Then he lightly slapped the arms of his wheelchair three times. “Now, down to business.” He did that weird back-and-forth thing with his chair, then rolled over to the desk. On top was what appeared to be a box of stationery. Indicating it, he said, “Your money.”
Griff made no move toward it.
Speakman, misreading his hesitancy, laughed. “Go ahead. It’s yours. Look in the box.”
Griff approached the desk and indifferently lifted the lid off the box. Inside it were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly banded with paper strips.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Griff gnawed the inside of his cheek, saying nothing. He was afraid of what he would say if he spoke, afraid he would tell Speakman the low opinion he had of a man who would pay another to have sex with his wife, no matter how lofty the reason.
Out of curiosity, he’d looked up that Bible story. It was the wife, Sarah, who had sent another woman to her husband, but basically the situation was the same. It hadn’t worked out too well in Genesis. In fact, things had got real mucked up. And all because this Sarah had wanted a baby, and wanted it her way.
You could tell yourself it was only biology, but it was still sex. It was still a man and woman lying down together and using equipment that was functional but also pleasure giving. Nobody had yet invented anything more intimate.
What he wanted to know was: How could any man ask that of his
wife
? Contempt for Foster Speakman roiled inside his gut along with the whiskey, along with his jealousy.
Of course, he was no prince of virtue. He was taking the man’s cash. He would deal with his disgust for himself later. But right now, he was revolted by Speakman, who was smiling at him like he’d won a jackpot, smiling without giving a thought to the emotional turmoil Griff and Laura had suffered for the sake of his foolish, selfish, stubborn demand.
“I won’t be insulted if you want to count it.”
Griff shook his head.
Speakman looked at him curiously. “Frankly, I’m surprised.”
“By?”
“Your reserve. Have you gone shy on me?”
“What did you expect?”
“More…” He made a rolling motion with his hands. “Reaction. Exuberance. You act almost reluctant to take your pay, like you’re sorry—” He broke off and studied Griff for a moment, then began to laugh. “Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“You don’t want it to end, do you? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re sorry those afternoon interludes with Laura are at an end.”
“That’s nuts.”
Speakman shook his index finger at him. “I don’t think so.”
“Let’s just settle our business so I can get outta here.” Even to his own pounding ears, his voice sounded like a growl.
“Ah, Griff, don’t be embarrassed. Making love to my wife is no hardship duty. Well I know. How could you help but get a crush on her? Like your gambling, you developed a taste for her, didn’t you? The more you had, the more you wanted. Now it’s hard to give her up. I understand. Truly I do.”
Griff clenched his fists.
Speakman chuckled again, then held up both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I apologize for laughing at you, but it’s just so damn amusing. Your job is over and you’ve earned your money, but you’re heartbroken about it. Can’t you appreciate the irony?” Speakman winked up at him. “You’re so downcast, I think you must have
really
enjoyed doing her.”
That clipped the last tenuous thread of Griff’s restraint. He gave vent to his disgust. “You sick fuck.”
“Possibly,” Speakman said affably. “But at least I’m not horny for another man’s wife, for a woman I can never, ever have again. Poor Griff, poor Griff, poor Griff.”
Griff glared down at him through a red mist of rage, then turned his head away and searched the desktop, looking for something, anything, that would silence that maddening, taunting chant.
“Mrs. Speakman?”
Laura had been staring through the airplane window as the jet made its final approach into Dallas. She’d been addressed by a flight attendant leaning across the empty aisle seat.
“When we get to the gate, I’ll be escorting you off ahead of the other passengers.”
“Oh, no, please don’t.” She disliked being given any special treatment when on a SunSouth flight.
The young woman smiled. “Sorry, orders from the cockpit.”
“Why?”
“The tower informed the pilot that you were being met immediately upon arrival.”
“Met? By whom?”
The attendant lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe by that handsome husband of yours. I remember that time on your birthday when he set up a string orchestra in baggage claim. Such a romantic surprise. Anyway, you’re to obey captain’s orders and disembark first.”
She hoped that Foster didn’t have an elaborate homecoming planned for her tonight. It had been an exhausting day, starting early and ending much later than it should have. All she wanted to do was go home, take a quick shower, and then have a long night’s sleep.
The pilots made a perfect landing, right on time. She made a mental note to report that to Foster.
After a short taxi to the gate, a flight attendant got on the PA and asked the other passengers to remain seated. Laura felt self-conscious as she was ushered up the aisle. She smiled an apology to passengers with whom she made eye contact.
When she reached the cockpit door, the captain was standing there. He doffed the bill of his hat. “Mrs. Speakman.”
“Flawless flight, Captain Morris,” she said, reading his name tag with peripheral vision, a knack she’d developed over the years.
