He shared a long look with Rodarte, who glanced over at the unflappable lawyer. McAlister raised his eyebrows eloquently. Rodarte stalked through the office door. When he pushed past Hunnicutt, he said in a malevolent undertone, “You haven’t heard the last of me.”
Hunnicutt said to his lawyer, “Excuse me, Jim. I’m gonna walk him out.”
“Glen—”
“It’s cool.”
He moved quickly for a man his size and caught up with Rodarte as the detective was climbing into his car. Rodarte rounded on him. “I know you provided Burkett that car. You were jailbirds together at Big Spring. Next time, you’ll go to Huntsville, and let me tell you, that ain’t no country-club prison like the one you’re used to. Your big white ass would be a turn-on to lots of queers I’ve put there.” His eyes glinted with malice. “You’ve made an enemy today, Hunnicutt. Nobody makes a fool of me and gets away with it. You wait and see.”
Hunnicutt leaned in. He was a head taller than Rodarte and seventy pounds heavier. “Don’t threaten me. I know about you. You’re a bully. The worst kind. You got a badge to back it up. But if you even think about hurting me or a member of my family, you remember what I told you today.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Hunnicutt leaned down even closer and whispered, “Marcia’s got a lot of friends.” As he straightened up, he had the pleasure of watching Rodarte’s eyes turn wary. Griff had known what he was talking about. The name meant something to Rodarte, and so did the implied threat. It instilled, if not fear, at least reservation.
Hunnicutt held the detective’s stare, then stepped back and flashed a wide smile. “If you’re ever in the market for a used car, come see me.” He walked to the front of the olive green sedan and kicked the tire. “But I’ll tell you right off, I wouldn’t take this for a trade-in.”
What was he going to do?
Where could he hide?
Surrendering, as his turncoat lawyer had urged him to, wasn’t an option. Even if he wanted to entrust himself to the legal system again, which he didn’t, Turner had deserted him, and, by the sound of it, so had his probation officer. There was no one in his corner.
No, he could not turn himself in. But while dodging capture, he could be gunned down in the street, if not by someone wearing a badge, then by a citizen with a vigilante mentality.
Taking temporary shelter in a cement culvert, he flipped open his phone and punched in the familiar number, only because there was absolutely no one else he could call.
It rang six times before it went to voice mail. “Thank you for calling the Millers. Please leave a message.” Griff hung up and immediately redialed, more from a desire to hear Ellie’s cheerful voice than with the hope of his call being answered. He listened to the recording again, wondering where Coach and Ellie could be this early in the morning.
But if one of them had answered, what would he have said? What could he say that they would believe?
He punched in another number he had committed to memory. Jason Rich answered. “Hey, Jason, it’s Griff.” He tried to sound like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I called to apologize for not making it to our workout yesterday. And looks like I won’t be there today, either.”
“How come?”
“I’ve come down with some kind of stomach flu. I think I got hold of some bad tamales. I’ve been puking my guts up.” A short pause, then, “Is your dad around? I’d like to talk to him, please.”
“You’re sick?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not true, what he said?”
“What who said?”
“That policeman.”
Griff pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “Was his name Rodarte? A detective?”
“A man with scars on his face. He came here yesterday and talked to my dad and me.”
Griff had hoped that Rodarte would forget his tie to the Riches, but Rodarte never forgot anything. He had made a veiled threat to harm Jason. Yesterday he had questioned him, probably put pressure on the kid to tell him everything he knew about Griff Burkett. He would have frightened the boy. Griff could have killed the son of a bitch for that.
“He said you—” Jason’s voice cracked. “He said you—”
“Jason!”
Bolly’s voice, coming out of the background. Sharp. Intrusive. “Who are you talking to? Jason,
who is that
?”
Then Jason, in a pleading voice, said, “Dad, he’s—”
“Give me the phone.” Scuffling sounds. Then directly into Griff’s ear, Bolly snarled, “I should have known better than to trust you.”
“Bolly, listen, I—”
“No,
you
listen. The cops have been here twice. My wife freaked out, especially when this Detective Rodarte told her what you did.”
