John Hart - The Last Child

They crossed the marbled floor and stepped into the elevator. Yoakum pushed the button and the doors slid together. “Delightful,” he said.

“The receptionist?”

“A peach of a woman.”

Holloway’s office covered most of the entire floor. Hunt saw a conference room, a few secondary offices, but the rest was wide-open space. Holloway stood behind his desk. To the right stood his attorney; to the left, a uniformed security guard, armed. Three walls of plate glass offered a view that included most of downtown, including the police station, which looked dingy and small. From this height the storm was a fast-approaching wall of purple and black.

“Detectives,” Holloway said.

Hunt stepped onto an oriental rug and moved past a conference table that cost more than his car. He stopped in front of the desk. Holloway’s smile was forced, his fingertips white on the desk where they took his weight. “You remember my attorney. This is Bruce.” He indicated the guard.

Hunt stared Bruce down. He was in his forties, tall and black in a crisp blue uniform with a gold shield on his chest and matching patch on one shoulder. The man’s face showed no expression. The weapon was a semiautomatic. “You got a carry permit, Bruce?”

“He does,” Holloway said.

“Can’t he answer for himself?”

“No.”

“He’s a grown man.”

“Not so long as he works for me.”

Hunt raised an eyebrow at Bruce, tilted his head, and shrugged. “We’re investigating a possible link between a criminal matter and one of your employees. We need the names and employment records of all of your security guards, particularly those at the mall.”

“What kind of criminal matter?”

“We’d like the names.”

The lawyer leaned over the desk. “I have advised my client to answer no questions absent a court order to do so.”

Holloway raised his hands to show that he had no choice, and Hunt met the attorney’s gaze. “Is that final?”

“Yes,” the attorney said.

“You’ll advise your client against any interference in our investigation?”

“Of course.”

“He is to alert no one of this visit. The investigation is ongoing.”

Holloway put on his professional smile. “We have nothing to discuss outside of court, Detective Hunt. Not my employees, your investigation, or your uncommonly poor choices. Not Katherine Merrimon or her troubled little bastard of a son.”

Hunt held the gaze, then turned on his heel.

“Oh, but first,” Holloway said. “I guess you should know that Katherine Merrimon has refused to see me further. Changed the locks. Hysterics. The usual.”

Hunt stopped, walked back to the desk. “Is that right?”

“We filed eviction papers this morning. She’ll be on the street in thirty days.”

“She’ll manage,” Hunt said.

“Will she?”

Hunt’s vision constricted until all he saw was Holloway’s oiled smile. He felt a pull on his jacket and realized it was Yoakum. “Come on, Clyde.”

Yoakum turned but Hunt did not budge. He eyed Bruce, then Holloway. “Do all of your guards carry weapons?” he asked.

“I’m not going to answer your questions,” Holloway said. “I thought I made that clear.” Hunt eyed the security guard. “He won’t tell you anything, either.”

Bruce kept his mouth shut, his back straight; but when Holloway stopped looking at him, he laid one finger on the butt of his weapon.

The attorney inclined his head. “Have a good day, Detectives. The receptionist will be happy to validate your parking.”

They crossed the room, shoes soft on the rugs, loud when they hit wood. The elevator doors opened, then closed. “A nice office,” Yoakum said. Hunt remained silent, nails biting into his palms. “Nice view.”

They passed the receptionist, who glared but was ignored. On the sidewalk, the building rose tall and dark above them. Electricity charged the air, and Hunt’s voice seemed to carry much of the same raw energy. “You saw it?”

“I did.”

“His guards carry.”

“Not all of them.”

“But one.”

“Yep.”

“One carries.”

They walked to the car and wind made their pants legs flap and stutter. A uniform, a badge, and a gun. A thirteen-year-old-kid could mistake that person for a cop.

Easy as anything.

Easy as pie.

At the car, Yoakum put his hands on the roof. Hunt was on the other side, the street empty behind him. “I need to say something,” Yoakum said. “And I don’t want you getting bent out of shape about it.”

“What?”

“We don’t need to see the employee files.”

“They might help.”

“But we don’t need them.”

Hunt shrugged. “I wanted to see him. I wanted him to know that I’m looking.”

“That’s not enough reason.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Then why come here at all? Why involve Holloway if there’s no need? You knew he wouldn’t answer your questions. He hates you.”

Hunt stared back, eyes shuttered.

“Oh, shit.”

“Get in,” Hunt said.

They slipped into the car; the wind noise fell away. “He’ll call his people,” Yoakum said. “That’s how he is.” Hunt started the car. “He’s probably on the phone right now.”

“Maybe.” Hunt put the car in gear, checked traffic, and pulled away from the curb.

“You set him up,” Yoakum continued. “He’ll call his people and you’ll charge him with obstruction.”

Hunt kept his mouth shut.

He drove for the mall.

The mall was a monolith of concrete and stucco. Slab-sided and bleak, it rose against the dark sky. Glass doors flashed from gray to purple as people filed out, eager to beat the storm home. Hunt threaded through traffic and steered for the back. He rounded the corner and a few hard drops cracked against the windshield. They passed Dumpsters and loading docks and old cars.

They were halfway down the back wall when Hunt slammed on the brakes. His door clanked open and he was out before Yoakum called. “What are you doing?”

But Hunt was already moving. “Ma’am?” Hunt called out to a woman who stood, bent, on the outer edge of the nearest loading dock. “Ma’am?” The woman was in her sixties, attractive. Silver-white hair bobbed at the collar of her expensive dress. Hunt gave her his best smile. “Hi. Detective Hunt.” He flashed the shield. “Sorry to bother you.”

“May I help you?” She was thin-boned and elegant. The diamond at her throat looked to be two carats and real.

A few more drops struck the macadam. “I couldn’t help but notice…” Hunt gestured at what she held in her hand.

“Tuna fish.” She tilted the can, embarrassed. The top was off, tuna gone bad. She gestured at the edge of the dock, where she had just placed a fresh can. “There’s a dear of a cat. I can’t abide seeing it rooting around in the Dumpster.”

“Is the cat tired of tuna?” He tipped his head at the spoiled can.

“I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

“What does the cat look like?” Her puzzlement showed, her hesitance, so Hunt offered his best smile. “If you don’t mind. I’m a cat lover, too.”

She beamed, stepping closer. “Brown tabby with gold eyes and two white paws.” She raised both shoulders, smiled brilliantly. “Just full of life.”

Hunt stepped up onto the loading dock. “May we come through your store?”

“I don’t know-”

“I have to insist.”

The store sold clothing. Hunt and Yoakum pushed through storage, then past the dressing rooms. Women looked up, startled, but Hunt ignored them, making for the escalators. “Clyde. Slow down.”

The crowd was still large, storm notwithstanding. Families, kids-a surge of color and noise.