Straight to the Heart Page 2

  He slipped down the corridor, punched in his selection and received an ominously greasy coffee in a plastic cup. He glanced back, saw the impatient employees being shown into Gibson’s interview room and took the opportunity to step out of a side entrance that had been propped open by the crime-scene team. He found himself on a concrete path at the back of the building. There was a bench against the wall and cigarette butts littered the ground. He took a seat with a sigh and sipped the coffee. It was revolting but hot, and the caffeine began poking holes in his fatigue.

  The land rolled steeply away from the path down to the sea. A couple of gulls, looking brighter than jewels against the low sky, wheeled in the salty breeze. He took a moment to just breathe the smell and feel the chill on his skin.

  It was so quiet, so unlike the city with its perpetual roar of traffic, blare of sirens and thunder of planes. And the people… Hundreds of thousands of people cramming the sidewalks and the roads, jostling, honking, swearing, always seeming to be desperate to be somewhere else.

  He found himself closing his eyes for a moment, letting himself enjoy the cold, quiet sea air, when his phone buzzed again. He stared at the screen for a long moment, then, when the guilt became too sharp, he answered.

  “There you are,” came the irritated, high-pitched voice. “You avoiding me, James?”

  “I’m working, Angelina.”

  “This weekend of all weekends?”

  “Yes,” James said, controlling his tone with an effort. “I’m afraid the murderer didn’t consider their timing.”

  His sister huffed. “You worked Christmas too.”

  “I know that—”

  “Dad’s starting to think you’re doing it on purpose.”

  James kneaded the bridge of his nose. “It’s the job.”

  “Bull,” she snapped, and James winced. It took a lot to make his sister even half-swear. “Even FBI agents get vacation time occasionally.”

  “Get it, yes. But we sometimes have to cancel it, too.”

  “Dad’s not getting any younger, you know.”

  “Dad’s fine.”

  “He’s grieving, James.”

  James took a moment to let the stab of remorse fade. “We’re all grieving, Angelina.”

  She sighed again, sounding defeated. “He misses you.”

  James didn’t reply.

  “Yes, he does,” she retorted in response to what he didn’t say. “I know he said some dumb stuff about Glen, but you know what he’s like. Mum wouldn’t want you to—”

  “Angelina,” he put in, firmly, “I’ve got to go. I’m interviewing.”

  “Of course you are.” Her disappointment was harder to hear than her anger. “I’ll film Ryan and Jackson giving Dad his flowers, shall I?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Please.”

  A pause. “Stay safe,” she said, but in a way that made it clear she might love him but didn’t like him much right now and hung up. He rested his head against the wall and stared at the sky, waiting for the flush of shame to ebb.

  “Bad day, huh?”

  James looked up. A young man in a lab coat stood by the door, giving him a sympathetic look through thin-framed glasses.

  “Working day,” he replied noncommittally.

  The younger man smiled, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his faded jeans and offering them. When James waved them away, he gestured at the bench. “Mind if I…?”

  James did mind, but he couldn’t think of a professional way to refuse. He glanced at the door, knowing he should get back. But it was so quiet out here.

  He shifted over to allow the young man to sit. James picked up the scent of good coffee and herbal shampoo. He blinked and shifted farther away. The man lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo. The tobacco smoke filled the air, thankfully masking the other, more appealing scents, and the wisps wove together above his head before whipping away in the breeze.

  “You’re one of the FBI agents, huh?”

  “Agent Solomon,” he confirmed.

  “Poor old man Benson,” the other murmured after a pause, smoke wreathing from his lips. “I can’t believe it. Shot, huh?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Man…” The young man shook his head. James examined him out of the corner of his eye. He had long, caramel-colored hair pulled into a loose tail. Home-cut bangs framed a fine-boned face. James noticed with a start that the eyes behind the glasses were the most startling pale green he had ever seen, the color of bottle glass or young leaves. “It’s unbelievable,” he continued. “Shit like this just doesn’t happen around here.”

  “So I believe.”

  “It’ll be sex or money, right?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Murder.” The young man had an impish grin on his face. “It’s always about sex or money, right? Or both?”

  “We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry.” He laughed, a bright sound at odds with the chilly, silent morning. “I’m sorry, and you are?” James asked with a spark of irritation.

  “Leo.” The man held out his hand, unaffected by or not noticing his tone. “Leo Hannah.”

  “And what’s your connection to the victim, Mr. Hannah?” James said, not taking the offered hand.

  “Just Leo. I work here. Lab rat,” he added, still unfazed, tugging on the lapel of his white coat.

  “And what exactly do you do?”

  “Uh, well”—he scratched his forehead with a thumbnail—“I’d have to look at my email signature to give you the proper title, but basically, I look into microscopes and play with the analysis machines.”

  James watched the younger man take another deep draw of his cigarette. Under the lab coat he wore a loose T-shirt printed with some band logo and low-slung jeans. There were battered sneakers on his feet. His hands were long-fingered and fine, with a number of tiny scars and work-hardened pads. His face was boy-like, the green eyes large and fringed with thick lashes, making him look younger than James reasoned he must be. His manner was easy and unguarded, in stark contrast to everyone James had interviewed that morning. He entertained a half-notion for a long moment then heard himself asking, “Did you know Mr. Benson well?”