“Bolly—”
“I don’t want you calling here. I don’t want you near my family. I trusted you with my son. Jesus, when I think—”
“I wouldn’t lay a hand on Jason. You know that.”
“No, killing your lover’s paraplegic husband is more your speed.”
Griff squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the accusation and the image it conjured. “I called to tell you to be careful of Rodarte. Keep Jason away—”
“Don’t dare even speak my son’s name.”
“Listen to me!”
“I’m over listening.”
“Don’t leave Jason alone with Rodarte. Don’t leave Jason alone, period. I know what you think of me—”
“You don’t know the half of what I think of you. I hope this Rodarte finally nails your ass. And when he does, I hope they fry it.”
F
OSTER SPEAKMAN’S FUNERAL BEFITTED A HEAD OF STATE.
Prestonwood Baptist Church had the only sanctuary large enough to accommodate the crowd, and the membership graciously offered it and their choir for the service. The auditorium was filled to capacity. The overflow were seated in annex buildings, where the service was telecast on closed-circuit TV.
Secret Service agents ensured the safety of the first lady, who attended on behalf of the president, who was out of the country. Several congressmen were also there. The governor of Texas delivered the eulogy. A notable clergyman delivered the homily. A Tony-winning Broadway star with whom Foster had attended prep school led the congregation in singing “Amazing Grace.” To conclude the service, the Lord’s Prayer was led by the senior pilot of SunSouth Airlines, leaving not a dry eye in the church.
The cortege stretched for miles.
The event was well documented by the media, from the arrival of dignitaries and celebrities at the church until the crowd at the cemetery dispersed. Most of the television coverage ended on a poignant image, the same heartrending tableau that was captured by a still photographer and published in the newspaper: Laura Speakman silhouetted against the cloudless sky, standing alone with head bowed beside the casket of her husband.
As Laura stood there, she didn’t realize that cameras with telephoto lenses were clicking away fast and furious from a respectful distance. In fact, that was the first moment she’d felt truly alone since Foster’s death, five days earlier.
Finding privacy in which to grieve had been near impossible because she’d been surrounded by people. There were duties and responsibilities that only she, as his sole survivor, could handle. Performing these tasks had, by necessity, kept her grief at bay during the day.
At night, when she retired to her bedroom, she was still aware of the other people inside her house. Kay had ensconced herself in one of the guest bedrooms, Myrna in another, both refusing to leave Laura alone overnight. Policemen were at the gate. Others patrolled the acreage within the estate wall.
Consequently, she hadn’t yet indulged her sorrow or fully grasped that Foster was gone. Not until this quiet, solitary moment, when the reality came crashing down on her.
Kay had accompanied her to the funeral home to select the casket. She remembered going, looking at the choices, listening to the funeral director’s recommendations. But she hadn’t really looked at the casket until now. It was handsome and simple. Foster would have approved.
For the spray, she had ordered white calla lilies, a flower he particularly favored because of its clean and uncluttered form. She reached out and touched one of the blossoms, rubbing it between her fingers, registering both its creamy texture and what that tangibility signified. This was real. This was permanent. Foster was not coming back. She would never see him again. She had so many questions to ask him, so many things to say, but they would remain unasked and unsaid.
“I loved you, Foster,” she whispered.
Her heart was convinced that he knew that. At least the old Foster had known how much she loved him. Strange, but since his death, when she thought about him, she didn’t see the man in the wheelchair, behaving oddly, saying things he knew would wound her.
Instead she saw him as he’d been before the accident. She envisioned the Foster who’d been vital and bursting with energy, his body as strong and vivacious as his personality, his humor and optimism infectious to everyone with whom he came into contact.
That was the Foster Speakman she mourned.
By the time the limousine arrived at the mansion, the place was already packed with guests who’d been invited to eat, drink, and share memories of Foster. It was expected that she host such a reception, but the very idea of enduring it had exhausted her. She’d delegated the planning to Kay and Myrna. In the formal dining room was an unsparing buffet. Waiters passed through the crowd with trays of canapés. People were queued at the bar. A harpist provided background music.
