The lawyer disappeared into the dark hallway. Griff could hear doors-he assumed to bedrooms-being softly closed. Despite Turner’s warning, he went to the French doors and separated the slats of the blinds to peer out, wondering if Hunnicutt’s car parked two streets over had aroused a watchful homeowner’s suspicion. Had anybody noticed a jogger at midnight suddenly disappearing into the dark shadows surrounding a vacant house?

Turner returned, walking on tiptoe. Quietly he pulled the door closed behind himself. “Susan’s a light sleeper.”

“Since when aren’t you my lawyer?”

“Since you murdered Foster Speakman,” the lawyer returned, matching Griff’s angry stage whisper. “Christ, Griff. Foster Speakman! You could just as well have killed the president. Is it true you were screwing his wife?”

Griff held his accusatory stare for several seconds, then crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, muttering, “You should be so lucky.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He finished the milk, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t know a lawyer could fire a client.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Griff spread his arms wide. All he had on him was the car key and his cell phone clipped to the elastic waistband of his running shorts.

“I’d call you dangerous,” Turner said. “He said you stabbed Speakman in the neck with his letter opener. A paraplegic, Griff. He said Speakman tried to fight back, tried to protect himself from you, but-”

“He who? Who said? Rodarte?”

“Of course Rodarte. He and that silent partner of his came to my office this morning. Rodarte did all the talking. He asked if I knew where you were, and fortunately I could honestly say no.” Turner frowned, unhappy over knowing Griff’s whereabouts now. “Rodarte is having a field day. This time, make no mistake, he’s got you.”

“I don’t get my day in court?”

Turner gnawed the inside of his cheek and cast a worried glance toward the closed door. “Make it quick.” He sat down in his desk chair and tried to look lawyerly-a role hard to pull off in the pajama outfit. “How’d you meet the Speakmans?”

“I was invited to their home. Speakman proposed a business deal.”

Turner looked dubious. “What kind of business?”

“We talked about me doing some ads for his airline.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but he couldn’t tell Turner the truth. Not yet. Foster Speakman’s reputation be damned. As far as keeping his secret was concerned, all bets were off. But Laura shared that secret. Griff would keep it for her sake.

“That’s nuts,” Turner remarked.

“That’s what I told him. But, come to find out, he had a lot of idiosyncrasies and weird ideas. Anyway, he told me to think it over, he would, too, so forth.”

“The wife? Laura?”

“I met her that same night.”

“Instant lust, Rodarte said.”

“Rodarte said that?”

“Words to that effect. He said the two of you had a hot and heavy affair.”

Griff wondered where Rodarte was getting his information. Probably he was merely speculating and making it sound like fact. “She and I got together. Four times to be exact. Over a period of months. The last time we saw each other, she called it off.”

“Why?”

Disinclined to tell Turner more than that, he shrugged. “Typical reasons. Guilt mostly. I thought I’d never see her again.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer, but his expression must have given him away.

Turner groaned. “You just handed Rodarte motivation on a silver platter. To get the girl, you bumped off her husband. You don’t even need a criminal law degree to see that, Griff.”

“Besides motivation-”

“And opportunity.”

“I didn’t barge in on Speakman last night. I went to the mansion at his invitation.”

“He invited you?”

“He invited me.”

“What for? Did he confront you about the affair? Had the wife felt so guilty she confessed all?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much Laura told him about us.” In all honesty, he didn’t.

“Have you been in touch with her?”

He shook his head.

“I advise you not to try.”

“As my former lawyer?”

Ignoring the sarcastic dig, Foster asked, “Can you prove Speakman invited you to the mansion last night?”

“Not yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Losing patience, Griff said, “Besides motive and opportunity, what’s Rodarte got on me?”

The lawyer hesitated.

“Come on, Turner. You owe me at least that much. What am I up against?”

Turner snorted. “Well, there’s the murder weapon covered with your fingerprints. Your DNA will match the tissue they dug out from under Speakman’s fingernails.” He pointed toward the bloody scratches on the backs of Griff’s hands. “Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Hell, Griff,” he said, wincing, “Rodarte doesn’t need anything else to nail you for Speakman. But there’s also this guy named Ruiz.”

“Manuelo. Speakman’s aide. Looks like a South American headhunter with a pleasant but empty smile.”

“Nobody’s seen him.” Turner paused and looked at him expectantly. When Griff didn’t say anything, he continued. “Rodarte checked with Immigration. No file on him. He was an illegal.”

“You’re using the past tense.”

“Was he there last night?”

Again Griff refrained from saying anything.

“Don’t bother lying,” the lawyer said. “They found blood on the rug and in your car. My old Honda. The blood wasn’t yours or Speakman’s. Rodarte surmises it’s Ruiz’s. He’s searching for his remains.”

Beneath his breath, Griff said, “Fuck!”

“Well finally, the oracle speaks. And isn’t that an eloquent statement?” the lawyer said with asperity. “Was he alive when you left him?”

“Which?”

Turner rubbed his high forehead as though to smooth out the worry lines. “Either.”

“Speakman was dead. Ruiz was adiós.”

“He escaped you?”

“He ran.”

“Did he see Speakman get stabbed?”

Griff didn’t respond.

“Did you…Was Ruiz also injured? Was that his blood on the rug and in the Honda?”

Griff was about to answer, then checked himself. “Are you my lawyer or not?”

Turner studied him for a moment, than asked quietly, “What about the money, Griff? The half million. And don’t play dumb, because your fingerprints were on the lid of the box. So, what was that about?”

“Beats me,” he replied laconically, with a shrug. “Speakman says, ‘Look in the box.’ I looked in the box. I guess he was showing off how rich he was.”

“It wasn’t for you?”

Griff looked at him as though that was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“Rodarte suggested that Speakman was paying you off for something.”

Griff’s gut tightened. “Like what?”

“Something you had delivered. Or a service you’d performed for him.”

“Shit, Turner, where’s your brain? Where’s Rodarte’s? If that money had been for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have left it behind. I’d have it and be living it up in some exotic locale, not bumming peanut butter sandwiches off you.”

The lawyer wasn’t fazed. “Lotta money, Griff. Large bills banded together. Stacked neatly in a box. Kind of like the take you got from Bandy for throwing the play-off game against the Skins.”

“I’m telling you-”

“Okay, okay. For now let’s say Speakman just liked keeping boxes of cash around and it had nothing to do with his murder. Rodarte doesn’t even need that element to get a conviction.” Turner stood, circled his chair, placed his hands on the back of it, as though he were about to address the court. “Listen to me, Griff. This is a prosecutor’s dream case. They’ve got hard evidence. They’ve got your DNA. And if Ruiz is alive-”

“He is. Or was last time I saw him.”

“And if he isn’t already back in Honduras-”

“El Salvador.”

“Whatever. If they can catch him, they’ll have an eyewitness in addition to the incriminating evidence. But,” he said, lightly slapping the leather chair back for emphasis, “on the positive side, you placed the 911 call, right?” Griff nodded. “So that suggests you didn’t want Speakman to die. It can be argued that Speakman invited you there, and if the jury buys that, then the next step is their believing that there was no premeditation on your part. You went to Speakman’s house at his invitation. He confronted you with the affair you were having-”