“You’d need a search warrant,” the lawyer said. “I doubt any judge in the county would grant you one for such a flimsy reason, but if one did, and if you found a number belonging to Mr. Burkett on those records, it still wouldn’t prove that he spoke with Mr. Hunnicutt.

“How many calls a day do you estimate come into this busy car dealership? Hundreds, right? My client can’t be responsible for any of them. And if you did manage to prove that my client talked to Mr. Burkett, that doesn’t prove that he provided him a car or assisted him in any way.”

Rodarte, still ignoring the attorney, glared into Hunnicutt’s guileless face.

“I think you’ve run out of ammunition to back up your threats, Mr. Rodarte.” Hunnicutt placed his cigarette in the hollow belly of his armadillo-shaped ashtray and stood up. He moved to his office door and opened it.

Rodarte disregarded the blatant suggestion that he leave. He asked, “How’d Burkett get the key to that car if you didn’t give it to him?”

Hunnicutt yelled through the open doorway, “Sweetheart, come on in here a sec.”

The receptionist who’d ushered Rodarte in reappeared, asking brightly, “Did he change his mind about the coffee?”

“What’s my pet peeve?” Hunnicutt asked her. “What do I get onto the salespeople about more than anything?”

“Letting customers leave without buying a car.”

Hunnicutt boomed a laugh. “Second to that.”

“Leaving the keys under the floor mats.”

“Thank you, honey.”

She left, and Hunnicutt turned back to Rodarte. “Leaving the keys under the floor mats. They do it for convenience’s sake, always meaning to go back later and properly lock the cars they’ve taken out on demonstration drives. They plan to go back when they don’t have customers stacked up. But-thank God, and I ain’t complaining-sometimes they’ve got customers waiting. So they just slide the ignition key under the mat. Then they get distracted or busy and forget.” He shrugged his burly shoulders. “I chew ass about it all the time, but what can you do? They’re selling cars like hotcakes.”

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.”