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The grin grew bigger. “Yep. Can I ask why we’re talking to Martin? I thought you and the medical examiner were pretty convinced that a woman was the killer.”
“We are, but Martin might be able to give us information we don’t have. He also might have hired a woman or been in cahoots with one…”
“Did you just say ‘cahoots?’”
“I did. And we also always want to talk to anyone who might have had motive and opportunity—if for no other reason than to show a fair and balanced investigation.”
“So, it’s not just about catching the killer.”
“No; it’s also about providing the best optics for the media and for the court and jury. If they think you were biased or focused in on someone too quickly, it can work against you.”
Jessica parked her conservative black Range Rover next to the in-your-face blue BMW. They were arguably about the same price. If anything, the Range Rover was more expensive. But in this case, one was classy and the other was far too flashy.
As they got out of the vehicle, a man in an expensive set of trousers tucked into a pair of rubber boots paired with an equally expensive white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a hard hat approached them.
“Can I help you? The site isn’t open for visitors yet.”
“George,” called Jessica. “It’s Jessica Murdoch and Detective Wilder from the State’s Major Crimes Unit.”
“Jessica! Sorry I didn’t recognize you. And Detective Wilder,” he said, extending his hand to Thorn, “I’ve been quasi expecting you.”
“Why is that, Mr. Martin?” asked Thorn.
“Oh please, call me George. That’s what everyone calls me unless they’re calling me all kinds of vile names.”
“Does that bother you? The vile names?”
“Not really. When you’re really successful, you get used to it. It kind of comes with the territory, eh, Jessica? People make accusations whether they’re true or not. It’s not how many times people try and knock you down, all that counts is that you keep getting back up. Jessica would know a thing or two about that.”
Thorn saw her pale before a delicate blush crept up her neck and cheeks. What the hell was that about?
“We each experience pressure and fame differently. Some of us admit our mistakes and rise, while others sweep them under the rug and then guard them—all the while denying them—like a junkyard dog.”
This really was interesting. It appeared Jessica could dish it out as well as take it. He needed to get this interview back on track.
“I take it you’ve heard about Gregory Thompson’s murder.”
“I have. I’m sure you know there’s no love lost there between us. Thompson and I were business rivals, some say bitter rivals. I never saw us as existing in the same league. I built my business up stone-by-stone with a solid foundation. No one has ever been sure about where Thompson got his money. Some say the mob, either fronting for them or laundering their money. Some say he had his own illicit streams of revenue he used to fund his projects. Others think that Martha Rivers isn’t the first ‘business partner’ he’s swindled.”
“Do you know which of those might or might not be true?”
“I’m not inclined to think he was involved with the mob. I don’t think he had the stomach for it. Besides, poison isn’t their usual MO.”
“What makes you think he was poisoned?” asked Thorn.
Martin laughed, looking at Jessica and jerking his thumb toward Jessica. “He doesn’t know Badger’s Drift, does he?” He turned back to Thorn. “Nothing spreads faster in a small town than information on the murder of a man nobody liked.”
Thorn shook his head.
Martin continued. “My guess is that Martha wasn’t the first person he embezzled from, and I always thought he had some illegal things going on the side.”
“Such as?” said Thorn, glad that they’d stopped.
“I’ve heard some tall tales about a roving ‘gentlemen’s club’ featuring underage girls. If that’s true, it wouldn’t be hard to believe he was blackmailing people.”
“People like Selma Griffin?” asked Jessica.
Martin’s eyes darted her way. “What makes you ask that?”
