“I think they thought it would be more fun to keep me alive, let me be charged with Bandy’s murder. I’m sure it was them who tipped off the cops.”
“How did they know you were going to be at Bandy’s place?”
“I guess they figured I’d go after Bandy, at the very least to tell him how disappointed I was in him,” he said with sarcasm. “I was still kneeling beside the body when two squad cars showed up, responding to an anonymous 911 call from a pay phone, they said.”
“Vista was watching you.”
“Obviously. And if you could see this guy called Bennett, you’d think he could sit through a tornado without blinking. Anyway, here I was, facing federal charges of racketeering and illegal gambling, and there was my bookie, the one who’d ratted me out, dead on the floor.
“Enter Detective Stanley Rodarte, who’d been dispatched to investigate the crime scene. He came in and introduced himself, told me what a great ballplayer I’d been, and what a shame it was that I’d turned crooked. Then he looked at the body, looked back at me, and started laughing. It seemed that open and shut.”
“No address like this on Tarrant County’s tax records, either,” Laura said.
“Denton? What’s on the western side of Tarrant?”
She consulted a map on the screen, where the counties were delineated. “Parker.”
“Try that, too. Damn,” he said, looking at the map and realizing the scope of this effort. “This could take all night.” He consulted his watch, wondering if Rodarte had already isolated the address and was speeding toward it.
“It wasn’t the open-and-shut case Rodarte thought it would be,” Laura said.
“Bandy’s back room had been torn all to hell. Ransacked. My prints were on the sofa, the wall behind it—hell, I was kneeling beside his body when the police arrived. But they couldn’t place me in that back room, hard as Rodarte tried. The grand jury found it impossible to believe that I would avoid leaving prints or other evidence while ransacking the place, then take off gloves before killing Bandy. And if I had, where were the gloves?”
“Why was his back room ransacked?”
“Rodarte is of the opinion that Bandy had money squirreled away in there somewhere and that I helped myself to it.”
Again she turned and looked up at him. “But you didn’t have any cash stuffed in your pockets at the time, did you?”
“No. But it wouldn’t necessarily have been cash I was looking for. It could have been a bank account number. A combination to a safe. Something I could commit to memory. Later, when I was out of prison, I’d have a treasure waiting for me.” He looked at her hard. “Just so you know, I never went into Bandy’s back room. I didn’t know what was or wasn’t in there. As far as I know, he didn’t have any funds stashed away for a rainy day.”
Quietly she said, “I didn’t ask.” She turned back around and, after scanning the information on the monitor, said, “There’s no Lavaca anything in Parker County.”
Griff opened the duffel bag and removed Manuelo’s map. “Pull up that map of the state again.” She did. When it appeared on the monitor, he tapped a spot. “That red crayon star is here.” He pointed to the southern tip of the state. “Somewhere between Mission and Hidalgo.”
“We assume that’s where he entered the country. Lord, how far is that from here?”
“Four hundred miles at least. Probably closer to five.”
“Lots of counties.”
“Yeah, but I’d bet his contact wouldn’t be too far from this area. Say Manuelo came north through San Antonio and Austin.”
“Basically following I-35.”
“Basically. Let’s concentrate on the counties immediately to the south of Dallas–Fort Worth.”
“Hood, Johnson, Ellis.”
“Check those and work your way down.”
They found it in Hill County. “Griff! There’s a Lavaca Road in Hill County. On the outskirts of town it turns into FM 2010. We thought it was a house number!”
He leaned over her, and she pointed it out on the screen.
“What town is that?” he asked.
“Itasca.”
“Repeat that,” Rodarte said.
“Itasca.”
“Where the hell is that?” He was driving with one hand, holding his cell phone to his ear with the other.
He’d had a desk cop back at the police station searching for the address Griff Burkett had rattled off to him before hanging up. Thanks to a satellite and technology he didn’t understand, Laura Speakman’s cell phone had been tracked to a movie theater. Before he could even get excited about it, they’d found the damn thing lying on the parking lot pavement.
From there the trail had gone cold because Mrs. Speakman’s car had been left at the mansion, they didn’t know what Burkett was driving now, and the moviegoers they’d questioned didn’t know diddly. Rodarte had left Carter there to try to pick up the trail. Actually, Rodarte was glad he could assign his partner another task. From here on, he preferred working alone.
Rodarte became furious thinking about Griff Burkett and his adulterous lover—had she plotted her husband’s murder with him?—laughing up their sleeves at him. The idiots he’d posted to guard her were going to be looking for jobs tomorrow. Then he was going to hurt them. And their wives. And their kids. They would come to regret the day they were born.