“Thank you.”
But his expression was grave, and because he didn’t engage her in conversation, she felt a prickle of apprehension. “Is something the matter?”
“Please.” He gestured toward the open aircraft door. She stepped into the Jetway and was surprised that the pilot accompanied her. Even more surprising, he placed his hand beneath her elbow. Before she could react to that, she noticed two men coming toward them.
They were wearing the dress uniforms of senior police officers. Upon seeing her, they respectfully removed their hats.
Her footsteps faltered. The pilot’s hand tightened around her elbow.
“What’s happened?” The words came out drily, scratchily, barely audible. Then she cried out,
“What’s happened?”
The homicide detective stared down at the corpse and blew out a gust of air. “Jesus Christ.”
His partner, a man of few words, grunted assent.
A member of the Crime Scene Response team, who for the past hour had been collecting evidence, agreed with a sad shake of his head. “Bad, huh? Bad as I’ve ever seen. Maybe not as gruesome as some murders, but…well, only a real cold-blooded bastard could do this.”
“Or a real
hot
-blooded one,” the first detective remarked.
“Crime of passion, you think?”
“Maybe. Whatever, the son of a bitch deserves to get the needle.”
His partner harrumphed again.
“Excuse me, Detectives?” A uniformed officer appeared in the open double doors of the library. “You said to let you know as soon as Mrs. Speakman got here. They’re taking her into the living room now. That way.” He motioned in the general direction.
When the pair of investigators entered the room, Laura Speakman was standing between two police chaplains. One gave them a surreptitious nod, letting them know that she’d been told, but that was obvious. She was as pale as the dead body.
The taciturn detective took up a position against the wall. The other advanced into the room. “Mrs. Speakman?”
“My husband’s dead? There’s no mistake?”
“No mistake. I’m sorry.”
Her knees buckled. The chaplains guided her down onto a sofa. One sat near her, placing his arm protectively along the back of the seat. The other asked a uniformed officer to get her a glass of water.
As the detective approached, he withdrew his card from the breast pocket of his jacket and extended it to her. “Stanley Rodarte, ma’am. Homicide detective, Dallas PD.”
L
AURA, HE’S HERE.”
Kay Stafford had appeared in the doorway of Laura’s bedroom, where she was reclined on a chaise. The draperies were drawn. The room was cool and dim. Her assistant spoke quietly and slowly, the way everyone was addressing her today, as though fearing a sudden noise might cause her to shatter like crystal. They could have been right.
“I put him in the den,” Kay said. “Take your time coming down. He said he would wait.”
Laura sat up and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I might just as well talk to him now, although I don’t know what I can tell him today that I couldn’t tell him last night.”
Detective Rodarte had stayed until almost midnight. He’d spent some of that time questioning her. The rest of the time he, his silent partner, and other police personnel had moved in and out of the library, doing whatever it was they did at the scene of an apparent murder.
They consulted in hushed voices, casting looks in her direction, occasionally asking her for information. She was asked by a solicitous policewoman if there was someone she should call. “Someone to stay with you tonight.”
Neither she nor Foster had family. Since the accident, they hadn’t kept close contact with friends. “My assistant,” she replied.
She’d given the policewoman Kay’s home number. Kay had arrived within a half hour, sharing Laura’s shock but somehow managing to perform the simple tasks that Laura seemed incapable of doing. She gave directions, supplied answers to practical questions, and dealt with the telephone, which had begun to ring with irritating frequency.
Kay had a notepad in her hand as they walked downstairs together. “I hate to bother you with all this now, Laura.”
“Go ahead. I don’t have the luxury of collapsing. That will come later, when…when everything’s settled. What do you need?”
A proviso of Foster’s will, which he’d altered when they married, was that, in the event of his death, Laura would serve as head of SunSouth until the board could elect another. She’d been granted power of attorney to make decisions and conduct business. So, in addition to becoming a widow last night, she’d stepped into the role of CEO.
Kay said, “The media are camped outside the entrance of our building, awaiting a statement.”
“Ask Joe to write something generic. ‘Everyone at SunSouth is stunned by this tragic event, et cetera.’ But ask him not to release it before faxing it here for my approval.” She trusted her marketing head to write an appropriate press release, but it was her practice, as well as Foster’s, to sign off on everything. “Tell him not to conduct a formal press conference or respond to any questions about the…the crime. We’ll leave that to the police.”
Kay checked that item off her list. “Operations has asked if they should coordinate a minute of silence in memory of Foster. Anything like that?”
Laura smiled wanly and shook her head. “Foster wouldn’t allow the schedule to be interrupted even by one minute. But the thought is appreciated. Make sure everyone knows that.”
