Play Dirty (34 page)

L
AURA STARED BACK AT THE TWO PEOPLE STARING AT HER.

She could smell the plumeria blossoms of Ellie Miller’s wilting lei. The odor was heavy and sweet. “You just returned from vacation?” she asked.

Ellie replied. “We got into DFW a half hour early. Around four-thirty.”

“I’m sorry you had to come back after a long flight to find a stranger in your bed.” She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the three bears. How was your flight?”

Ellie crossed to Laura and took her hand. “You’re the one who’s had a rough night. How’re you feeling?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Sure you will. But right now it’s bad. Cramping?”

“Hmm.”

“I know. I went through this four times.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ellie shrugged philosophically. “Wasn’t meant to be.” She patted Laura’s hand. “I’ll get you something for those cramps.”

She went out, leaving Laura alone with Coach Joe Miller. He was an intimidating presence. He stared at her, his expression judgmental. Yet he also seemed curious about her, in spite of himself.

“I’m sorry about your baby.” He nodded toward the door through which his wife had passed. “Ellie shrugs it off, but her heart broke each time.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“You’re sure it was Griff’s baby?”

“No question. My husband was incapable.”

“Sterile?”

“Incapable,” she repeated.

“Huh.” He digested that, then asked, “Is that why you took up with Griff?”

Before she could answer, Ellie returned carrying a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take two.”

Laura had already sworn off analgesics that pregnant women were advised not to take. Swallowing the capsules was a painful reminder that the precaution was no longer necessary.

“What are you doing?”

That from Ellie, whose voice was sharp, imperious, and directed toward her husband, who had picked up the telephone on the desk.

“Calling the police.”

“You’re going to sic the police on that boy?”

“He’s not a boy, Ellie. He’s a man. He has to be held accountable.”

“Please, don’t call Rodarte,” Laura said. “He’s Griff’s sworn enemy.”

“Because he’s a homicide detective and Griff is a…a…”

“See?” Ellie said, planting her fists on her narrow hips. “You can’t even bring yourself to say it because you know it isn’t true.”

“If it’s not true, why’s he running?” Coach asked. “Why doesn’t he turn himself in?”

Ellie, having no answer, looked helplessly toward Laura, who implored Coach to hang up the phone. “Please don’t make that call. At least not until I’ve told you about Griff and me. And Foster. All of it. Please, Mr. Miller.”

He considered her for several moments, then reluctantly replaced the phone and folded his thick arms across his barrel chest. “Well?”

She began with the day Foster first told her of his plan and left nothing out except the most intimate details of the four times she and Griff had been together.

“I never heard anything so outlandish,” Coach said. “You’re telling me that your husband
paid
Griff to…to do that?”

“Regrettably, I went along, for reasons that are too complex to explain now. After I learned I was pregnant, I didn’t expect ever to see Griff again.”

While she was listening to Laura’s story, Ellie’s eyes had turned moist. “How did you feel about that? About never seeing Griff again?”

Laura hesitated, then said, “I was conflicted. And because I was, I would never have
allowed
myself to see him again.”

Ellie nodded, understanding.

“I would have stayed with my husband forever,” Laura continued. “Rearing the child as his, exactly as he wanted.”

“So what made it all go south?” Coach asked. “Let me guess. Griff.”

“Actually, Foster. I blame myself for not seeing how severe his OCD had become. I think I didn’t want to see it. Anyway, it, coupled with the accident, had changed him. He was no longer the Foster I fell in love with. I hoped a baby would bring that Foster back.

“In any case, I was committed to our marriage and our life together. If he hadn’t attempted to kill Griff, I would be with him tonight. And Griff wouldn’t be a fugitive.” She divided a look between them. “I swear everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

She had no doubt that Ellie believed her. Coach was gnawing the inside of his cheek, apparently unconvinced. Suddenly he turned and picked up the telephone.

“Joe, didn’t you hear a single word she’s said?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my ears, Ellie.”

“Then how can you—”

“Because I know Griff,” he said. “He’s always looked out for number one. He’s never given a damn about anyone except himself. You, me, his teammates. Nobody.”

“You’re wrong,” Laura said.

