“No clues ever led to a suspect?” Kerra asked.
“No. Joggers and bicyclers who’d been on the park trails that day were interviewed and dismissed. None claimed to have seen either her car or anyone sinister. There’s a dog run in the park within walking distance of where she was found. I surmise, although I don’t know, that someone looking like the frantic owner of a runaway dog flagged Tiffany down. She was the kind of person who would have stopped to help. Whoever killed her was quick, thorough, gone within minutes.”
“Who was it?” Trapper demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Who was behind it?”
“I’m not ready to name names.”
Whatever sympathy Trapper had been feeling toward the man vanished. He now looked ready to strangle him. “Look, Wilcox, I can still call the police. They’ll arrest you and your musketeers for vandalism if for nothing else, and I could persuade them to throw in assault with a deadly weapon.”
“None of it would stick.”
“Of course not. You’d have a highly paid lawyer at the jailhouse within an hour. But Kerra and I would make damn sure the media was alerted. It would be on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper and reported on every local TV station. Being camera shy like you are, I don’t think you want that kind of publicity.
“And you sure as hell don’t want to raise the ire of your…‘associates’…by being put in the slammer even for a short time. Who knows what kind of deal you’d try to cut? Wondering might make them edgy. Now, goddammit, give me something to keep me from making that 911 call.” He’d pushed the last few words between his clenched teeth.
Wilcox eased back, putting more distance between him and Trapper, as though realizing that he’d come to the end of a short and unraveling rope. “All right. Let’s pretend that I did entertain an occasional visitor—”
“Who left the meeting looking poleaxed.”
“That was your word.”
“Berkley Johnson’s, actually. What word would you use to describe your new recruit?”
“I wouldn’t use any word,” Wilcox said. “You’re the one who maintains that such meetings took place. I haven’t conceded that they did. Nor have I said anything about recruits.”
“Come on, Tom. Let’s be straight. You were piecing together, one member at a time, your personal feudal army. You were assembling a clan. No pointy hats or silly costumes, no rallies around bonfires, no chanting, although I wouldn’t rule out a blood oath. But whatever was at the heart of this conclave, you were the high priest, the head honcho who could get men to do your bidding.
“What did you indoctrinate them to? No offbeat religion like Koresh’s. No Aryan nation. What was it? Hmm? Tell me. Confide. Just between us. Kerra’s off the record. The office isn’t bugged.”
“I know. I swept it with a detector.”
“So talk. And let’s leave off with the double-talk and euphemisms. Plain English.”
Wilcox shook his head. “It stays metaphorical.”
“Until after you’ve made your deal with the feds.”
“Which is where you come in.”
“And if I tell you no soap?”
“You’ll forever remain a hero’s son who couldn’t hack it.”
The two men eyed each other, warring silently but with palpable hostility.
Kerra spoke Trapper’s name softly. He turned his head to look at her. “Let him tell it his way,” she said.
Grudgingly he motioned for Wilcox to continue. “But it had better be good.”
Wilcox said, “After years of holding the leadership role in this so-called clan, let’s say the high priest senses grumbling in the ranks and confronts the loudest grumblers. They’re bold in their criticism of him. They accuse him of going soft, of passing up opportunities that should have been seized, of calling for caution and patience when muscle should be flexed.”
Trapper said, “Rumblings of an overthrow of power? I doubt the high priest would stand for that kind of saber rattling. How does he react to this threat of mutiny?”
“He calls their bluff.”