“Boy, you really think they’d send one measly Virginia cop if they knew that? SWAT would be dancing on your back.”
His father had a point. This was something else. Gibson peeled off his heavy rubber gloves, dried his face on his apron, and went out front. Detective Bachmann, perched on one of the counter stools, pointed to the stool beside him. Gibson sat and studied his hands.
“Nice haircut,” Bachmann said. “Like a whole new man.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you?”
“What do you want?” Gibson was in no mood to banter. Duke stood off to the side and tried to get his attention. Gibson ignored him as best he could; he was getting better at blocking out Duke and Bear when he was around people.
“Just checking up on you. You seemed disoriented the last time we spoke. Wanted to see how you’re settling in. You have a job. That’s a good start.”
“Living the dream.”
That didn’t satisfy Bachmann, so Gibson gave him a family-friendly version of his recent activities: the basement room he’d rented and his landlady, Gloria Nakamura, a widow and a curmudgeon with a dim view of the government, who was more than happy to take the rent in cash so long as Gibson paid in advance and didn’t bring women home. Bachmann asked for Gibson’s new address while somehow making it seem a friendly gesture. Gibson thought it a good trick and gave the address to the detective, who jotted it down in his notebook.
Gibson fed him a line of bullshit about updating his résumé and straightening out his finances. He left out the reconnaissance he’d been doing of the abandoned power plant that met his needs exactly. Instead, he told Bachmann about buying a 2002 Yukon on Craigslist. That he’d taken it for a test drive and that it ran well for a vehicle with 180,000 miles on the odometer. But he left out that he’d paid for it from money raised by the sale of Charles Merrick’s watch to a collector. He left out all the other interesting items that the Charles Merrick Gold Watch Fund had bankrolled. And he definitely left out tomorrow’s trip to Longman Farm to buy the hard-to-acquire items on Duke Vaughn’s shopping list.
He didn’t tell the detective how badly he wanted a gun. How it had caught him by surprise because he intended to take Ogden alive, so why did he need a gun? He’d never felt any particular fondness for firearms. The Marines had taught him their care and use—five weeks of training before they’d entrusted him with live ammunition—which had instilled in him a healthy respect for their capabilities. But that was all. To him, firearms had always been tools and nothing more. He’d never felt an attachment to them before. Not the way he did now. This craving to feel the weight of a loaded gun in his hands.
Ordinarily, acquiring a gun couldn’t have been easier. There were hundreds of ranges and gun shops in Virginia, but all would require a background check. If he were on a watch list, it would raise all kinds of red flags at Langley. Flags that he could ill afford, given his plans for Damon Ogden. His best bet was the secondary market: a gun show where sellers weren’t required to conduct background checks so long as they had no reasonable expectation that the buyer intended to commit a crime. Unfortunately, the next regional gun show wasn’t for another month, and Gibson had no intention of waiting that long. He asked himself who he knew who would have black-market contacts. One name leapt to mind. And that name owed him . . . At least that was how Gibson saw things.
“Have you looked for your ex-wife?” Bachmann asked.
“Found her.” Gibson saw no reason to lie about that.
Bachmann looked disappointed. “You remember that restraining order?”
“Does this look like Seattle to you?” Gibson asked.
“Still, you think that’s wise?”
“You know, I had a father, but I remember going to his funeral. So for the life of me, I can’t figure out who the fuck you are.”
“Good one,” Duke said with a grin.
Bachmann shrugged. “You go anywhere near her, and you’ll find out pretty fast who I am.”
Gibson stood, his interest in this interview waning.
“Walk me out,” Bachmann said, finishing the last of his coffee.
“Walk yourself out.”
“Hey.” Bachmann took hold of Gibson’s arm. “That assaulting-an-officer charge can come back anytime. So be a good boy and walk me out.”
Bachmann held his gaze until Gibson relented and followed the detective out into the cold. Bachmann unlocked his car and sat in the driver’s seat to start the engine while Gibson stood and shivered.
“Given any more thought to your statement?”
“You mean, did I suddenly remember burning down my daughter’s house?”
“Did you?”
“Nicole told you I didn’t.”
Bachmann shrugged in a familiar gesture of seen this, done that. “Yeah, a woman defending her loser ex-husband. A first in the annals of police work.”
“I can’t help you, detective.”
Bachmann tried a different tactic. “Well, let’s say for a second you didn’t do it. Any ideas who would want to settle a score with you?”
“Me?”
“Don’t even start with that. We both know your history, Vaughn. If it wasn’t you, it was someone sending you a message. Your family was just the envelope.”
Unfortunately, Gibson did have ideas. Too many. But he wasn’t about to share his suspicions with a Virginia detective. That would only raise more questions that Gibson couldn’t afford to answer. Besides, figuring out who’d burned down the house wasn’t his priority. The fire was only a symptom. Ogden was the disease.
“You do, don’t you?” Bachmann said.
“No, not off the top of my head. But I’ll sleep on it.”
“You do that,” Bachmann said amicably, shutting his door. Through the glass, he winked at Gibson and mouthed the words “I’ll be seeing you.”