Laura mingled with the guests, accepting their condolences, crying with some, laughing with others, who told anecdotes about Foster. During the telling of one story, out of the corner of her eye, Laura noted that the double doors to the library remained closed. She had learned through Kay that the police had released it as a crime scene and that she was free to use it again. Mrs. Dobbins had arranged for it to be thoroughly cleaned.
Nevertheless, no one went near that room. Nor did anyone mention the circumstances of Foster’s death.
Detective Rodarte was a grim reminder of them. He arrived late and kept to the edges of the crowd. Laura tried pretending he wasn’t there, but she was constantly aware of him. She would turn and catch him disdainfully scanning the crowd, or staring at her with unnerving concentration.
The house was almost clear of guests when Laura drew Kay aside. “I want you to call a meeting for two o’clock tomorrow.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“Executive council and board members.”
“Laura, surely you’re not thinking of coming into the office tomorrow,” she exclaimed. “No one expects you to plunge right back in.”
“Foster would,” she said with a brief smile. “Two o’clock. Please, Kay,” she added when she saw that her assistant was about to protest. “Make my excuses now. I must go upstairs. Let me know when everyone’s gone.”
Half an hour later Kay tapped on her bedroom door. “It’s me,” she said, stepping into the room. “Everyone’s gone except the caterer’s crew. They’re loading up their vans now and will soon be out.” She glanced at the suitcase lying open on Laura’s bed. “Explain to me again why you’re being moved out of your own home?”
“Detective Rodarte believes I’ll be safer in a hotel.”
“Safer from whom? Griff Burkett?” Kay scoffed. “He’s probably in Mexico or someplace by now. You’ve got twenty-four-hour guards here. He couldn’t get to you if he wanted to, and he would be crazy to try.”
“Well, the detective believes he might be just that crazy. And Burkett hasn’t left the area. At least he was still around three days ago. He went to his attorney’s house in the middle of the night. The attorney called the police. Burkett managed to get away. But on foot.” She zipped the suitcase closed and pulled it off the bed. “Detective Rodarte is of the mind that he’s desperate and dangerous, and until he’s captured, he poses a threat to my safety.”
And,
she thought,
he’s afraid I’ll protect my lover from capture.
He hadn’t said as much, but his insinuations hadn’t required any guesswork.
Kay said, “I think it’s criminal that you’re being forced out of your home, particularly now, when you need a haven.”
Laura looked at the beautiful surroundings wistfully. “Actually, Kay, I probably wouldn’t stay here anyway. It’s an awfully large house for one person. Anyway, it never really was mine.”
She didn’t explain the statement. She wasn’t certain she could. Over the course of the past few days, she’d come to realize that she felt like a visitor here. A welcome visitor, but a visitor all the same. Foster had never treated her as such. In fact, he had encouraged her to change the decor to her liking, to make it her house. But she’d felt it would be improper to do so. It had been his family’s home for much longer than she’d been a member of his family. He was her only reason for being here and her only connection to the house. His death had severed that connection.
Besides, she wasn’t sure she could ever go into the library again.
Kay took the suitcase from her. “Let me carry that. You look like you’re about to collapse. Did you eat anything?”
“A little,” she lied. She’d thrown up the English muffin she forced down for breakfast. As for the carafe of coffee that had been on the tray, she couldn’t bear the smell of it and had poured it down the bathroom sink. So far, no one knew about her morning sickness.
She and Kay descended the sweeping staircase. Rodarte was waiting at the bottom of it, leaning against the carved newel post, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a pocketknife that he should have been using to pare them.
“Ready?” He closed the knife and slipped it into his pants pocket, pushed himself away from the banister, and headed for the front door. There was a squad car waiting just beyond the entrance.
When Laura saw it, she drew up short. “I’m driving myself.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it, Mrs. Speakman? The DPD would like to extend you the courtesy of—”
“Thank you, but I prefer taking my own car.”
“You won’t be needing it,” Rodarte argued. “You’ll be driven wherever you want to go.”
“Are you placing me under arrest, Detective?” It was the first direct challenge she’d issued him.
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Because if that’s your intention, do it properly. I want to be read my rights, and then I want to call my attorney.” Probably she should have sought legal counsel already, but doing so would have implied guilt. At least she feared that’s how Rodarte would see it. It was equally possible that by not calling in an attorney she was playing right into the detective’s hands. The car issue was a means of testing the nature of the “protection” he insisted on extending her.
