Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

know?”
    Sheila, listening, felt sick. But she knew that the statement was an accurate one. If Timms had had a thing for women, rather than children, Hatch would probably have asked for less. Child pornography was a different thing altogether.
    “Understand,” Bartlett said. “How was the extortion demand conveyed? Did Hatch telephone Timms? Did you?”
    “Hatch always took care of that end of things.” Palmer’s lips stretched back in what could have been either a smile or a grimace of pain. “I guess he figured that way, he wouldn’t have to tell me how much he asked for. Made it easier for him to cream it off the top.”
    “I see,” Bartlett said. “Did he tell you how much he thought he’d get from Timms?”
    “Said he was gonna ask for twenty thousand. It was a lot, but considering who this guy is—his picture’s always in the paper, ribbon-cuttings and benefits for the women and kids’ shelter, stuff like that—Hatch said we’d get it.” He coughed. “I figure he asked for twenty-five, maybe even thirty. I didn’t want to know.”
    “Why not?” Bartlett asked.
    Plaintively, Palmer looked up at Bartlett. “Because it was my last job. I was gonna tell Hatch that, and I was gonna tell Larry. I was sick and tired of feeling like something bad was going to happen any minute. But I was scared, because Larry was my cousin and all that. I figured he’d do his best to keep me from being arrested, but I knew he’d tell his mother. And she’d tell my mother. That would be bad, real bad.”
    Listening, Sheila shook her head. Palmer hadn’t been afraid of the police. He was scared of his aunt and his mother.
    Bartlett spoke. “So you told Hatch you were quitting?”
    “Not then. I didn’t get the chance. I put Timms’ computer back in the file cabinet and waited. Hatch talked to Timms, who got really hot when he heard how much Hatch was asking. Hatch said he was going to pay, but I guess Timms changed his mind.” Palmer coughed, hard, a couple of times. “Anyway, when Larry opened up the next morning, the place was trashed. Didn’t take an Einstein to figure out who’d done it.”
    “When did you tell Hatch you were quitting?”
    Palmer closed his eyes, slowly, as if he were very tired. His voice dropped a notch. “Last night. Late. After I talked to you. He came over to my place.”
    “How did he react?”
    “He didn’t say much, but his eyes got hard, the way they do when he’s really mad. I told him I knew he’d killed Larry.”
    Eyebrows raised, Bartlett glanced at Sheila. “What did he say to that?”
    “He laughed. Like a crazy man. Said he didn’t do it, that nobody would believe me.”
    “Did you have any evidence?”
    There was a moment’s silence. “No,” he said finally. “Not what you’d call evidence. Stuff like fingerprints. But when you told me Larry was dead, I just knew Hatch did it. I figured that Timms went to Larry and told him what was going on, and Larry confronted Hatch about it. That’s when Hatch shot him. I know he had a gun. He showed it to me once.”
    “What kind of gun was it?” Bartlett asked.
    “A .357 Magnum. He was really impressed with that gun. Took it outto the range. Said it made him feel like he could handle anything.” His voice became bitter. “Big man. Hatch loved the idea of being a big man.”
    But the murder weapon hadn’t been a .357, Sheila thought. It had been a smaller .32. Jackie Harmon’s gun. And Harmon had left her fingerprint on the casing of the slug that had killed Kirk.
    Palmer swallowed. “So it had to be Hatch, don’t you see? Larry must’ve told him to come over, and he took the gun and—” He began coughing hard, and flecks of blood stained his lips.
    Sheila stepped to the door and opened it. Helen Berger was passing through the hallway, and Sheila beckoned. “Coughing up blood,” she said in a low voice. “Not much, but some.”
    “You’d better leave, Chief,” Helen said. “I’ll have the doctor look at him.”
    Back in the room, Sheila motioned to Bartlett. He nodded.
    “I guess that about wraps it up, Henry,” he said. “We may have more questions for you when you’re able to talk longer. When you’re better.”
    “I’m not going to get better,” Palmer said, almost defiantly. “I’m going to die.”
    Sheila was walking with Bartlett back to the car when her cell phone chirped. It was China, and she sounded anxious.
    “Have you heard anything from the guys?” she asked. “I