“Have you given any thought to funeral arrangements?”
Laura, having reached the bottom of the staircase, stopped and turned to her. “I can’t schedule the funeral until the body has been released.”
Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. Two years ago, following the car accident, Foster had lain in an ICU clinging to life. She’d feared that each breath would be his last and that soon she would be organizing his funeral. But she hadn’t had time to prepare for talking in those terms now. This time it was a sudden reality. There would be a funeral. When it would be she didn’t yet know.
Last night she had been advised not to go into the library. She had taken that advice. What had been described to her was grotesque, and she hadn’t wanted that to be her last image of Foster. It had been jolting enough to see the zippered body bag as it was wheeled out on a gurney. Inside the bag was her husband’s body, but to the police, it was evidence.
Sensing her employer’s distress, Kay said, “I apologize for having to mention it. But people are keeping the phone lines hot, here at the house and at our offices, asking when the service will be and where. The lobby is already full to overflowing with flowers.”
Laura touched her assistant’s hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something. In the meantime, ask Joe to include in the press release that in lieu of flowers, people could make donations to Elaine’s foundation. Foster would prefer that.”
“Of course. One last thing. The governor issued a statement this morning, extolling Foster as an entrepreneur, model Texan, and human being. Then she called to ask if there was anything she could do on a personal level, as a friend to you both.”
“I’ll respond personally as soon as I can. In the meantime, tell her how much I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”
Kay accompanied her as far as the den, where Detective Stanley Rodarte was waiting.
Rodarte
. Laura had recognized the name instantly from Griff Burkett’s warning. He’d been sure to include mention of an olive drab sedan but had failed to tell her that Rodarte was a homicide detective with the Dallas Police Department.
Rodarte was studying a painting of an English hunting scene. He turned when she walked in. “Is this an original?”
“I believe so.”
“Hmm,” he said, sounding impressed. “Must have cost a bundle.”
She didn’t honor that with a response.
“Sure is a beautiful home, Mrs. Speakman.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you redecorate when you moved in after marrying Mr. Speakman?”
“Elaine Speakman had done such an excellent job with the decor, I saw no need to change it.”
Oddly, his smile didn’t improve his looks. It made him uglier. “Most second wives want to rub out all traces of the first.”
The statement was inappropriate and irrelevant. She thought he’d said it only to see how she would react. She hadn’t warmed to him last night, sensing immediately that he was crass and sly. Now she decided she disliked him intensely.
“I’m being asked about funeral arrangements,” she said.
“The ME is performing the autopsy this afternoon. Depending on what it shows, we should be able to release the body to you either tomorrow or the next day. But I advise against making any definite plans without clearing them with me.”
“I understand.”
Turning her back on him, she moved to one of the leather sofas and was about to sit down when he stopped her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to look at the library now. See if you notice anything out of kilter. Beyond the obvious, that is.”
She’d known that sooner or later she would be required to go in. She was torn, one part of her needing to see the spot where Foster had died, another resistant to ever entering the room again. Given a choice, she might have postponed it for as long as possible, making the dread of it torturous. In a way, she was glad Rodarte had relieved her of having to make the decision on her own.
Woodenly, she left the den and led the way across the vestibule to the double doors of the library. The hardware on them had been dusted for fingerprints. Seeing that she noticed the smudged dark powder, Rodarte said, “Murder is messy business.”
He pushed the doors open, and she stepped into the room. “You remember Carter,” Rodarte said.
His partner detective, whom she recognized from the night before, was standing in front of a wall of bookshelves, silent and grim as a sentinel. Neither his stance nor his expression changed when she came in.
Except for him, most of the room looked surprisingly normal. Only one area near the desk was in disarray. The desk itself and everything on it had been dusted for fingerprints. An end table lay on its side. The lamp and everything else that had been on the table were scattered across the rug, most broken. The rug itself was buckled. Foster had never allowed even the fringe of it to be mussed, insisting that it be raked several times a day.
She made an involuntary hiccuping sound when she saw his wheelchair.
And there was blood. On the wheelchair. On the rug. On the desk.
Rodarte touched her elbow. “Would you like to do this later?”
What she would have liked was for him not to touch her. She removed her elbow from his hand. “Other than what is obvious, it doesn’t appear that anything has been disturbed.”
“Good.” He pointed her toward a seating group. “Let’s sit down.”
“In here?”
He shrugged and made a face that asked,
Why not?
Either he was stupid and insensitive, a jerk, or just plain cruel. Laura suspected the latter, but she didn’t want to take issue with him over where he would conduct this interview. “I’ve been sitting or lying down all day. I’d rather stand.” She went over to the wall of windows, keeping her back to the room.
