Page 89 of Long Gone

“Bill O’Murphy,” he said. “He died a good four or five years ago. He was retired.”

“Okay, who else?”

“Skip Martin. He owns the Ford dealership.”

“Anyone else?”

“Paul Adams,” Floyd said, licking his bottom lip. “He owns the building, but he was here enough times to make me wonder what he was up to.”

My heart skipped a beat, and I was sure I’d heard him wrong, but there was no denying he’d said my father’s name.

My father owned the building?

He hadn’t denied knowing Hugo. In fact, we were meeting tonight to talk about him. But I hadn’t thought he was this deeply connected with the case. I shot a glance to Malcolm. He had to know Paul Adams was my father, but he didn’t let on. I was thankful he was asking the questions now because I was reeling.

“So what happened to the shit in Burton’s office when he took off?” Malcolm asked.

“Paul cleaned it out himself. I told him I’d call the family to do it, but he said he didn’t want to burden them. That’s why I was surprised when the family showed up to get his things, because Paul had said he was giving everything to them. But I didn’t want to get him into trouble, so I just told them someone had done it, but I didn’t know who.”

My father cleaned out the office? Panic filled my head, but I stuffed it down. I had to keep it together and finish this interview.

“Did you confront Adams?” Malcolm asked.

“I mentioned that the family had come by, and they’d been surprised the stuff wasn’t here, but he said he’d forgotten and would take care of it. We never talked about it again.”

Malcolm shot me a look, probably to see if I had any other questions, but my head was still stuck on the fact my father had been part of this.

I had a whole new line of questioning to address when I saw him tonight.

Chapter 21

Floyd’s forehead was dotted with droplets of sweat, so when Malcolm didn’t ask anything else, the older man started for the door.

“One more thing,” I asked as Floyd started to pass me. He came to a full stop, his hands shaking with anxiety.

Why was this making him so nervous? Did he suspect Hugo had been murdered? Was he worried the murderer would come after him if he gave too much away? Or, more likely, was he scared of Malcolm?

Floyd’s rheumy eyes met mine, and a wave of guilt washed through me. What if we had put him in danger? But I’d started down this path. I might as well finish it.

“What was your impression of Hugo?”

A blank look filled his eyes. “My impression?”

“Was he a nice guy? A sleaze ball? Did he come across as a smarmy salesperson?”

“Oh no,” he said, some of the tension easing from his body. “He was a super nice guy. No one was more surprised than I was to learn he’d stolen all that money. I know the news said he’d been having money trouble, but like I said, he always paid his rent on time.”

That wasn’t what Clarice had said. She’d told me the office manager had cleaned out the office because Hugo was behind on the rent.

Had my father told Clarice the rent was past due, or had she made that part up?

I gave Floyd a half smile, trying to make this feel less like an interrogation. “So Hugo didn’t give you the impression that he was tricking people into investing in his properties?”

He shook his head. “No. Not at all. Honestly, for the longest time I didn’t believe he’d swindled all those people. I figured there had to be a good explanation, but after a few years, it seemed pretty obvious he wasn’t coming back.”

No, Hugo Burton definitely wasn’t coming back.

“Thank you for your time, Floyd,” I said, taking a step deeper into the room. “We’ll let you know if we’re interested in the office.”

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