It was a decision he came to regret.

Quite a send-off to prison, he thought now, caustically.

Why today, when he was in worse trouble than ever, was he conjuring up all this crap about his parents? Maybe because thinking about them reinforced what he strongly suspected: He had been on this path to self-destruction before he even left the womb.

Which didn’t bode well for the eventual outcome.

Depressed, he lay down on the ratty bed and actually slept for a while. Perhaps that was his body’s way of letting him temporarily escape from his reality. Even kinder was his subconscious, which let him dream about Laura. His hands were on her. He was moving inside her. She was clutching his ass, arching up to receive him, moaning his name. Heartbeats away from coming, he woke up, her name on his lips, soaked in sweat, sporting a painful erection.

He got up, showered, and turned on the TV in time for the local evening newscasts. As he’d feared, a smug-looking anchorman with bad hair announced that the police were seeking Griff Burkett for “questioning in the brutal slaying of Foster Speakman.”

This came as no surprise, of course, but Griff sat dazed, immobilized by the sudden appearance of Stanley Rodarte on the screen. He was standing in the glare of video lights, which intensified his ugliness. “At this point, Mr. Burkett is only a person of interest. All we know at present is that he was inside the Speakmans’ mansion last evening.”

This statement of fact caused a feeding frenzy among the reporters, who began firing questions at him. Full of self-importance, Rodarte denied them answers, saying only “Burkett’s involvement warrants further investigation. That’s all I have for you right now.” He turned his back on them and walked through the iron gates onto the Speakman estate.

Rodarte was there. Inside the ivy-covered walls. With Laura. She would revile Griff Burkett now. Rodarte would stoke that, use it to win her to his side. The thought of her and Rodarte breathing the same air made his empty stomach clench as tight as a fist.

Darkness finally fell. Even with the temperature hovering in the low nineties, it felt good to be outdoors, away from the lingering odors in his motel room. But it took Griff nearly two hours to walk to Hunnicutt Motors, and by that time the heat was taking its toll. He hadn’t dared stop to buy a bottle of water, so he arrived at the car lot gritty with dried sweat and dehydrated.

But the hike had been worth it. The car had been left as promised.

It was a nondescript sedan somewhere between brown and gray. The model name on the trunk lid was unfamiliar to him, and he couldn’t even identify the car’s maker. Pontiac? Ford maybe? The cloth upholstery gave off the musty smell of stale tobacco smoke when he warily opened the unlocked door. No alarm went off.

The keys were beneath the floor mat, the gas tank was full, and the engine fired as soon as he turned the ignition. Conveniently, the chain that was usually stretched across the driveway as a security measure was lying on the pavement. Hunnicutt had thought of everything.

Wyatt Turner, attorney-at-law, lived in one of the nouveau riche neighborhoods of North Dallas. Every house had a swimming pool in the backyard, golf clubs in the garage, and inside, an upwardly mobile couple trying to keep up with the Joneses. Pets were optional. Most had children.

The Turners had only one. Griff had never seen Wyatt Junior in person, but he’d seen his picture on Wyatt’s desk. He was a fifty-fifty blend of his parents, which was unfortunate for the kid. Griff had met Susan Turner only once, at a social function long before he was in need of Wyatt’s services. She was a pallid woman, virtually colorless, with a personality to match. She practiced law also, but not criminal law like her husband. Taxes, corporate, probate, something dull like that. And Griff bet she was good at it. She was uptight, unfriendly, and unattractive. Compared with her, Wyatt was the life of the party.

Griff cruised past their house and saw that there was only one light on inside. He hoped it was Wyatt burning the midnight oil and not Susan. He parked two streets over and conscientiously locked the car door when he got out. He had dressed in shorts and T-shirt, running shoes, ball cap. In a neighborhood of yuppies like this one, people ran at all hours, whenever they could wedge the workout into their busy schedules. He hoped that if he was seen, he’d be mistaken for a guy who had time to exercise only late at night.

He jogged the two blocks. One dog barked at him from behind a wood fence, but otherwise he went unnoticed. At least he hoped so. Someone inside one of these upscale homes could have spotted him and called a neighborhood security watch or the police. That was a risk he had to take.

He had noticed that the house next door to the Turners’ had a For Sale sign out front. The property was dark, inside and out, which was to his advantage. When he reached it now, he detoured off the sidewalk into the shadows of the yard. He went around to the side yard that abutted the Turners’ driveway. There he crouched in the shrubbery to catch his breath and plan his next move.

Through open blinds, he could see into the lighted room of the Turners’ house. It was a home office, reminiscent of Bolly’s except much neater. A stuffed deer head mounted on the wall. Framed diplomas. Law books on the shelves. A computer monitor was on, casting a bluish light onto the desk and several open files.

The lawyer appeared, coming into the room carrying a glass of milk and what looked like a sandwich on a plate. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. The tail of the T-shirt was tucked into the elastic waistband of the pajamas. Tucked in. In spite of his situation, Griff had to smile at his lawyer’s sleeping attire. But he shared a bed with Mrs. Turner, so that explained it. Griff would have sooner made love to a corn husk.

Turner sat down at the desk, took a bite of the sandwich, and as he chewed, he gazed into his computer monitor. Griff took a deep breath and stepped out of the shrubbery. He crossed the driveway and walked up to the pair of French doors that opened directly into the office. He tapped lightly on a pane of glass.

Startled, Turner looked in his direction. When he saw Griff, his face registered a series of expressions-astonishment, apprehension, finally anger.

Griff tried the door handle. It was locked. He jiggled it several times, making metal rattle against metal. He read the curse on Turner’s lips as he got out of his chair. He glanced cautiously into what Griff presumed was a hallway, then quickly came to the door and opened it.

Angrily he whispered, “Do you know that every cop within five hundred miles is after you?”

“Then you’d better let me in before one of them spots me on your doorstep.”

Turner motioned him in, then stepped outside and looked down his driveway into the street. Satisfied that there were no wolves at the gate, he shut the door, after which he went around the room hastily drawing the blinds closed.

Griff picked up the sandwich and began wolfing it down. Between the car lot and here, he’d used the drive-through window to pick up a Whataburger and demolished it as he drove. It had taken the edge off his hunger but hadn’t appeased it. Peanut butter and jelly had never been his favorite, but right now it tasted delicious. He drank the milk, too. Turner was watching him, seething.

“I need this more than you do,” Griff said through a mouthful. Then, motioning toward his lawyer’s paunch, he added, “A lot more.”

“I want you out of here.”

“I need information.”

“I’m not CNN.”

“You’re my lawyer.”

“Not anymore.”

Griff stopped chewing. “Since when?”

“Since you-” Turner’s loud voice startled even him. He froze, listening, then went to the door and looked into the hallway again. “Don’t move,” he whispered to Griff over his shoulder. “Don’t make a sound.”