  Hannah snorted smoke out through his nose. “Nah. He’s the one with the shiny office on the seventh floor, and I work in the basement. You get me?” He threw James another disarming smile. “But I do know you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “How so?”

  “Well,” Hannah said, raising one eyebrow, “I’ve only been here a couple of years, but even I know you either loved the boss or you hated him.”

  “Your colleagues have not ventured the same opinion.”

  Hannah snorted again. “Top brass? No, they wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Hannah rubbed his thumb against his fingers just under James’ nose. James caught again the subtle scent of mint and coffee and closed his throat. “Dollar-dollar, yeah?”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to explain.”

  The man’s mouth turned up at the corner. He examined James like he was a slightly diverting article in a usually boring newspaper. James resisted the urge to break eye contact. “Top brass want to be in the pocket of whoever takes over, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well”—he shrugged like it was obvious—“until they know who that’s gonna be, everyone’s gonna play it cool, right? Especially with the cops. Then you can tell the new boss what a good team player you are.”

  “And you’re not a team player?”

  “Not while my team has a killer on the roster, no.”

  “Uh-huh,” James replied and pulled out his notebook. “So you would say the senior management had a wide range of feelings about Mr. Benson?”

  “That’s a very college-educated way of putting it, but yeah,” Hannah replied. “You only had to see them in a room together to see the DHs either worshiped the ground his size tens trod on or wanted to slip a land mine under them.”

 
“DHs?”

  “Department heads. Benson is…was…too old-school for some of them. Had principles.”

  “Good principles?”

  “Strong ones,” Hannah replied. “He demanded loyalty, you know…and respect.”

  “These department heads… They would be Horatio Torez, June Michaels and Harold Boon?”

  “Yeah, those guys. Super top brass.”

  “Could you be more specific about their relationships with Benson?”

  Hannah hesitated then continued, focusing on the burning end of his cigarette. “Michaels and Boon always looked like it was only the size of their paychecks stopping them from beating Benson’s head against the table. But Torez? Well…”

  “Yes?” James prompted.

  “Let’s just say I’ve never seen a guy so into another guy that wasn’t into him back.”

  James took a moment to untangle that. “Torez is gay?”

  The green gaze slid his way again. James tried to figure out what was going on in the appraising look. “Both ways, I think. But he keeps it on the hush-hush. He was in the military, you know.”

  James hadn’t known. He made a note. “And how do you know about his orientation?”

  Hannah shrugged again, and James wondered if it was a little too easily. “I know someone he dated for a while.”

  “And Benson?”

  “Happily married…twice, I believe. To women, I mean. Been with number two, Melissa, for a while now. You must have that in your files.”

  “But they were close? Torez and Benson?”

  “Hell yeah. Torez is into that whole respect thing. Big on chains-of-command. Benson was like his commanding officer and a father figure all rolled into one, I guess? Torez had a pretty rough upbringing. That’s not a secret. I put all this in my statement, by the way—for the lady cop.”

  James cocked an eyebrow. “‘Lady cop’?”

  “The pretty one. Older, but still got it.”

  “You mean Agent Gibson?”

  “Sure, that sounds right,” he said, grinning again. “She took it all down. Although…”

  “What is it?”

  “I didn’t mention it before because…well, there’s no proof. That’s what you guys want, right? Evidence? Proof?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Just a feeling, really.”

  “About what?”

  “A feeling there’s been, something, I dunno…something funny between Torez and the old man recently.”

  “‘Something funny’?” James repeated.

  “Yeah. Sassy said she’s heard they’ve had a beef, though no one knows what about.”

  “Sassy?”

  “Sallyann Andrews, one of the mail runners,” Hannah explained. “She hears everything that goes on. Likes to pass it on, too.”

  “So she heard a rumor. What makes you think it’s true?”

  Hannah contemplated the sea for a long moment, his forehead creased. “Torez came down to the lab last week for a meeting. He sure looked like a man with a weight on his mind.”

  “When did Sassy first mention hearing about this disagreement?”

  “Uh, a few weeks ago? A month? I’d have to check my work schedule to be sure.”

  “If you could do that and give me a call,” James replied, pulling a business card from his pocket.

  “Sure, happy to…James?”

  “Agent Solomon is fine.”

  “Sure thing,” Hannah smiled again, wider. James wondered if there was a glint in his eye or if it was just his dry spell playing with his radar. “And hit me up if you need anything, yeah? I grew up here and know the place pretty well. You got my number on file, right?”

  James examined his face for a long time but couldn’t make anything of the boyish guilelessness. “We do.”

  “Seriously,” Hannah added, his smile dropping. “Anything I can do to help. I liked Benson. I didn’t know him well, but he gave me a shot, you know, when no one else would. Kinda feel like I owe the old man.”

  James stood, pocketing his notebook and checking his watch. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Sure thing. Oh…and, Agent?”

  “Yes?”

