Page 73 of Trace of Doubt
“Consider the person who confiscated the money. He or she might live in Sharp’s Creek and plan to keep their crime a secret.”
Clay’s gaze darted between us. “I’m clueless. If anyone had come to my attention, I’d have gone to the FBI. Although Travis raised the money for African orphans, Marissa could have used every penny over the years. Have you talked to Shelby?”
“She has no idea what’s going on.”
“You’re of the opinion the threats stem from the missing money?”
“The situation has our attention, Clay.”
He closed his eyes, a worn man. “My family has suffered enough.” He looked at me and shook his head. “You saw my wife and Marissa the day you were here. Why this now?”
“I see how you’re hurting,” I said. “It appears you’re victims again. We need your help to clear your name.”
“How?”
“We need a statement and for you to be aware the FBI is investigating you.”
“As a person of interest?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever you need, I’ll do it. Will you keep it between us? Marissa has enough on her plate, and Aria is a good kid. Neither deserve their names dipped in manure.”
“I figured you’d cooperate, and we’ll keep the situation quiet. Although it’s not likely connected, I have a question about Travis Stover.” When he nodded, I ventured ahead. “Did you approve of him marrying your daughter?”
“Without hesitation. He was more of a godly man than I’d ever be. He loved Marissa and showed genuine interest in Shelby. His death hit me and the wife hard.”
“Thanks. Even after Shelby confessed to shooting him, you claimed she couldn’t have killed him.”
“Shelby refused to touch a gun. She had a rebellious streak a mile wide, but she drew the line on weapons. We used to spend lots of time together—she was a real daddy’s girl. I tried to persuade her to hunt with me, but no use. Her admission to shooting Travis sounded ridiculous. But Marissa swore Shelby had pulled the trigger, and she confessed to it. I thought I knew my daughter better than anyone else, but I was wrong. Marissa told me disgusting things about Shelby.”
“What kind of things?” I said.
Clay sighed. “Smoking. Drinking. Using drugs and selling them. Sleeping around since she was twelve. Hard for me to believe.” Sad eyes met mine. “I’m a bitter man. My wife’s and daughters’ lives were destroyed because of one tragic decision. Soon all I’ll have left is one daughter and Aria.”
Clay’s voice softened when he’d spoken about Shelby’s and his past relationship. Not at all how he’d responded when I was here before. He loved her despite what she’d done. His emotions must frighten him. That I understood.
44
Between the pain in my battered body and whoever wanted my friends dead, I was in no mood for a smart-mouth. Nick Hanson had no idea how determined a wounded man could be. Mike and I had left Clay Pearce and driven to Houston, where we waited to interview Hanson, the man who’d attacked Isaac and Shelby in the stairwell. Hanson supposedly had no family. No job. No priors. But he had military experience.
“I doubt this is his first offense,” I said. “More like the first time he’s been caught. According to Isaac, Hanson knew how to handle himself. Why don’t you lead the questioning since I look like I got hit by the wrong end of an ugly stick?”
“And lost.” Mike gave me a thumbs-up. “I doubt he’ll be more afraid of me than you, but I’ll give it a shot.”
The guard steered Hanson inside. He had the physique of a man who frequented the gym. Isaac was a beast for taking him down.
Hanson sneered. “The Feds, huh? Tell me why I have the pleasure of your company.”
Mike offered a slight smile and introduced himself and me. “Nick, you have an impressive military record—two tours in Afghanistan, sharpshooter, covert ops in Syria. Now you’re in jail, and your buddy Stan Watkins is dead. Which puzzles me why a man of your caliber took a hit man job from a lowlife like Eli Chandler.”
Hanson eyed him. “We were minding our own business when this old guy attacked me and my buddy in the parking lot. We got hot and followed him inside. The old guy shot my buddy, and I surrendered so he wouldn’t kill me.”
Mike tapped his finger on the table. “The ‘old guy’ is a Fed. You were wearing ski masks and admitted Chandler hired you. Let’s get past the Halloween party. We can talk to the judge on your behalf, but only if you cooperate.”
Nick squinted. “How?”
“How long have you and Stan Watkins been working together?”
