Heat recognized him from the Internet search she had done as well as from a 20/20 profile she had seen on Hays the year before, after he personally led a daring helicopter mission to rescue one of his contractors who had been kidnapped by the Taliban. He was Top Gun handsome but shorter than she’d expected. In the video profile he had laughed and described himself as “five-foot-eight of pissed off cobra,” and he was all that, particularly with his alert eyes and that lean muscle flexing under his black polo shirt and tight Gap jeans.
Hays picked his travel duffel off the couch, tossed it beside his desk, and gestured for them to sit. He took the tan leather easy chair facing them, which complemented his sandy Steve McQueen hair and desert suntan. The relaxed throw of one leg over the other, the casual dangling of his aviators from the V of his shirt, and the heartland smile were winning enough to Nikki, but as she settled down between Raley and Ochoa, she reminded herself this was the man who might have killed—or arranged to have killed—Father Graf and sent a platoon of operatives to Central Park to cancel her day. Those were two items Nikki wanted to find out about. Or at least hear his answers and put them to the smell test.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?”
Heat decided to pull the rug on the laid back pose. “For starters, you can tell me how it felt to kill Father Graf.”
The response from Hays was curious. No, bizarre. Rather than getting rattled, he lounged his head back onto the chair and smiled. As if narrating a nature video, he spoke to the ceiling. “And so the gal detective begins with a weak attempt to throw the interview subject off balance. Classic opening gambit, which is to say . . . ,” he brought his head forward to look into her eyes and said, “. . . clichéd.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Hays.”
“You’ve got to earn my answers, miss.” And then, narrating again, he said, “Ouch. In the hole on the first Q! Frustrated by the response; distracted by the chaff of implied sexism. What will she do?”
Heat knew exactly what he was up to. Hays was employing some sort of mind game to fend her off and hijack the interview. Probably some counter-interrogation technique he taught in Ely, Nevada. She told herself to shut out his psychological noise and stick to her agenda.
“Where were you the night your pastor was killed?”
“Why?”
“Because I suspect you may have killed him and I want to confirm your whereabouts.”
“Strategy Two employed,” he announced. “Stepping it down from the absolute ‘how did it feel’ to the wimpy ‘you may have.’ Why, oh, why do they send me amateurs?”
“Your whereabouts, Mr. Hays.”
“Where? Oh . . . about.” He laughed. “About could be so many places. She will be a long time checking that.”
Nikki decided to shift gears on him. She took out the picture of Sergio Torres and handed it over. “Do you know this man?”
“This is no man. This is a photograph.” He cocked an eye at her. “Oh, tell me the glorified meter maid doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“His name is Sergio Torres,” continued Heat, “and I want to know if you have ever employed him as one of your contractors.”
He nodded. “That I will answer.” Hays waited until he had milked the moment. “. . . By saying that I do not confirm or deny personnel in my employ for reasons of their own safety. And national security.” He laughed again and said to Raley, “You could ask Julian Assange.”
Heat persisted. “So you have never seen him?”
“Mm, they all look about the same to me.”
Ochoa tensed beside her. She pressed a gentle elbow against him and he settled.
Hays lifted his arm like a pupil. “May I ask one now?” She waited and he said, “Why are you asking me about this . . . hombre?”
“Because the same day he tried to kill me, one of your operatives was seen doing surveillance on my apartment.” It was the first time she had seen him thrown. Not much, but the cobra eyes took a hit.