And that didn’t begin to cover what he had planned for Griff Burkett and the poor, innocent, grieving widow. He wished he’d fucked her when he had a chance.
Who would she have told? The cops?
he thought, scoffing.
No way.
Not when he could turn it around and tell them about her illicit affair with her husband’s killer. Yeah, he should have responded to the impulse he’d had there in her hotel room, bent her over and fucked her. His problem was he was just too nice a guy.
The desk cop was rattling off directions. “From where you’re at, go south on 35 E till you get to I-20 and head west. Then out of Fort Worth, take 35 dubya south. Watch for the exit.”
“So where’s this Lavaca Road or whatever?”
“Runs out the east side of town and turns into farm-to-market 2010. We reckon that’s where the numbers came from. It’s not exactly a street address, but it makes sense.”
“I guess,” Rodarte said, unconvinced. “But stand by in case I need to call you again.”
“I already called the local
po
-lice down there. Chief’s name is Marion.”
“First?”
“Last. Plus I alerted the Hill County SO. Marion’s sending a squad car to scout out the area, see if his boys can pick up anything. When you get there, you’ll have plenty of backup.”
“Is there still an APB out for Manuelo Ruiz down there?”
“I asked Marion to jog everybody’s memory.”
“And one for Griff Burkett?”
“Considered armed and dangerous. Just like you said, Detective.”
“He’s got a cop’s service weapon.”
“Told Marion that, too. Pissed him off.” After a pause, he added, “And to think we used to cheer the son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, to think.”
The best that could happen would be for Burkett to be spotted and plugged by an underpaid, overanxious Hicksville cop, a Cowboys fan who bore a grudge based on principle.
Someone else killing Burkett would remove any suspicion from him. But there was a distinct downside: it would deprive him of taking down that bastard himself, and that was something he very much looked forward to.
“What’s the number of the police station down there?” Rodarte asked the desk cop. Once he had it, he clicked off and called that number. He identified himself and was soon patched in to Chief Marion. “Rodarte, Dallas PD.”
“Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Just calling to follow up. What’s happening down there?”
“There’s nothing on FM 2010 except an old farmhouse. Vacant. Looks like it was abandoned a long time ago. My men said a strong wind would knock it down.”
“No shit?”
“The place was deserted. We’ll keep looking, but among my officers and the sheriff’s deputies, they don’t know of anything else out that way. Not for miles.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Sure thing, Detective.”
Rodarte closed his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, cursing his culpability. Had Burkett sent him on a wild-goose chase? Given him some busywork to keep him occupied while he and his ladylove got away?
He pulled his car to the shoulder of the freeway, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. He kept the motor idling while he considered his options.
“Itasca,” Laura repeated. “Ever heard of it?”
“No, but I’ll find it.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Great work. Thanks.” He moved toward the door. “Switch out the light till I’m gone. And remember not to turn any lights on unless the door to this room is closed.”
“You’re going now?”
“Right now. I just hope Rodarte doesn’t have too much of a lead.”
“But we don’t know if that’s it, Griff. And even if it is, Manuelo may be long gone.”
“I’ve gotta try. He’s my last hope.”
“I’m coming, too,” she said decisively.
“Un-huh. No way. I don’t know what I—”
“I’m coming with you.” She stood up, but when she did, a strange look came over her face and she pushed her hands between her thighs.
“What’s the matter?”
She just stood there, looking at him with alarm. Then her face crumpled, and she groaned, “Oh, no.”
E
VEN WHEN HE SAW THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, SAW THE
streaks of it on the legs of her tracksuit, Griff didn’t comprehend what was happening until he looked into her eyes and saw the anguish in them. “Oh, Jesus.”
In a keening voice she said, “My baby.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. “Laura, I gotta get you to a hospital.”
“There’s nothing to be done.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s lost.”
“No, no, we’ll stop it. We can. We will.”
She looked around frantically. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He got to the door ahead of her and reached inside to switch on the light. She slipped around him and closed the door behind her.
“Laura?”
“Don’t come in.”
He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.
He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.
The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.
“Is it hopeless?”
She nodded.
He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “Does it hurt?”
“A little. Like really bad cramps.”
“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.
“I need something to put on.”
He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”
“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”
Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.
He yanked a robe off a hanger, then began rifling bureau drawers until he found her underwear. Not the skimpier, lacier kind he’d seen Laura in, but what he came up with would do.
