When he walked beneath the freeway overpass and saw the neon vacancy light flickering in the motel office window, he wanted to weep with relief. It wasn’t much, but it was the only hiding place he had. Dawn was just breaking.

He needed to lie down. Close his eyes. Breathe easily. Rest.

But as he neared the parking lot, he noticed that the dope-smoking night clerk was no longer on duty. His replacement was dressed casually, but he looked too clean-cut to work in a place like this.

Griff ducked behind the used-tire store’s portable marquee. From that tenuous hiding place, he watched the guy come out from behind the check-in desk. He left the office and started down the breezeway. He was carrying a foam cup. Steam was rising from it. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee made Griff’s mouth water. But his heart began to feel very heavy when he saw the guy stop at room number seven and knock three times on the door.

It was opened by a man who was as clean-cut as the one manning the office. He took the coffee from his buddy and savored his first sip with a long “Ahhh.” They had a brief exchange, then the office guy left the other inside the room and walked back to the office.

Griff crouched behind the sign advertising the special on retreads and bent his head over his knees.

How the hell had they found him? Was Rodarte fucking clairvoyant?

He remained hunkered down behind the sign for a while, until his overtaxed leg muscles began to cramp, his knees to grow stiff, and the eastern horizon to become limned with orange.

Knowing he had to relocate, he reached into his sock for the bills he’d tucked there before going to Turner’s. The currency was wet from his time in the pool, but it was spendable. He’d hid his cell phone beneath the diving board of the swimming pool, out of sight, before he’d slipped into the water, then retrieved it when he got out. The battery still had juice.

That paltry amount of cash and the phone were the only resources left to him. He didn’t even have a dry change of clothes. But he couldn’t stay here. He had to move. He forced his aching legs to unfold and began walking, being careful to keep something between himself and the office of the motel.

As he walked, he flipped open his phone and placed one short call.

Glen Hunnicutt was in his office, drinking coffee and shooting the breeze with a customer, when the dealership’s receptionist tapped on his open office door. “Excuse the interruption, Mr. Hunnicutt. There’s someone here to see you. A detective with the police department. He says it’s important.”

“Come in.” Hunnicutt rolled his hand, motioning the man into his office.

“Stanley Rodarte, DPD.” He extended Hunnicutt his card.

“Have a seat, Detective,” Hunnicutt said expansively, pointing him toward a chair. “You want some coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? Our coffee’s as good as our auto-mo-biles.”

“No thanks.”

“Maybe a nice, cold Dr Pepper?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Rodarte said, showing his impatience.

“You shopping cars this morning, Detective?”

“No.” Rodarte nodded toward the other man in the room, who was seated across from Hunnicutt’s desk. “Could we have a minute alone? This is a police matter.”

“Meet James McAlister. Jim’s my lawyer, so I have no secrets from him.” The look on Rodarte’s face was priceless. It was all Hunnicutt could do not to chuckle. The detective hadn’t expected a lawyer to be present.

Hunnicutt had arrived at the dealership shortly after daybreak so he could replace the security chain before his employees began reporting for work. He’d been at his desk catching up on paperwork when Griff’s warning call came through the main phone line. Fortunately, he’d answered.

Upon hearing his voice, Griff said, “It’s hit the fan. I’m sorry. You’ll be hearing from a cop named Rodarte. Stanley Rodarte. He gives you grief, you say this to him. You listening?”

“I’m listening.”

Griff had left Hunnicutt with the message, then hung up.

Addressing Rodarte now, Hunnicutt said, “Jim’s here to buy a car for his daughter who’s turning sixteen next week. He expects a discount from me. Like hell, I said. He never gave me a discount on legal fees. I told him-”

“We found a car belonging to you,” Rodarte said, brusquely cutting in. “It was found abandoned on a neighborhood street a few miles from here.”

Hunnicutt looked at McAlister, registering surprise. “You found it? Already?” He whistled. “I’m impressed. We only reported it stolen, when, Jim? Eight, nine this morning? You guys in the DPD are good!”

Rodarte had received his second blow. “You reported the car stolen?”

McAlister snapped open the briefcase resting on his lap and took a form from it. It had been filled out by the policeman who’d responded to Hunnicutt’s call, reporting that a car was missing from his inventory. Rodarte yanked the form from McAlister, glanced at it, and verified its accuracy, down to the car’s make and model, license plate, and VIN. Hunnicutt got the impression Rodarte was about to wad up the form and hurl it to the floor. McAlister rescued it just in time and replaced it in his briefcase.

“When was it stolen?” the detective asked tightly.

“Don’t know. I didn’t notice it missing until this morning. Cars get shifted around all day, every day. It could have been missing a couple weeks, a couple days, or a couple hours. No way of telling.”

“Griff Burkett’s prints are all over that car,” Rodarte growled, looking like a man barely in control of his temper.

“Griff Burkett? The Griff Burkett? No shit! You sure?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

“Well, I’ll be. Imagine that. Hmm. Wonders never cease.”

Rodarte’s glower turned darker. “He left it parked two streets from his lawyer’s house, where he went last night asking for information that would help him elude arrest for the murder of Foster Speakman. Turner called us instead.”

Hunnicutt looked over at McAlister. “Lucky I’ve got you.”

“Burkett managed to get away on foot,” Rodarte said.

“The boy has talent,” Hunnicutt said. “Fastest quarterback I’ve ever seen. That fancy footwork of his was something to watch, wasn’t it?”

Rodarte looked ready to explode. “You gave that car to him, which amounts to aiding and abetting a murder suspect.”

“That’s an awfully ugly allegation,” McAlister said calmly. “I’m hereby instructing my client not to answer any further questions, Detective.”

Ignoring the lawyer, Rodarte kept his eyes on Hunnicutt. “When did Burkett call you? Yesterday? Last night?”

Hunnicutt said nothing.

“Obviously you admire him, but he’s no hero. Yesterday he made a bunch of calls to area families named Ruiz. I had cops calling those same families, searching for clues into the disappearance of Manuelo Ruiz, who we believe witnessed Foster Speakman’s murder. We compared notes. Same phone number showed up on several caller IDs. We traced that number to a fleabag motel out on 635. I’ve got men staking out the place, waiting for him to slink back to where his stuff’s at.

“And when he does, I’m going to put him through the wringer. Your name’s bound to come up. He’ll give you up, Hunnicutt. Burkett doesn’t have friends, only people he uses then shits on. He has loyalty to no one except himself. You talk to me now or face indictment later.”

Rodarte paused, took a breath. “Now, where is he? If you know, and you don’t tell me, you’re obstructing justice. Where is he?”

Hunnicutt calmly lit a cigarette. “You sure you couldn’t use a Dr Pepper?”

Rodarte banged his fist on Hunnicutt’s desk. “Tell me, goddammit!”

“Detective Rodarte, you’re harassing my client,” McAlister said.

Rodarte stood up and leaned far across Hunnicutt’s desk, thrusting his face close. “I can get your phone records for this place, prove he called here.”