“He may have been a little selfish before,” Ellie said. “But he’s different now. I saw the change in him when he was here. And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, Joe Miller, you’d—”

“Mr. Miller, please,” Laura said. “You’ll regret—”

“I’m calling the police.” He shouted it over their chorused protests, slicing his hand through the air. “Now that’s all there is to it.”

There wasn’t much traffic to slow Griff down. Rush hour at its heaviest was a couple hours away. He made good time to the Itasca exit. The town still slumbered, but he crawled through it, heeding speed limit signs, not wanting to get stopped now.

It wasn’t difficult to find Lavaca Road. He continued along it until it turned into FM 2010, a narrow, rutted road that seemed to have been traveled so infrequently as to have become completely overlooked.

After a couple miles, he began to fear that he and Laura had been wrong. But then he spotted a dilapidated farmhouse and barn, showing up as smudged shadows against a sky just turning pastel with the rising sun. But he knew he had the right place.

Rodarte’s car was parked in front.

Griff slowed and turned in to the gravel driveway, spotting them instantly—two dark figures silhouetted against the glow in the eastern horizon. He rolled to a stop, turned off the engine, and opened the car door. The early morning atmosphere was soft and silent, deceptively benign.

Keeping the two men in sight, he reached into the duffel bag and took out the policeman’s pistol. Impersonating a deliveryman, incapacitating the cops, his and Laura’s madcap escape from the estate, all seemed a long time ago. Those recollections were blurred.

But vivid in his memory was the look on her face when she realized that the baby was lost.

If…if…if…

There were so many of them, he didn’t even know where to begin regretting.

But one big
if
remained: if he didn’t live through this, he hoped Laura knew that he loved her. Bad timing or not, he wished he’d said it when he’d had the chance.

He stuffed the pistol into the back waistband of the navy blue work pants he was still wearing. When he got out, he left the car door open, just in case he had to make a quick getaway. He walked along the exterior wall of the house toward the rear, realizing what a large and easy target his white T-shirt made against the faded clapboard. Rodarte and Manuelo Ruiz stood as still as scarecrows in the fallow field.

But then Rodarte raised his arm and waved. “Hiya, Griff.”

Griff disliked guns. Didn’t know much about them. Knew even less about police-issue pistols. But as he crossed the littered yard and walked toward the other two men, he was comforted by the weight of the pistol at the small of his back.

He had to step over a barbed-wire fence that had been knocked down. Dirt clods and fossilized tractor tracks made the ground uneven. But he didn’t look down. He kept his gaze fixed on Rodarte. When he got close enough to make out the detective’s features, Griff saw that he was smiling with amusement as he held his pistol aimed at Manuelo.

The tableau confirmed what Griff had feared—Rodarte didn’t plan to use Manuelo Ruiz as an eyewitness. Even if Griff allayed Manuelo’s fear and persuaded him to return to Dallas and tell the truth about Foster Speakman’s accidental death, Rodarte would never permit it. Because Rodarte didn’t want Griff to be exonerated. He didn’t even want him locked away for good. He wanted him dead.

And now Griff understood why. He knew why Rodarte had been waiting for him outside Big Spring FCI. He understood why he’d been tailing him and monitoring his every move since his release. He’d thought Rodarte was trying to scare him into making either a mistake or a confession. Fact was, Rodarte was scared of him.

The ground at Rodarte’s feet was littered with cigarette butts. At Manuelo’s feet lay a shovel. Behind him were a mound of freshly turned dirt and a wide hole. The implication sickened Griff. The bastard had made the Salvadoran dig his own grave while he stood there, smoking and smiling.

Probably, Griff thought, he and Manuelo would share the grave.

Manuelo stood as still as a statue carved of teak. His eyes were as hard and impenetrable as polished stones. Griff couldn’t tell if he was afraid, resigned, or waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had no idea what his arrival would signify to the Salvadoran. He wished he had the Spanish-language skills to tell him that Rodarte was their common enemy,
not each other.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Rodarte said when Griff halted about ten yards away from him.

“You were expecting me?”