Pads. Wouldn’t Ellie be past menopause? Hell if he knew. He searched their bathroom but didn’t find any personal products in any of the cabinets. The guest bath? Ellie had nieces who came to visit occasionally. Maybe…
In the guest bath closet he found extra toilet tissue, toothpaste and soap, disposable razors, even cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes. Pads and tampons. Thank God for Ellie. He grabbed the box of pads.
Laura was sitting on the lid of the toilet, hugging her waistline, staring into near space, rocking back and forth. He set the items on the counter, then crouched in front of her. She was still wrapped in the towel. He saw the goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
“You didn’t. It’s all right.”
“You’re cold.” He placed the thick robe around her shoulders. “Put your arms in.” He guided her arms into the sleeves, then pulled the robe together over her chest, towel and all.
“Thank you.”
“What else can I do?”
“Nothing.”
He remained squatted down in front of her, staring into her face. “Are you sure…Maybe…” She shook her head, cutting him off, severing his hope.
Fresh tears spilled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. “There was a lot. Too much for it to be a false alarm.”
“You should go to the hospital. Call your doctor at least.”
“In a day or so, I’ll go to the doctor. I know they have to make sure that it all came out.” She swallowed hard, he thought probably to hold back sobs. “I’ll be okay. I have to get through this part. It’s not pleasant, but…” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “This happens all the time. One out of every ten pregnancies. Something like that.”
But it doesn’t happen to you. And not to me.
This was a sorrow they shared. He touched her cheek, but she yanked her head back and stood up. “I need privacy now.”
“Can’t I—”
“No. There’s nothing you can do. Just…” She motioned for him to leave.
Her rejection made him feel like he had fangs and claws. His merest touch was a violation to her tender, feminine flesh. His size and sex suddenly felt incriminatory. He didn’t know why that was, but he felt burly and awkward and blameworthy as he stood up and backed into the open doorway. He went out and pulled the door closed behind himself.
When she came out, Griff was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers making tunnels through his hair.
Hearing her, he looked up, his expression bleak. She felt self-conscious, wrapped from chin to ankles in the pink terry-cloth robe that belonged to a woman she’d never met. He’d found underwear for her. Sanitary pads. Even with her husband, she’d never shared moments as personal as the last few she’d shared with Griff Burkett.
He said, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“Your fault?”
He came to his feet. “In the hotel, I was rough with you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, I was. I manhandled you. Then I forced you to run, made you crawl through a wall on your belly, dragged you—”
“It wasn’t your fault, Griff.”
“Like hell! It wouldn’t have happened if I’d left you alone. You’d still have your baby if you were safe inside your hotel room, not on this damn fool’s mission of mine.”
“Listen,” she said softly, hoping to calm him. “I’ve been feeling twinges for several days. I was spotting on the morning of Foster’s funeral. That’s normal during early pregnancy. I thought it was caused by stress, the shock of his death. I ignored it. But the cramps and spotting were signals. It would have happened no matter what, Griff.” She could tell by his expression that she hadn’t persuaded him.
“Are you still bleeding?”
“Some. I think I’ve already expelled the…” Unable to bring herself to say it, she ended with “I think the worst of it is over.”
“So, you’re going to be okay?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m sorry I caused you this delay.”
“Delay?”
“Manuelo.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Do you know how to get to Itasca?”
He looked at her like he didn’t understand the question, then said, “South on 35 out of Fort Worth. I’ll find it.”
“How long will it take you?”
“I don’t know. Hour and a half maybe.”
“And if you do find Manuelo, how are you going to convince him to come back with you? He doesn’t even speak English.”
“I’ll make myself understood.”
“He’ll be scared. When he sees you, God knows what he’ll do.”
“I can take care of myself. Can you?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Can I get you anything before I go?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
He turned his head away. “Yeah, okay.” He was speaking in a clipped voice, lightly slapping his palms against the outsides of his thighs, anxious to be away. “I would stay, except—”
“No, you must go. Actually, I’d prefer to be alone right now.”
“Sure. Understandable.” He plowed his fingers through his hair and walked in a tight circle, then whipped the bedspread back. “Lie down. Sleep.”
“I will. Be careful.”
“Yeah.”
He turned abruptly and left the room, pulling the door closed, not loudly but soundly. She heard the door connecting the hallway to the living room being opened, then shut.
Knowing she was finally alone, she sagged under the weight of her heartache. She lay down on the bed, turned onto her side, and drew herself into a tight ball. Then, burying her face in the pillow, she opened the floodgate that had been tenuously holding back her emotions.
Her sobs were so intense, they shook her whole body. So when the mattress dipped, she didn’t trust herself to believe that he had come back. She didn’t let herself accept it until she felt his hand stroking her shoulder and heard his whispered “Shh, shh.”