Forgoing a graceful lead-in, Rodarte asked, “Why did you go to Austin yesterday?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Carter had finally moved. He took a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket. But it was apparent that he was merely reinforcement. Rodarte was the lead investigator.
“At my husband’s request, I went to handle a problem. There had been reports of luggage theft. Our handlers had been accused. One, as it turned out, was guilty. The Austin police have the reports if you care to check.”
“You took a SunSouth flight back?”
“The nine o’clock, last of the evening. On final approach for landing, the flight attendant notified me that I would be escorted off the aircraft. Your chaplains met me in the Jetway. They took me to a private lounge in the airport and told me that my husband had died. I didn’t learn that he’d been murdered until you told me.”
“Up to the point when you were escorted off the plane, you didn’t know that anything was amiss here at home?”
“How could I?”
“Phone call? Text message?”
“I didn’t know anything was amiss.”
“You’d been gone all day. Did you talk to your husband yesterday at any time?”
“Around noon, he called my cell to ask how things were going. Then I called him around six to tell him that the matter had been settled and that I would be on the nine o’clock flight back and not to wait dinner on me.”
“Just those two calls?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Speakman have any appointments scheduled last night?”
“None I was aware of.”
“Well, apparently he did meet with someone here.”
She turned and looked at him.
“There was no sign of a break-in,” he said by way of explanation. “Whoever killed your husband was let into the house.”
“Manuelo would have answered the door.”
He frowned. “We still can’t find him, Mrs. Speakman.”
Last night when Rodarte had asked her help in reconstructing the crime scene, she had mentioned the aide. Rodarte had written down his full name. When she explained what Manuelo’s duties encompassed, the detective had ordered that the entire estate be searched. There had been no sign of the man.
“His room over the garage is still empty,” he told her now. “Bed is made, no dishes in the sink. Clothes in the closet. He doesn’t own a car, right?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And none of the vehicles belonging to you and Mr. Speakman is missing. So how did Mr. Ruiz leave and where did he go?”
“I have no idea. The only thing I know with certainty is that he wouldn’t have left Foster alone.”
“Does he have relatives?”
“I don’t believe so. At least none I know of.”
“You’re sure he was on duty last night?”
“He’s always on duty, Mr. Rodarte.”
“Twenty-four/seven?”
“Yes.”
“Your housekeeper-cook, Mrs. uh—”
“Dobbins.”
“Right. She said she leaves at six o’clock.”
“As soon as dinner is prepared. I can’t imagine why there would have been a change in that schedule. Have you questioned Mrs. Dobbins about last night?”
“She put a roasted chicken in the warming tray and left at six. She said Manuelo Ruiz was here when she left. She’s sure of that because she told him she was leaving. So it’s assumed he was here.”
“I’m certain he was. He wouldn’t have left Foster alone,” she repeated. “Never.”
Rodarte walked over to the area in front of the desk where the rug was bunched up. He squatted down as though to study the dark stains on it. “Much as I hate to, we need to talk about the actual slaying.”
“Must we? You were so descriptive last night. It sounded very…horrible.”
“It was. That’s why I advised you against looking at your husband’s body. It was nothing you wanted to see, believe me. He was still in his wheelchair with a letter opener sticking out the side of his neck.”
She hugged her elbows tightly against her torso. “I’m certain by your description that it was Foster’s letter opener. It was a replica of Excalibur. I gave it to him for Christmas because he loved the Arthurian legend. It stayed on his desk there.”
“Mrs. Dobbins confirmed that. But once I get it from the ME, I’ll have you identify it so there’ll be absolutely no doubt.”
Something else to dread,
she thought.
Rodarte said, “What it looks like is, the killer pushed it in to the hilt, then tried to pull it out. But the blade had severed the artery, so when he tried to remove the weapon from your husband’s neck, the wound started gushing blood. I guess he panicked and decided to leave it.”
“And my husband bled to death.”
“Right.” Rodarte stood up. “We found two blood types on the rug. One was your husband’s.”
“Two?” She looked at the bloodstains, then at Carter, finally back at Rodarte.
He shrugged. “We don’t know who the second type belongs to. Could be Manuelo Ruiz’s, but we have nothing to match it with. Except for the DMV, Ruiz isn’t in any database we’ve run him through. He has a current Texas driver’s license. That’s it.”
“He drove Foster in a customized van.”
“Did Ruiz have papers?”
“Immigration papers? I assume so.”
“He didn’t.”
Her temper sparked. “If you knew that, why did you ask?”
He gave her what he probably mistook for a disarming grin. “Habit. Always trying to trap somebody in a lie. Hazard of my job.”