Page 88 of Burning Justice

“Answers.” Rather than sit, Brett rested his hands on Pilcher’s desk and leaned in. “You lied to us. You do know Michael Hawkin. You not only went to the same college”—he flicked his gaze to the diploma—“but he took you flying. You’re in a photo on the wall in his office.”

Pilcher sneered. “So what?”

Brett sneered back. “So making a false statement to a federal officer is a felony. You can get up to five years in prison for that alone.” Unlikely, but it was in the Federal Criminal Code and Rules, and even a personal injury attorney would know it. “Why did you lie to us?”

As expected, Pilcher clammed up. Any half-assed attorney would be smart enough not to make incriminating statements. But Brett was patient.

“That’s all right.” Brett straightened, crossing his arms. “I know why. You, Michael Hawkin, and David Hawkin are behind at least twenty-three fires in Colorado over the past four years. You created phony documents: titles, deeds, insurance policies, all with the names of people who don’t exist. Then you burned down the houses, collected on the insurance and pricy riders, sold the land, and moved on to the next property.”

Pilcher fisted his manicured hands on the desk, his knuckles as white as his shirt. “I assure you I haven’t burned down any houses.”

“Of course not.” Brett snorted. “You’d never get your hands dirty. You’re the brains behind Kobuk Titling Agency and all the phony documents in this conspiracy. I’m getting subpoenas as we speak to track down every bit of information on Kobuk Titling and your PayPal accounts. The money trail never lies.” He’d have to add bank subpoenas to the list, but Pilcher didn’t need to know that.

Pilcher’s eyes widened a fraction, but he remained silent. The man needed a little push.

“You’re an attorney, so you know that every co-conspirator can be charged with the same crimes committed by others in the conspiracy, even if he didn’t physically commit them.” Now for the coup de grace. “Including murder.”

Pilcher’s eyes flared wider. The fear that had been mostly banked until now screamed from the man’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“For starters, did you know that someone tried to shoot me and strangle my partner in her own home? That’s one count of attempted murder and one count of attempted murder of a federal officer.” Pilcher swallowed. “Did you know that Johnny Nash’s body was found in an oil field? He was shot to death. That’s another murder I’ll tack on to your rap sheet.”

“What?” Beneath his suit jacket, Pilcher’s chest rose and fell faster. He began shaking his head, and his complexion had turned whiter than milk, telling Brett one thing.

Pilcher’s reaction had been too severe. He’d bet Pilcher hadn’t known Nash was dead.

“Johnny Nash set the Torrance Lane fire, didn’t he? Didn’t he?” Brett slammed the heels of his hands onto the desk, making Pilcher flinch violently and sending coffee sloshing over the top of the mug. “You’re in this up to your eyeballs, and it doesn’t matter if you didn’t pull the trigger.”

Again, Pilcher swallowed and began sucking in shallow breaths. “I don’t know anything about Nash getting shot, and I don’t know anything about what happened at the Torrance Lane house. Michael owned that house outright. Anything that happened there after he bought that property is on him. Not me.”

“Wanna bet?” Brett snarled. “You’re a part of this conspiracy, and that fire was intentionally set. That makes it murder. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be burned alive?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll tell you.” He leaned down, getting in Pilcher’s face. The man’s gaze fixated on the disfigured flesh on Brett’s arm. “At first, it stings, and you try to get away from the flames, but you can’t. Then you experience the most unimaginable, excruciating pain as the fire feasts on your skin. If you’re lucky, you’ll die of suffocation before that ever happens. If not, eventually the fire will burn away your nerve endings and you’ll feel nothing at all. When your body temperature rises above one hundred five degrees, enzymes can’t function. You’ll go into organ failure and shock. It can take as long as two or three hours for your body to fully burn. If your skeleton is still on fire, your bones will turn to ash.”

Pilcher’s white complexion had turned a grotesque shade of Wicked Witch of the West–green. He covered his mouth with his hand. A gurgling sound came from his throat as he leaned over and puked into a garbage can.

When the retching had subsided to dry heaves, Pilcher plucked several tissues from a box on his desk and wiped his mouth. “What happened to those kids was an accident. I had nothing to do with it. It was a legitimate purchase made by Hawkin Construction. All I did was create the title and the deed.”

“Did you and Michael discuss the house being a money pit and that he needed to get rid of it fast?”

“Y-yes.”

“So he paid Nash to torch it for him on a specific day and at a specific time. That way, he could set up an airtight alibi. Say it.” Every admission had to be verbal, or it was worthless.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Pilcher’s lips compressed into a tight line. “Michael didn’t discuss burning down that house with me.”

“But you knew all those other houses would be burned down. Didn’t you?” Pilcher nodded. “Say it. Yes or no.”

“Yes. I knew, but I didn’t burn down anything. That was all Michael and David. All I did was create documents and insurance policies.”

“Did David Hawkin shoot Nash?” They’d still need the labs’ analyses on the mud and shell casings, but Pilcher’s statements would corroborate the findings.

“I don’t know.” Pilcher wiped his mouth again with a clean tissue. “I didn’t know they were going to kill him.”

“But you knew something.” That much was evident.

He nodded. “Nash went to prison for burglary right after the Torrance Lane fire. When he got out, nobody would hire him. Michael did, then Nash started blackmailing him. That’s all I know.”