He’d made it as far as the back door. He’d even taken hold of the doorknob. His future, possibly his life, depended on finding Manuelo Ruiz before Rodarte did. It was in his best interest to leave now, drive as fast as he could to that dot on the map, and rout out the only individual in the world who could save him from being convicted of murdering Foster Speakman.
Besides that, Laura had rejected his help. She’d practically pushed him out the door. No mystery there. It was his fault that she’d lost the baby. Earlier tonight, when she told him it was for real, that she was pregnant, he’d thought:
Finally.
For the first time in his life, he’d done something right and good.
He should have known that it wouldn’t last, that he would somehow mess it up. Anyway, it was over. The baby was lost, and there was nothing he could do about it now.
Go! Go! Turn the freaking doorknob.
He was moving back through the living room before he fully realized he’d made an about-face. He heard her sobs when he opened the door into the hallway. The sight of her huddled inside the pink robe, weeping into the pillow, made his heart feel like something had pinched it, hard.
He lay down behind her and touched her shoulder. “Shh, shh.”
“You need to go,” she moaned.
“No, I need to be here with you. I want to be.” Placing his arm across her waist, he scooped her back against him.
“You can’t let Rodarte—”
“I can’t leave you. I won’t.” He pressed his face into the nape of her neck. “I’m sorry, Laura. God, I’m so sorry.”
“Please stop saying that, Griff. Stop thinking it. This wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was nature’s way of saying something wasn’t right. I was only seven weeks pregnant. It wasn’t even a baby yet.”
“It was to me.”
She raised her head. Her swimming eyes found his. Then with a long, mournful sound, she turned toward him and pressed her face against his chest. His arms went around her, drawing her to him, holding her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. He sank his fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp.
She wept and he let her. It was a female thing, a maternal thing. The tears were essential, cleansing, as necessary for healing as the bleeding. He didn’t know how in hell he knew that. He just did. Maybe in times of crisis, you were graced with superior insight like that.
When her crying finally subsided, she tilted her head back against his biceps. “Thank you for coming back.”
“I couldn’t leave.”
“I didn’t want you to.”
“You pushed me away.”
“To keep myself from begging you to stay.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “They’re pretty.”
“What?”
“Your eyes. When you cry, your eyelashes stick together in dark spikes. They’re pretty.”
She gave a soft laugh and sniffed. “Yes, I’m sure I look radiant right now. But I appreciate the sweet talk anyway.”
“It’s not sweet talk. I don’t make sweet talk.”
She hesitated a moment, then tucked her face back into his neck. “You’ve never had to. Have you?”
“I never wanted to.”
“With Marcia?”
“She was paid to sweet-talk me.”
“And with me, it certainly wasn’t necessary. With or without it, you were being paid.”
He placed his finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Do you think that on that last day I was thinking about the money? Or making a baby? No. I broke every speed limit to get there for only one reason, to see you. That afternoon had nothing to do with anything except you and me. You know that, Laura. I know you do.”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Well, good.” They smiled gently at each other.
She was the first to speak. “You’re not rotten.”
He laughed. “We’re back to that?”
“Did you ever look for your parents? What happened to them after they abandoned you? Do you know?” He didn’t say anything for such a long time that she said, “Forgive the questions. You don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s just ugly.”
But she continued to look into his eyes, hers inquiring.
He supposed she was entitled to know just how ugly it was. “My old man died of alcoholism before he was fifty. I tracked my mother to Omaha. Right before I checked in to Big Spring to start serving my sentence, I worked up enough nerve to call her. She answered. I heard her voice for the first time in, hmm, fifteen years.
“She said hello again. Impatiently, like you do when you answer the phone and the caller doesn’t say anything but you can hear them breathing. I said, ‘Hey, Mom. It’s Griff.’ Soon as I said that, she hung up.” Although he’d tried to form a callus around it, the pain of that rejection was still sharp.
“It’s funny. When I was playing ball, I used to wonder if she knew I’d become famous. Had she caught me on TV, seen my picture on a product or in a magazine? I wondered if she watched the games and told her friends, ‘That’s my son. That Pro Bowl quarterback is my kid.’ After that call, I didn’t have to wonder anymore.”
“Your call caught her off guard. Maybe she just needed some time to—”
“I thought the same thing. Glutton for punishment, I guess. So I hung on to that phone number. For five years. I called it a few weeks ago. This guy answered, and when I asked for her, he told me she’d died two years ago. She had a lot of pulmonary problems, he said. Died slow. Even knowing she was going to die, she made no attempt to contact me. Truth is, she simply never gave a shit about me. Not ever.”