The lanky, dark-haired detective crosses his wrists over his knee and leans toward me. “Did Mr. Visser—Mint—pull over?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t get your name.”
“My apology. Matt Hackman.”
“At the first opportunity, Detective Hackman.”
“What happened then?” Wolfe asks.
“The driver cut us off. We couldn’t reverse as there was a ditch at the back.”
“Did you get a look at the vehicle?” Hackman asks.
“It was a red Hilux.”
“Carry on,” Wolfe says.
“The driver came over and told Mint to get out of the car.”
Wolfe leans back in his chair. “Did you get a look at his face?”
I swallow. This is where it gets tough. “Not really.”
He raises a brow. “Not really? Does that mean yes, a little, or no, not at all?”
Giving him a level look, I say, “He was tall and broad.”
“Tall and broad.” He smiles, clearly mocking my vagueness. “How tall?”
“I’m not good with guessing people’s height, but I’d say one meter ninety maybe.”
He nods. “So you got a good enough look at his vehicle to identify it as a Hilux and specify the color, but you didn’t get as much as a glimpse at his face?”
“The headlights were shining in my eyes, and I was panicking.”
“Under the circumstances, of course,” Hackman says.
“If the vehicle cut off Mr. Visser’s car,” Wolfe continues, “the headlights would’ve shined at a forty-five-degree angle away from you, toward the bushes.” He narrows his eyes a fraction. “Isn’t that right?”
“The nose of his truck was pointing toward us.” More or less. If we get technical about angles, Mint’s testimony will definitely contradict mine, so I keep it as vague as I can. “I can’t remember exactly. It happened so fast.”
Wolfe flicks a hand in the air. “Go on.”
“He told Mint to get out, and then he told him to walk.”
“What did Mr. Visser do?” Hackman asks.
“He walked, and when the man didn’t shoot, he ran.”
“So, the man had a gun,” Wolfe says.
My tone is harsher than I intend, my nerves getting the better of me. “Yes.”
Wolfe smiles. “He had a gun, yet you forgot to mention that detail?”
I give him a cutting look. “It goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
His smile widens. “We’re just doing our job, Ms. Joubert. There’s no reason to get upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’ve been kidnapped, but you’re not upset?”
My heart is pounding faster. My breath stutters, and it takes everything I have not to show it. It takes even more not to let it sound in my voice. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Let’s get back to the facts,” Hackman says. “What happened after Mr. Visser ran?”
“The man blindfolded me.”
The lanky one’s gaze drops to my wrists. “Did he tie you up?”
I follow his gaze and notice the chafing marks of the handcuffs. “He handcuffed me.”
“Then what?” Hackman asks, his voice a little more compassionate.
“He left me alone for a while. He drove the truck away. I heard an explosion, so I gathered he blew up his truck to destroy any evidence that could be traced back to him.”
Hackman nods like everything I’m saying makes sense. “Did he tell you why he wanted Mr. Visser’s car?”
I lick my dry lips. “He said he was running out of gas.”
“What did he do then?” Hackman asks.
“He drove for a long time. I tried to count, but I lost track. We stopped at a house and stayed there for a while.”
“Were you alone in the house?” Wolfe asks.
“Yes.”
The detective scrutinizes me. “You sure?”
“I didn’t hear anyone else.”
“Did he remove the blindfold or the cuffs?”
I glance at my wrists again. If he’d kept me cuffed all night, the marks would’ve been more pronounced. My palms turn sticky, and I’m sweating under my thin jacket despite the fact that my skin feels freezing cold.
The lie doesn’t come easily. “He uncuffed me but kept me blindfolded.”
“You didn’t try to fight or run?” Wolfe asks. “Or take off the blindfold?”
“He had a gun,” I bite out. I blink, and blink again, blinking away the unease of the untruth.
“Did he speak to you while he kept you in the house?”
“No.”
“Nothing,” he says with obvious disbelief.
“No.”
“All right.” He folds his hands over his stomach. “Then what?”
“Then he drove me home.”
“Just like that,” he says with that infuriating, disbelieving smile still intact.
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just like that.”
Even Hackman now looks at me like I’m spinning tales, the compassion gone from his expression. “Where did he drop you off?”
“A block away from my apartment building.”
Wolfe’s eyes tighten a fraction. “How did he know where you live?”
“He took my bag. I assumed he checked my ID book.”
Wolfe studies me. “At what time did he drop you off?”
“Just before you got there.”
He rubs a thumb over his chin. “Most people in your situation would’ve called the police the minute they were free.” He pauses, letting the weight of his implied meaning sink in. “Yet you didn’t.”