I think he was grasping at straws, but he caught me off guard, and my reaction convinced him he was onto something. He kept pushing—wouldn’t shut up. He jumped to Lincoln’s death and asked me if I’d specifically chosen a hanging to make a point.”
Zander tried to imagine what it had taken for the young man—who everyone swore was the nicest guy around—to accuse the town mayor of murder. Twice. Sean’s dead face flashed in Zander’s mind, and admiration for the high school teacher flared.
Why do people like that get punished while the slime before me still lives?
“Sounds like Sean had your number.”
“When he left that night, I saw the pocket watch was gone. The watch has Mills’s initials in it along with—”
“A Klan saying. I’ve seen the watch. It was found at the Fitch murders. Sean saw it in your possession, saw you in a photo with other white supremacists, probably did a little research into the Mills hanging and discovered a mention of a missing pocket watch—”
“Yes, there’s an article where Brenda Mills is quoted begging for the watch’s return, saying her husband always carried it with him.”
Zander enjoyed the sullen expression on Harlan’s face as he acknowledged that his own actions had tripped him up.
“I searched for the watch at the Fitches’,” said Harlan. “Didn’t find it.”
Sean must have had it on him when he was dragged outside.
“You decided Sean had to die before he went to the police and suggested that they look at you for Lincoln Mills’s hanging.”
Harlan was silent.
“How’d you get Billy to help you?”
“A little money goes a long way with Billy. And a threat to turn in evidence that he was dealing GHB.”
“Who drugged the Fitches?”
“Billy. He and his brother deal a little GHB on the side. It’s not hard to make. He added it to a bottle of wine and told Lindsay to share it with Sean that night. She and Billy had a thing going, you know.” Harlan’s leer turned Zander’s stomach. “Well, maybe not a thing. She was a little drunk one night at the bar a few weeks ago and hooked up with him. After that he blackmailed her by threatening to tell her husband about that night. Claims he had pictures.”
“I can’t see Lindsay having anything to do with an ass like Billy, no matter how much she had to drink.” Both Emily and Madison had adored the woman.
“Well . . . I suspect Billy mighta put something in her drink that first night.”
Zander wasn’t shocked; Billy Osburne’s actions no longer surprised him. “Why Lindsay?” he asked. “You didn’t have to kill her too.”
“She’s a race traitor.”
Chills locked Zander’s limbs at the ugly words. Harlan Trapp was pure hate. The medical examiner’s description of the huge number of stab wounds in both bodies echoed in his head. Zander had suspected a high level of anger was involved.
He had been right.
“I had more issues with her actions than Sean’s. She married the piece of shit and then cheated on him with Billy. Cheap whore.”
“I assume he drugged Nate Copeland’s beer before killing him. Did Nate see you at the Fitches’?”
“I wasn’t sure. Billy and I were in the woods behind the home when Emily and then Nate arrived. We stayed too late trying to get the fire to take hold . . . shoulda left as soon as we saw Emily, but I wanted as much evidence destroyed as possible.”
“You decided to play it safe and eliminate any possible witnesses.” Zander held very still. “You shot at Emily.”
Harlan scratched his arm. “Was just trying to scare her.”
“Bullshit. You were starting to panic and getting sloppy. You don’t scare people, you kill them. You nearly killed an FBI agent and Emily that day.”
The man simply looked at him. No regret.
“Who dumped dead animals at the Barton Mansion?”
Harlan snorted. “That’s all Billy’s doing, stupid fuck. He did some tire slashing too. He holds a long-standing grudge against the Bartons that goes back to the mill closing and his father losing his job. Idiot. As if those three old hens had anything to do with it closing.”
Standards à la Harlan.
“The fire you set at Lincoln Mills’s death could have killed his entire family.”
A muscle twitched in Harlan’s cheek.
“Why in the hell did this town elect you mayor? From what I’ve heard, your name’s been connected to racism rumors for years.”
Harlan looked confused. “Do you really think people care? They were just rumors. And besides, I’ve done a lot of good for this town.”
Zander didn’t agree. “How do you feel about Chet Carlson spending twenty years in prison?”
“He shouldn’t have been so stupid and pled guilty.” Harlan wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “Who admits to a murder they didn’t do?”
Harlan Trapp would spend the rest of his life in prison. Zander should feel elated that Harlan wasn’t fighting the charges, but instead he felt drained and empty from the exposure to how Harlan’s brain worked. It was narcissistic. Indifferent. Twisted.
Zander was done asking him questions.
But he had questions for Tara.
38
After leaving the county jail, Zander drove to the mansion. The weather had cleared, showing cloudless skies for the first time since Zander had arrived at the coast. The ocean and sky were rich blues, but the temperature was a chilly forty-five.
Tara and Emily had been treated and released from the hospital that morning. Both of their gunshot injuries had caused muscle damage and heavy bleeding. Zander had checked in with both of them several times. The doctors were optimistic about their recovery, but neither woman would be up and about very soon.
Vina let him into the mansion and directed him upstairs when he asked for Tara. He knocked on the open door to a bedroom where Tara sat in a rocking chair, staring out a window.
She jumped at the knock and then winced, a hand going to her side. “Agent Wells.”
“Call me Zander.”
Her brown gaze eyed him skeptically, but she agreed. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a few questions.”
“You and everybody else. I’ve already talked to detectives from the county and state police departments. I hoped you would give me a break.” A small twitch at the corner of her lips told him she was teasing.
In that second she reminded him of Emily. Her smile and the shape of her face were like Madison’s, but the attitude and intensity in her eyes at the moment were all Emily.
“Did I thank you for the other night?” she asked. Then she scowled. “Maybe I shouldn’t thank you. He’s still alive because of you.”
“You didn’t want him to go over the cliff.”
“Wanna bet?” she asked softly.