“Hoping. What kept you? Bet I know.” He winked. “The widow’s hot snatch. Hope you got a piece of it, ’cause it’ll be your last.” Leer still in place, he said pleasantly, “Hand over the pistol.”

“Pistol?”

“You want a knee blown out?”

“You can’t aim at both of us at the same time. If you take your gun off Manuelo, he’ll be on you before you can blink.”

“Okay. What say I shoot him first, then blow your knee out just for giving me lip?”

Griff reached behind his back.

“Easy.”

With exaggerated slowness, Griff pulled the pistol from his waistband. He could kill Rodarte without remorse. Marcia was reason enough, not to mention the rest of it. But even with a fatal wound, Rodarte might have time to get off one shot. Griff couldn’t risk Manuelo dying. He still needed the aide’s testimony about Speakman. He held the pistol far out to his side.

“Toss it over.”

Griff did as told. The pistol landed among the butts at Rodarte’s feet. “Thanks. Now we can all relax.”

Nodding in Manuelo’s direction, Griff said, “Let him go.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’ll head straight for El Salvador. You’ll never see him again.”

“Probably. But why should I lose sleep over it? He might develop a guilty conscience about running out on you.”

“So you know he killed Speakman?”

“Must have, or you wouldn’t have told me where he was at.”

“I realized that mistake too late.”

“Lost your famous timing, Number Ten?” The detective formed a sad face. “Gee, that’s too bad. And just when you needed it most.”

“Let him go. Your quarrel is with me, not him.”

Rodarte chuckled. “Well, you’ve got that right.”

“You want me to go down.”

“What gave me away?”

“You want me to go down for Bill Bandy. But not because you think I killed him. You know I didn’t.”

Rodarte grinned. “You’re getting warmer.”

“You know I didn’t because you did.”

“And they call jocks dumb.” He snorted. “Of course, it did take you five years to figure it out.”

“The Vista boys hired you to muzzle him permanently.”

“It was sort of an audition. There was word going around that Bandy’s days were numbered. The Vista trio were afraid he was going to turn them over like he did you. I’d been wanting to do some moonlighting for them, but they’re a tight little clique. It’s hard to win their trust.”

“So you seized an opportunity.”

“I offered my services.”

“Thinking that if you rid them of Bandy, they’d welcome you into their fold and put you on their payroll.”

Rodarte beamed his ugly smile. “Who better to help out with problems like Bandy than a homicide detective who can steer murder investigations in the wrong direction?” He began to laugh, deep inside his chest, then out loud. “It was a great plan, and then it got even better. Swear to God, Burkett, when you showed up at Bandy’s place, I nearly pissed my pants. I couldn’t have planned it any better.”

“You were there when I arrived.”

“In the back room. Before I snapped his neck, he swore up and down he didn’t have a secret stash, but have you ever known a bookie who didn’t lie? If I returned some skimmed funds to Vista in addition to getting rid of Bandy, think how pleased they’d be.

“So I was back there tossing the place when I heard the door. You came barging in like a bull elephant with a grudge to settle. When I realized it was you, I could barely contain a fit of the giggles. While you were woe-is-me-ing over Bandy’s body, I sneaked out back.”

“And called in an anonymous nine-one-one.”

“At a pay phone around the corner. Soon as it went out over dispatch, I radioed in, said I was in the neighborhood, volunteered to check out the alleged homicide.” He grinned. “You know the rest.”

“You had a golden opportunity to kill me, too. Why didn’t you?”

“I was afraid to, afraid that would piss off the Vista boys. I thought they might have special plans for you, and it wouldn’t sit too well if I robbed them of the pleasure. In hindsight, I should have taken you out.”

“Those five years were awfully long for me, but they must have been torture for you,” Griff said. “As long as I was alive, you were vulnerable. You’ve been scared shitless I would figure it out. That’s why you’ve been hassling me, pretending you were acting on behalf of Vista, knowing all along I hadn’t stolen from Bandy. You didn’t find anything in his back room, did you?”

Rodarte shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t lying after all.”

“You’re still not in Vista’s fold. Apparently they weren’t impressed.”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re hoping that killing me now will win their approval.”

“It can’t hurt. They don’t like you.”