Page 217 of The Billion Heirs Boxed Set
I do the same. “Mr. Hopkins,” I say in my work voice, “I’m special agent Avery Marsh with the FBI. I have some questions about the murder of your son, Joseph Hopkins.”
“I don’t know shit about what happened to him. He was an ingrate, for sure.”
Lovely. A deadbeat father.
I keep the look on my face non-committal. “An ingrate?”
“Yeah. He could have gone into business with me, and he chose not to.”
“Your construction company?”
My research shows his business is in bad shape, though it once thrived when Hopkins was younger. What happened?
One look at him tells the tale. Alcohol. The man’s in withdrawal, and it shows. Bloodshot eyes, swollen skin, red nose like Rudolph. I’m pretty sure this is where Joey Hopkins’s missing liver went. No way Curt would have gotten a liver from anyone else without getting off the sauce for at least a year.
“Tell me your connection to Racehorse Hauling,” I say.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“According to your daughter’s affidavit, she found an ashtray with the company’s logo in your living room.”
He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Rainey probably found it at a garage sale. Or Joey gave it to me. He worked for them.”
“But you’re maintaining you had no connection to Racehorse whatsoever?”
“That’s exactly what I’m maintaining, lady.”
“Special Agent Marsh,” I correct him. “What was your connection to Jonathan Bridger?”
He cocks his head. “The rich fucker? Didn’t know him.”
“So you weren’t aware that over a dozen corporations—all of which Jonathan Bridger held majority ownership in—contracted with Racehorse Hauling to transport hazardous chemicals across state lines and across the Canadian border for illegal disposal?”
“Do I look like I even know what a hazardous chemical is, la—”
I glare at him.
“—dy?”
I draw in a breath and count to ten. Or try to. I only make it to three.
He sure as hell does look like he knows what a hazardous chemical is. He is the personification of a hazardous chemical.
I try a different direction. “When’s the last time you saw your son, Mr. Hopkins?”
A shrug pushes up the orange prison shirt. “He disappeared a couple years ago.”
“So you had no contact with him prior to his death, which examiners estimate to have occurred about three to four months ago?”
“Why would I have contact with him?” His voice rises. “He was a shithead ingrate.”
Ingrate. Again. Why am I even surprised? This is a man who held his only daughter at gunpoint. That’s why he’s in prison.
Working for the FBI, I should be hardened to assholes. I’ve met enough of them.
“Do you know why a portion of your son’s liver had been removed prior to his death?”
“What?” He widens his eyes.
