CHAPTER 36

HERE’S THE THING, RODARTE TOLD HIMSELF. GRIFF BURKETT had successfully (a) lured or (b) kidnapped Laura Speakman from the hotel. He had escaped arrest at her mansion. He was driving an unknown vehicle. Basically, he was in pretty good shape to elude capture for a while longer, maybe even enough to get far away.

So why had he used the Speakman broad’s cell phone to call him, knowing that Rodarte would be able to track the call and mark their location? Sure, Burkett had been smart enough to leave the phone in that theater parking lot, but why take such a risk in the first place?

Burkett wouldn’t. Not unless he had something to say that was mighty important, something that he felt would get him off the hook completely.

Rodarte sat in his car on the shoulder of the interstate and smoked half a pack-fuck quitting-before determining that Burkett hadn’t been playacting. He’d sounded excited and definitive. Burkett believed that Lavaca Road in Itasca was a link to Manuelo Ruiz, whom he claimed had killed Speakman accidentally. Meaning Burkett was innocent.

It must be true. If Ruiz had witnessed Burkett murdering Speakman, Burkett would be racing down to Itasca to silence the man, not calling Rodarte and telling him where to find him.

Conclusion: Manuelo Ruiz was no longer a footnote in the case. He’d been bumped up to a principal player. His new status called for action.

Rodarte used the redial button on his cell phone. It rang only once before being answered. “Itasca PD.”

“This is Rodarte again. Put Chief Marion on.”

A few clicks, then, “Detective Rodarte?”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. I got two men still watching the house, though.”

“Call them back and cancel the APB on Manuelo Ruiz.”

Rodarte sensed Marion’s surprise. “Why’s that?”

“Somebody screwed up,” Rodarte said, faking exasperation. “Dumb computer geeks. Looking for a house address and came up with a route number instead. Got y’all hyped up for nothing. I hope to God they never issue those guys guns.”

The other cop chuckled. “Thanks for the call, Detective. I’ll pull everybody in, including the sheriff’s office. My officers will be disappointed. They thought they were going to get in on something big.”

“Not tonight.”

“What about Burkett?”

“Still at large.”

“Big guy like him, you’d think he’d be easy to spot.”

“You’d think.”

“Well, we’ll keep an eye out.”

Rodarte apologized again for the mix-up, said he hoped he hadn’t kept Marion and his officers up too late, and told him good-bye. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, then, smiling, pulled his car onto the interstate and headed toward Itasca.

When he saw the Millers, Griff thought, The surprises just keep on coming.

Both had on sandals, shorts, and florid Hawaiian-print shirts. Ellie was wearing a straw hat. A wilted lei drooped from her neck. She looked flummoxed. Coach, in spite of his ridiculous attire, was seething.

Hoping to defuse the impending explosion, Griff said, “Coach, Ellie, this is Laura Speakman.”

Coach nudged Ellie aside and bore down on Griff. “The widow? Yeah, we know who she is. We read about Foster Speakman’s murder in The Wall Street Journal while we were in Hawaii.” He shot Laura a look, then his hard gaze swung back to Griff. “Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from a Dallas detective, apologizing for bothering me while I was on vacation, but it was important, he said.”

“Rodarte?”

“That’s right. Stanley Rodarte. He asked if we knew where you were. Had we had any contact with you? Would we know where he should start looking for you? Why? I asked. Did this have to do with Bill Bandy? Oh no, he said. That’s old news. He’s looking for you in connection with the Speakman murder. Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”

“Joe, your blood pressure,” Ellie said quietly.

“I told him I didn’t know anything about you, what you were doing, where you were, and I didn’t want to know. Now I come home and find you all cozy in bed with the late millionaire’s wife. And it doesn’t look to me like she’s in mourning.”

“Well, you’re wrong!” Griff shouted, going toe-to-toe with Coach’s anger. “She’s mourning the loss of her baby. My baby,” he said, thumping his chest. “She miscarried it tonight there in your bathroom.”

Ellie made a sorrowful, wounded sound.

“Laura was pregnant by me, but I didn’t kill her husband.” Griff looked beyond Coach at Ellie. “You’ve got to believe that.” To Coach he said, “It’s up to Laura how much she confides in you, but she can tell you that I did not commit murder. I’m on my way now to find the only man who knows that for certain and can keep Rodarte from putting me on death row.”

Griff moved toward the door, but Coach planted his hands firmly on Griff’s chest, stopping him. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m turning you in.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“Oh yeah?” Coach shoved him backward.

“He has to go, Mr. Miller.” Laura swung her feet to the floor and got off the bed. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But Griff didn’t kill Foster. In order to prove it, he must leave now.”

The older man divided a look between her and Ellie, whose expression indicated that, this once, she had sided against him. He came back around to Griff, who could tell Coach was warring with himself for reasons he believed to be right and just. “If you’re innocent-”

“I am.”

“Then turn yourself in.”

“I can’t. While I’m wading through the formalities, Rodarte might eliminate this other guy.”

“Eliminate? What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you think I mean.”

“Who is this other guy?”

“Speakman’s aide, who’s been missing. Coach, there’s no time to explain it all now. I’ve got to go.”

Coach stepped back and raised both his hands. “Dig yourself in deeper. See if I care. I wash my hands of you.”

“You already did, five years ago.”

“Long before that!”

The words hurt, but Griff couldn’t dwell on them now. He picked up Manuelo’s duffel bag. When he looked back at Laura, he didn’t say anything, but he hoped she knew what he felt.

Then he brushed past Coach and left the house in a dead run.

Rodarte located the abandoned farmhouse while dawn was still several hours away. As described, it was the only structure he’d seen since he left town central, and it was practically falling down. He hadn’t passed any patrol cars, and none were in sight. Chief Marion, good as his word, had called back the posse.

Rodarte slid his nine-millimeter from his shoulder holster and chambered a bullet, took a flashlight from his glove box, then cautiously got out of his car. He made a circuit around the house, shining the flashlight on the unstable piers holding up the structure and onto the roof, which not only sagged but had large holes. Most of the windows had been broken out. The place was a shambles.

It was surrounded by fallow cotton fields, the earth as flat and black as a griddle. The air was hot and still, and so quiet he could have heard a gnat fart. Neither the approach of his car nor his prowling had flushed out Ruiz or anybody else who might have been hiding inside. He didn’t get the feeling that he was being watched through one of the busted windows, either, and his instinct for that kind of thing was excellent.

Minding his step for fear of falling through the rotted planks, he walked across the porch and tried the front door. It swung open on rusted hinges that squeaked. Standing on the threshold, pistol in his right hand, he shone the flashlight around the interior. It stank of mice, living and dead.

There was one main room, with a fireplace full of litter and old ash. Opening off this room were several doorways. He crept to them one by one. Bedrooms. One bathroom. A kitchen. All vacant. No sign of occupancy for at least a decade.