I hold up my hands and smile, as warm and flirty as I can stomach. He strikes me as the kind of guy who will respond to fawning. “Hey, come on, take it easy, Mr. . . .”
“Take it easy? You can’t just keep me here. I will sue the fucking shit out of you for violating my civil rights. I’ll own this whole town by the time I’m done.”
But buried underneath that anger is fear. A decent amount of it. He’s scared of whoever did this to him. Maybe the same person who’s responsible for what happened in that car.
“We’re holding you here because there’s been an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Why don’t we start with your name? And then I can tell you what I know.”
He glares at me for an impressive length of time. Not that I care. We can do this all day if he wants.
“Finch Hendrix,” he answers finally. “What incident?”
Ah, Finch, the elusive missing sixth person in my weekend party. I was hoping it might be him.
“Something has happened to your friends,” I begin, watching for a guilty tell. But he looks only confused and concerned.
“What friends?”
“Keith Lazard and Derrick Chism. One of them is dead, the other missing.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” His alarm seems genuine— eyes wide, face flushed. “Who’s dead?”
“The deceased hasn’t been identified. But we know it’s either Derrick or Keith. The other is missing.”
“What the fuck?” He leans forward, then winces.
“There was a car accident,” I say, treading carefully. “The death does look suspicious, maybe not caused by the accident. A positive ID has been difficult because of the condition of the body.”
His puffy mouth contorts. “What the— where did this even happen?”
“Mr. Hendrix, I’m afraid I’m going to need you to fill in some gaps for me before I can share any more details. This is an ongoing investigation.”
Hendrix glares at me. He’s not stupid. He knows he’s got a choice to make.
“What do you want to know?” I see his body tense.
“Admission records say that you were brought in here from the train station at four this morning. Can you tell me where you were before that?”
“I fell asleep there, waiting for my train,” he says.
Passed out, as the result of a beating, not fell asleep— I already know that much.
“But you left Jonathan’s house early yesterday,” I say. “That’s nearly twenty-four hours unaccounted for.”
Hendrix shakes his head, a flicker of sadness passing across his face.
“I’ve known Derrick since we were kids,” he says, ignoring my question about the gap in his timeline. “I’m going to be— it better not be him.”
“What about Keith? I thought he was your agent.”
“Art dealer. And that isn’t the same thing as a friend,” he says. “Keith and I have been having problems lately anyway. Or rather he’s been having problems that have been causing me problems.”
“What kind of problems?” I ask, playing dumb.
“He’s a fucking addict.” Hendrix sounds disgusted. “An addict without enough money to support his habit. Without enough money, period. Fucking pathetic. Not exactly the kind of person you want having a hand in your finances.”
“That sounds bad.”
“Yeah, it is bad. Totally unprofessional, verging on illegal, actually. Keith cost me one important show already. In London. Obviously, I don’t wish him dead, but . . .”
“You wouldn’t be sorry if he is?”
His eyes flash. “I didn’t say that.”
“So you don’t know what happened in that car, Mr. Hendrix?”
“How could I? I left yesterday, remember?”
“What about a local girl named Crystal?” I ask. “She was at the house. Did you see her?”
“No, ma’am,” he says instantly. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Any chance Keith or Derrick is responsible for these injuries of yours?”
“Nope,” he says, eyes still on me.
“I’ve heard Derrick Chism has a history of violence, one that you, specifically, disclosed this weekend. And then here you turn up the victim of an assault. That seems like a big coincidence.”
“Coincidence is all you’ve got?” With a grimace he pushes himself off the bed, grunting as his feet hit the floor. “You can’t fucking hold me on coincidence, you and I both know that. Besides, I’m the fucking victim here.”