  Hannah nodded to the plastic cup in his hand, still half-filled with lukewarm dregs. “If you want a decent coffee, there’s a place on the seafront. Arbuckles. That shit’ll knock your socks off. Tell ‘em Leo sent you.” His smile made his eyes shine like stained glass. James hurriedly suppressed the thought just as Gibson appeared at the side door, looking harried.

  “There you are,” she said, her glance sliding to Hannah, who raised a hand in greeting as he lit his second cigarette. She nodded politely then gestured James to follow her in.

  “What is it?”

  “I want you in on this one,” she said, pacing back toward the interview rooms.

  “Who?”

  “Renford Muntz…the janitor.”

  “The one who found the body?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You think he’s good for it?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell if he’s guilty or just hates cops. Keep your eyes open. Mr. Muntz,” Gibson’s tone stiffened with politeness as she opened the interview room door. The janitor was hunched at the table, chewing on a splitting thumbnail. His deep-set eyes flicked up as they entered then dropped again to the tabletop. “This is my colleague, Agent Solomon. If you don’t mind, I would like to go through your statement again with him present.”

  “Why?” the man grunted without looking up.

  “He’s a good judge of character. If you truly have nothing to be afraid of, he’s a good guy to have on your side.”

  The man huffed, spitting out a gnawed piece of nail. James studied him as he took a seat next to Gibson. Muntz’s dark, wiry hair stuck up in all directions like he’d been running his hands through it. His skin was sallow, and his stained coverall strained at the seams as he bent his large frame over the table. There were bags under his eyes and dirt under his fingernails. His jaw moved constantly, and he blinked more than James thought was normal.

  “So tell me again how you found Mr. Benson.”

  “Again?”

  “For Agent Solomon’s benefit. Please.”

  He heaved a large sigh and recommenced tugging at the remains of his thumbnail. “Like I said, I came in at four like always. I do the top floors first ’cause those stuck-up assholes don’t want me around once they start pretending to work.”

  “You do what, exactly? Cleaning?”

  “No, there’s a cleaning crew for that, ain’t there? But it’s my job to make sure that they done their job right.”

  “Okay, so you were inspecting the senior management’s offices,” Gibson continued without inflection. “Then what?”

  “I saw him through the glass. I called the police.”

  “Your swipe card confirms you arriving at three-fifty-five am, Mr. Muntz. The call to the sheriff didn’t come through until four-twenty-five. Did it really take you half an hour to get up to the seventh floor, see Mr. Benson had been attacked and call the police?”

  “I did some other offices first, didn’t I?” he snapped, shifting in his chair. “And when I got to his, I didn’t see the blood at first. Thought he was sleeping.”

  “Do you know where the disks from the security system are kept?” James asked.

  Muntz shrugged, staring hard at his fingers. “Sure. Security room. First floor.”

  “The disks with all the footage from last night are missing.”

  “Guess the killer musta taken them.”

  “Mr. Benson was in the process of writing an email when he died,” Gibson said. “To the Personnel department. Do you know anything about that?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  Gibson paused. James watched Muntz. Sweat shone on his lined forehead. “A number of your colleagues mentioned you and Mr. Benson have had a few disagreements recently,” Gibson stated, “about your behavior toward your colleagues, amo
ng other things.”

  “Lying bastards.” Muntz’s hands twitched then were still again.

  “It’s not true, then?”

  “Course it’s not.”

  “Why do you think they would say so?”

  “’Cause they’ve all got it in for me. That’s why.”

  “Who specifically, Mr. Muntz?” James asked.

  “All of them,” he spat out. “Everyone. They all want to see me out on the street.”

  “Why do they want you ‘out on the street’, Renford?” Gibson asked, her voice carefully level.

  Muntz shifted his bulk in the creaking chair. “I don’t know, do I? I’m different, I guess.”

  “How are you different?”

  “I ain’t rich, for one. And they think I’m dumber than shit. But they don’t know half the stuff I know about this place. I been here years. Known Mr. Benson longer than any of them. Jealous…that’s what they are.”

  “Who do you think would want to hurt Mr. Benson?” James said, watching the ruddy face carefully.

  Muntz’s bloodshot eyes weighed him up. A corner of the mouth twitched within the bristled depths of his beard. “How should I know?”

  “You just said you know the company better than anyone,” James remarked. “Don’t you have any idea?”

  The big man leaned forward on the table. “You want my guess?”

  “I do.”

  “One of the DHs. Yeah, one of those guys.”

  “The department heads?”

  “Yeah. That idiot Boon or that stuck-up bitch Michaels.”

  “And why would either of them want Mr. Benson dead?” James said, leaning his elbows on the plastic tabletop to mimic him, watching the twitching, sweat-sheened face closely.

  “They hated him. That’s why.”

  “Lots of people hate other people, Renford. It doesn’t mean they kill them.”

  “This big deal,” he said, “means big changes, right?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Well, they’d get more of all this new money if they were in charge instead of him, right?”

  “Yes, I imagine that’s right,” James said. “So one of them will take over the company now? Get all the benefits from the expansion for themselves?”

  “’Course. It’s always about money, ain’t it?”

  “Most of the time,” James agreed.