“Yeah, perhaps.” Landon didn’t necessarily buy into that line of thought, but Davenport might well have signed his own death warrant by, it seemed, failing to put Eddie out to pasture. “Send the video.”
“On its way,” the detective said.
When he opened it on his cell phone, Landon could see Ramírez wandering aimlessly. He was followed by a man wearing a hoodie, with the hood over his head. After freezing the frame and zooming in on the stalker, Landon believed it was the same person who had attacked Raquelle.
Fred Davenport.
To Landon, it was yet one more piece of the puzzle that wound its way right back to Ivan Pimentel and his desire to stop Eddie from providing any further intel into Pimentel’s criminal activities.
* * *
AT11:00A.M., YUSEF ABERCROMBIEwas brought in for questioning as a person of interest in the investigation of Fred Davenport’s murder.
In a windowless interrogation room, Landon sat on a metal chair at a wooden table, across from the seated suspect. He wasted no time going after him, placing a photograph before Abercrombie of a deceased Davenport.
“Do you recognize him?” Landon asked with an edge to his voice.
Abercrombie glanced at the picture and replied smugly, “Should I?”
“Yeah—his name is Fred Davenport.” Landon jutted his chin. “Two nights ago, he was shot to death in a bathroom at his apartment in West Columbia—but it was made to look like a suicide.”
“And this has to do with me, how?” The suspect appeared unflappable as he sat back in his chair.
“Since you asked,” Landon said sarcastically, “he’s the guy who was hired to blow up a boat at Knotter Marina that was supposed to have art dealer Eddie Jernigan on it when the explosion occurred. But he wasn’t, fortunately. Still, Jernigan is now missing. In the meantime, Davenport has kicked the bucket himself. I don’t suppose you know anything about either of these things…?”
Abercrombie frowned and said sneeringly, “You’re right, I don’t. Eddie Jernigan is someone my employer, Ivan Pimentel, has done business with. Other than that, I know nothing about his boat. Or what might have happened to him.” Abercrombie sighed. “As for this Fred Davenport, the name doesn’t ring a bell—”
“Well, maybe I can help it to ring inside your head,” Landon told him. “A surveillance camera was able toplace a BMW X5 M SUV registered in your name to within two blocks of Davenport’s apartment—where he was shot—around the time of his death. Can you explain this?”
The revelation seemed to catch Abercrombie off guard. He took a long moment before answering. “Though it technically belongs to me, the BMW you refer to is actually a car that is routinely driven by different people who work for Mr. Pimentel, in conducting business involving his art galleries and related interests. So, I’m sure you will find that the BMW was driven by one of these employees during the time that you say it was in the area you speak of.”
“We’ll see about that,” Landon tossed out, doubting his story. “But was someone else also using a cell phone in your name, which pinged near the apartment complex where Davenport lived at around the time of his death?”
Landon strongly suspected that Abercrombie, on Pimentel’s orders, had been dispatched to take out Davenport—while making it appear to be a suicide. Moreover, it seemed that as Pimentel’s wingman, Abercrombie had likely been the one to hire Davenport as a hit man. Cell phone records would probably show communication between the two men—before Davenport became expendable after botching the job, as now appeared to be the case.
Abercrombie looked to be stumped trying to weave his way out of this one. His brows knitted thoughtfully before he responded. “I’m the only one who uses my cell phone. When you say, ‘near the apartment complex,’ I don’t know what that means. I spend a lot of time in and around West Columbia—for both business and pleasure.If my cell phone pinged in the vicinity around that time, it was purely coincidental, nothing more.” He kept a straight face. “Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Briscoe. If you expected a confession, I’m afraid it’s not happening.”
Actually, I wasn’t expecting an admission of guilt, Landon told himself. That would be way too easy. No, if they were going to hang one or more murders on Pimentel and Abercrombie—to say nothing of the myriad art-related crimes they were believed to have perpetrated, along with accomplices—it would need to be proven in a court of law. With solid evidence to back it up.
Gazing across the table, Landon said coolly, “I’ll need a list of any other employees of Ivan Pimentel who may have been driving the BMW during the time in question—”
“I can do that,” Abercrombie said, looking pleased with himself. “No problem.”
“Okay.” Landon glanced at the video camera that was showing the interview to Katie and Zach in another room. “You’re free to go.”
“Thanks.”
Before Abercrombie could get up, Landon said to him for a reaction, “By the way, you and Pimentel were spotted by FBI agents at Saluda Shoals Park—meeting with known art smuggler Hans Duey. He was taken into custody on international charges. Do you have anything to say about that?”
The man scratched his chin ponderingly. “Only that we met with Hans as someone we believed to be a legitimate art dealer,” he argued. “If he did anything illegal, I can assure you that Mr. Pimentel played no part in it. Neither did I.”
Yeah, right, Landon thought, finding the notion laughable at best. And appalling at worst, considering the transnational crimes they were believed to have committed. Not the least of which was murder. And there was still Eddie’s status to be determined categorically.
“Thanks for your time,” Landon said, then saw Abercrombie out the door.
The suspect turned to Landon and stated, looking him in the eye, “As I’m sure you realize, Agent Briscoe, being under investigation is not the same thing as being guilty of any alleged crimes…”
I’m pretty sure the two go hand in hand in this case, Landon told himself but responded intently, “You’re right about that. But just so you know, a criminal investigation may also prove the guilt is real—when the verdict comes in…”
