Not this time, Billy Ray promised.
A uniformed deputy tapped on the door. “They’re ready.”
Billy Ray’s mouth went dry. This one was for all the marbles. “You have the information?”
Rumsfeld nodded, although something in his eyes got Billy Ray’s back up. Like he felt sorry for him or something. This was his moment, the last thing he needed was anyone’s pity.
“Good. Make it count.”
He took a seat in front of the monitor, ignoring the feeling of the eyes of the room’s other occupants on him. He sent them all a silent F.U. and hunkered down to watch. He didn’t want to miss a thing.
Rumsfeld greeted the pair. “I trust you two had the chance to catch up?”
“Absolutely,” the lawyer said.
“Good. Is there anything about your client’s previous statement he’d like to amend?”
“Not a thing.”
Billy Ray snorted. Of course there wasn’t. This slippery fish wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“We do have a question, however.” Rumsfeld nodded and the detective continued. “You say a witness saw Ms. Jenkins getting into my client’s truck.”
“That’s right. A black F-150.”
“Did the witness actually lay eyes on Mr. Abbott?” As if knowing the detective wouldn’t answer, King went on. “How about a license plate number?”
“No comment on that just yet.”
“How many Ford trucks are registered in Saint Tammany Parish? Last I knew, round these parts Ford’s the truck of choice. Now, you say it was an F-150 and that it was black, but it was dark and very late. Our eyes can play tricks on us, our minds fill in the blanks. But that, of course, has nothing to do with reality.”
Billy Ray wanted to reach through the monitor and throttle the man. Rumsfeld, on the other hand, looked calm, collected and totally in control.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“The night in question, Mr. Abbott was nowhere near The Landing. And that’s just the fact.”
“We believe a jury will see it differently.”
“Wishful thinking, my friend. If that’s all you’ve got, I suggest you release my client now and save yourself—”
Rumsfeld cut him off. “Not happening. Let’s move on.” He turned his attention to Abbott. “I want to pass a few names by you, Mr. Abbott. Do you remember a young woman named Nicole Grace?”
“Of course I do.”
“How do you know her?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a judge.”
“Her mother worked for my family. She was around the farm a lot as a kid.”
“And?”
“She was murdered.”
“The case was never solved, was it?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You two were friends.”
“Hardly. She was more than a decade younger than me. I remember her being a sweet kid.”
“She had a crush on you, didn’t she?”
“What?” He looked at his lawyer. “No. Not that I know of anyway.”
“Do you recall what you were doing the day of her murder?”
“I don’t even remember what day that was, let alone what I was—”
“June fourteenth. Two thousand and five.”
Abbott just stared blankly at him. After several moments, his lawyer leaned over and murmured in his ear. Abbott blinked and shook his head. “No clue.”
Billy Ray watched and made notes as the interrogation went on. Questions about the summer Abbott and Trista Hook dated. How serious had it been? Why had they broken up? When was the last time he saw her?
“And what,” Rumsfeld asked, “were you doing the night she disappeared?”
“I don’t know.”
Rumsfeld moved on to Amanda LaPier. “Yeah,” Abbott responded, “I gave her a lift one time. She was hitching. Something I don’t think is a smart thing to do—”
“Why not, Mr. Abbott?”
“Really?”
He looked at his lawyer, who stepped in. “This is bordering on laughable. Can we move on?”
“Do you have any idea how old she was?”
“None.”
“Nineteen. She was nineteen at the time.” He paused. “What did you talk about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You asked her if she had a boyfriend. Do you remember that?”
Terry King jumped in. “He just said he didn’t remember what they talked about. Move on.”
“She went missing two years later. Interesting, isn’t it?”
Abbott sighed. “I don’t follow.”
“Come on, Mr. Abbott, you’re a smart man. You give a girl a ride—”
“And two years later, she goes missing.” King closed his notebook. “This fishing expedition is over.”
“Not quite. The night Ms. LaPier went missing, any recollection of your whereabouts?”
“That date?”
“February eighth, this year. Say about three A.M.”
“At home in bed with my wife.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“We haven’t spent a night apart since we married, so yes, I’m certain of that.”
“And she’ll corroborate?”
“Of course.”
Billy Ray narrowed his eyes. He’d hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but that pause, that moment of insecurity, had been there.
He saw the deputy on his right glance his way and realized he’d been talking to himself.
Screw him, Billy Ray thought. What did he know? He hadn’t lived this.
Rumsfeld went on. “I want to pass a couple names by you. Ever heard the name Estelle Davis?”
“No. Never.”
“Paula Caine?”
“Nope.”
“Margaret Martin?”
“Again, never.”
“And you’d stake your life on that?”
“Would you, Detective?” Abbott rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking exhausted. “I’ll put it this way: To my knowledge, I’ve never heard of any of those women.”
“Nor have I,” Terry King said. “What do these women have to do with Dixie Jenkins?”
“That’s all for now.” Rumsfeld stood. “If you’d like a few minutes with your client—”
“I would.”
“A deputy will be posted outside. When you’re finished, he’ll escort Mr. Abbott back to his cell.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Wednesday, April 23