Rodarte looked over at Kay and shook his head with regret, as though to say that Laura was becoming hysterical and that under the circumstances her fraying nerves were understandable. Looking back at Laura, he spoke to her as though she were mentally unstable. “These measures are for your protection, Mrs. Speakman.”
“I’m taking my car,” she declared, enunciating each word.
He tried to stare her down, but she didn’t budge. Finally he heaved a theatrical sigh and said to one of the uniformed policemen loitering near the patrol car, “Go get her car.”
Laura passed the policeman her keys. No one said anything until he returned driving the car. He climbed out, and Laura took his place behind the wheel. Before she shut the door, Kay leaned in.
“I’ll finish here and help Mrs. Dobbins lock up. After that, you can reach me at home.” She scanned Laura’s face, looking worried about what she saw. “Order room service. Take a long bath. Promise me you’ll get some rest.”
“I promise. Don’t forget to schedule the meeting. You should call everyone tonight.”
“I will.”
Laura closed the car door and reached for her seat belt.
Rodarte opened the passenger door and got in. Smiling, he said, “I thought you might want company.”
Certainly not yours,
she thought. But she said nothing as she started the car, drove down the long drive, and passed through the gate. A squad car that had been parked on the street pulled out in front of her. Rodarte’s partner, Carter, was driving the green sedan, riding her rear bumper. The other squad car followed him.
She complained of the police escort. “We look like a parade.”
Rodarte merely harrumphed, flipped open his cell phone, and reported to whomever he called that they were under way.
Their destination turned out to be a luxury downtown hotel where he’d registered her under an assumed name. Accompanied by Carter and two uniformed policemen, they went in through the service entrance and used the service elevator to reach the top floor.
“You have it all to yourself,” Rodarte told her as they alighted from the elevator. Two policemen were waiting outside a room at the far end of a long hallway. Rodarte unlocked the door to the room and ushered her in. Carter remained outside.
It was a well-appointed, spacious room. Rodarte placed her suitcase on the luggage rack inside the closet, poked his head into the bathroom, checked the view of the Dallas skyline beyond the wide windows, then let the sheer drape fall back into place as he turned to face her. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
“It’s very nice.”
“There’ll be a policeman stationed outside your door, whether you’re in the room or not. Another will be at the end of the hall, where he can monitor the stairwell and both elevators. They’ll be in radio contact with guards at various posts downstairs, inside and outside the building.”
“Is all this precaution necessary?”
“I’m making sure that nobody gets in.”
And that I don’t get out.
As though underscoring her thought, he extended his hand. “Can I have your car keys, please?”
“What for?”
“Safekeeping. We’ll be watching your car, too.”
Despite everything he’d said, this room was essentially a holding cell. Until he was convinced that Burkett had acted alone in killing her husband, she would remain under suspicion and, it appeared, under lock and key.
She folded her arms across her chest and assumed a stance. “I’d be interested to hear what my attorney has to say about your authority to confiscate my car keys.”
He grinned, and with a wide sweep of his arm motioned toward the nightstand. “There’s the phone.”
His smirk, the challenge in his expression, said he knew she was bluffing.
“What if I need to go somewhere?”
“Oh, I’ll leave the keys with the cop outside your door here. If you need to go somewhere, just ask him. He’ll clear it with the cops downstairs. You’ll be either accompanied in your car or followed.” He touched her arm with the backs of his fingers, almost like a caress. “Your safety is our top priority.”
She pulled her arm away from his touch, which made her skin crawl. “I feel well protected.”
“Good.”
She hoped he would go then. Instead, he sat down on the end of the bed. She remained standing.
He grinned, as though knowing how repulsed she was by his sitting on the bed she would sleep in. Then his smile inverted into a frown. He said, “You’ve been so busy with all the funeral arrangements I haven’t wanted to bother you with the investigation. But just to give you an update, there’s been no trace of Manuelo Ruiz. No leads, even.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, meaning it. “I’d like to learn what Manuelo knows about that night.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know what he saw or heard. I think Burkett made sure of that.”