Andi typed the address into the GPS. Once the route was loaded, George started the vehicle and weaved back into traffic. On their way over to Summerville, George made a stop at a small deli to buy some sandwiches. It was getting late in the afternoon, and neither of them had had anything substantial the entire day. The sandwiches would tide them over until they could get some real food. Andi chewed his rye bread and cheese while he watched the buildings they passed, almost absentmindedly taking George’s water bottle when he tried to put it back in the cupholder and giving it back to him before he was done reaching for it. It was one of the things George loved about having Andi as his shotgun. The man was intuitive to George’s needs, probably without noticing it. They ate in companionable silence, mentally getting ready for this last meeting of the day.
Dominic McHill had a small house on Thrasher Drive that could do with a full renovation, including a new coat of paint for the façade. It wasn’t what they had expected from somebody who made their money as a stockbroker. According to their research, Dominic wasn’t top-notch. He apparently lacked the instinct for the right investments at the right time, but he still should make enough money to not live like this. George parked at the sidewalk in front of the house. “Same procedure as with the last two?”
Andi nodded. “Fine with me. Let’s see how indifferent the young Mr. McHill is.”
They marched to the house, and George rang the bell. It only took about a minute until somebody asked from the other side, “Who’s there?”
“Mr. McHill? We’re Detectives George Donovan and Andrew Hayes. Please open the door.”
There was some shuffling at the other side before the door opened wide. Dominic McHill was on the shorter side, about five six with a shock of red hair that was thinning at the sides. He had the typical stature of somebody who worked in an office, didn’t exercise much, but at least watched his eating habits.
“I guess you’re here because of my father?”
Andi made the half step necessary to bring him to George’s side instead of remaining behind him. “You already know?”
The man made a vague gesture with his right hand. “My mother called me. Was it murder?”
“We’re still investigating. Can we come in, please?” George didn’t wait for the affirmative; he simply stepped forward, forcing Dominic McHill backward with his mass alone.
“Of course. Please.” The man hastily stepped aside, closed the door once they were inside, and led them to a living room with furniture so clearly secondhand, George just knew there was a story behind where the money McHill made was going. It clearly wasn’t his home. The carpet was thin and so old, it was hard to tell its original color, though George suspected it had always been some kind of hideous brown, the wallpaper was peeling off in the corners, the sockets had that yellowish patina indicating they should be at least tested for safety at some point soon, and the way Andi was eyeing the couch told George all he needed to know about its cleanliness.
Their reluctant host gestured for them to sit down on said couch. After a short moment of internal debate, George decided he could always burn his clothes once he got home. They both sat down gingerly, keeping their butts to the very edge of the upholstery, which surely sent a strange message to Dominic McHill. Some things just couldn’t be helped.
“Mr. McHill, let me first say, we’re sorry for your loss.” George rattled the phrase off, already anticipating McHill’s response, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Thank you, but it’s fine. My father and I weren’t close.” This was the third time they heard these words. It couldn’t be coincidence.
“But you still had contact with him?” George lifted a brow.
Dominic McHill snorted. “If you want to describe a card on my birthday and one on Christmas as contact, then yes, I still had contact. Though I’m pretty sure my mother is the driving force behind it.”
“You don’t seem to mind too much.” George was fishing now.
“I left minding behind me about six years ago. There is just no pleasing some people, and once I realized my father is one of them, I learned to let go. I’m not pretending it was easy or enjoyable, but I’m done with my father. Him dying has little to no impact on my life.”
“Did you know your father was on a hunting trip this week?”
“Not this week specifically, but he always went this time of the year. Usually with his two best friends.”
George felt the hairs on his nape rising. It was eerie how similar the conversations had been so far. Next to him, Andi shifted his weight just enough to have their thighs touching. His partner found this as disturbing as he did.
“Do you happen to know if your father had any enemies?” George spontaneously decided to add this question.
McHill laughed drily. “As you may already know, my father wasn’t a pleasant man. He had tons of enemies. I’m not sure how many of them wanted him actually dead, but I can assure you, almost everybody he had regular contact with has wished him the plague at some point.”
George had thought as much. He rose from the couch, suppressing the urge to swipe his butt. Instead he offered Dominic McHill his hand to shake. The man took it, his grip limp, reminding George of a dead fish wrapped in paper, without any force behind it. Definitely not an alpha male. He gave Dominic his card, telling him to call if he remembered anything that might be helpful. George was not going to hold his breath.
Back in the car, he stared at Andi. “Do I want to know what’s in that couch?”
“Bedbugs. A healthy colony.”
When George felt sweat forming on his forehead, Andi held up a hand. “Don’t worry. We didn’t take any with us. They were preparing to attack, and it wouldn’t have been wise to linger any longer, but we made it out in time.”
“I’m going to burn these clothes.”
“I told you, there’s no need.” Andi glanced at him with that funny expression he always got when he thought George was being unreasonable.
“Believe me, there is. Just thinking about bedbugs has me itching all over.”
