Friction (15 page)

As Holly approached him, her smile looked forced. “Good morning. I’m glad you’re here so I can introduce you to my campaign manager, Marilyn Vidal. Marilyn, this is Ranger Crawford Hunt.”

The woman thrust out a square hand with stubby fingers. As they shook, she gave him a once-over. “You certainly look the part.”

“Part of what?”

“The Texas Ranger. Square jaw, steely eyed glint and all.” She smiled, revealing teeth that looked like old piano keys. “But since you’re not in uniform, you could use a cowboy hat. I don’t suppose you have one handy? Preferably white. And maybe one of those gun belts that you wear around your hips and tie to your thigh?”

He subjected her to the glint she had admired, then said, “Excuse me,” and stepped around her in order to get nearer to Holly. “Judge Spencer, this is a really bad idea. You should have notified Sergeant Lester or me before scheduling a
public event
.” He pressed the last two words between his teeth.

“I’m a public figure in a political race. As I’ve told you, repeatedly, I can’t cower and hide.”

She was using that lofty judge tone that made him want to shake her and then remind her that, twelve hours earlier, her cool mouth had been hotly fused with his, kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Instead, he said, “You don’t have to hide. But you’re making it too easy for any crackpot with a grudge or a cause.”

The campaign manager used her wide shoulders to wedge herself between them. “I don’t see any reason for concern. There are cops all over the place.”

“I’ll only be speaking for a few minutes,” Holly said.

“He only needs a few seconds,” he said. “As you of all people should know.”

By now Neal had joined the huddle. Ignoring Crawford, he said, “Judge Spencer, we’ve got the situation under control. But the sooner we get it over with, the better.” He motioned her toward the lectern.

Crawford was relieved to see that policemen had formed a circle around it, facing outward toward the crowd. Crawford sidled up to one. Pat Connor was a veteran of the department. Paunchy, a bit long in the tooth, Connor was now relegated to guarding the courthouse. But at least he was another pair of eyes.

Crawford said to him, “You see anything hinky, Pat, you signal me.”

“Sure thing. Where will you be?”

“Right over there.” Crawford tipped his head toward the periphery of the media cluster. But before he could move away, Marilyn Vidal hooked his elbow and steered him to the lectern. “You stand here.”

He wanted to ask just who the hell she thought she was to order him around. But he was aware of all the onlookers as well as the live microphone. Besides, although he hated being in the spotlight, he was glad to be standing close to Holly, on her right and slightly behind her. From that position he could survey the crowd.

The din subsided as Marilyn Vidal stepped up to the microphone. She introduced herself and thanked everyone for coming on short notice. “Despite the harrowing incident that occurred in Judge Holly Spencer’s courtroom on Monday afternoon, she wanted to address you this morning. Some, including myself, tried to dissuade her from appearing publicly so soon after an attempt was made on her life, but she insisted that I call this press conference.

“She’ll make a statement, but I’ve refused to let her take questions.” She raised her hands to stave off the murmurs of disappointment. “You’ll have your chance with her at a future date. I promise. Without further ado, I’ll turn the podium over to Judge Spencer.”

Holly took the campaign manager’s place at the mike. She also began by thanking the reporters for being there. “The incident in the courtroom
was
harrowing. I think I speak for everyone who was there that we feared for our lives. Tragically, we who work here in the courthouse lost a highly regarded colleague, Deputy Sheriff Chet Barker.”

She went on to commend him and underscore that he’d sacrificed his life in the performance of his duty. “What occurred afterward on the roof was an additional tragedy. But the man who was mistaken for the gunman in the courtroom did fire twice upon a uniformed officer, and this after having been ordered several times to place his weapon on the ground. There’s been a lot of speculation about what went wrong and who was to blame. But I want to go on record as saying that I owe my life to Texas Ranger Crawford Hunt.”

Crawford, stunned by the statement, cut his gaze over to her, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Had he not reacted swiftly and without any regard for his own safety, the number of casualties could have been much higher. Many more could have fallen victim to the man who was later killed by the SWAT officers, or to the individual who eluded capture and remains at large. I want to publicly express my gratitude to Ranger Hunt now.”

She turned and extended him her right hand. He looked down at it, then into her eyes. He took her hand, gave it two abrupt shakes, then dropped it, all the while maintaining his rigid stance while photographers’ lights exploded like fireworks.

Holly turned back to the microphone and began addressing something that her opponent had alleged, but anger had deafened Crawford to what she was saying. He had no choice except to hold his temper until she wrapped up. Fortunately, the rest of her remarks were brief.

As she stepped away from the podium, the harridan with the bad hair stepped forward to congratulate her on how well she’d done. Neal, who was standing outside the circle of policemen guarding the lectern, was rushed by several reporters asking questions about the progress of the investigation.

Marilyn Vidal planted herself in front of Crawford. “You were fantastic. No conceit, no false modesty. Perfect. Let’s go have a drink.”

“’Fraid not.” He curled his hand around Holly’s biceps. “There’s an urgent matter that I need to discuss with Judge Spencer.”

He gave neither woman time to protest before turning Holly around and marching her toward the hallway off the lobby where the restrooms were located. Realizing that they were being watched, she went along without protest, acting as though she’d expected to be led away like a child being placed in time-out.

Pat Connor had followed them. When they reached the hall, Crawford told him, “Keep everybody away from here.”

“Sure thing.”

He propelled Holly forward until they were at the end of the corridor, where she pulled her arm free of his grasp and faced him. “I know what you’re going to say.”

He bent down and whispered, “What the
fuck
? That’s what I was going to say.”

“I know you’re angry. I knew you would be.”

“Which is why you didn’t tell me or Neal or anybody else about this press conference beforehand.”

“If I had, you would have said no.”

“Damn right.”

She took a breath for both of them and continued in a less heated manner. “I was against exploiting any aspect of the incident and had made that clear to Marilyn. But this morning’s reports about Rodriguez changed my mind. The slant was critical toward you.”

“I’m a big boy, Holly. I do my job. I don’t care about the slant of some reporter trying to earn his spurs.”

“Well, you should. The fact that you had saved my life was little more than a footnote. The chip on your shoulder might prevent you from being bothered by that—”

“I don’t have a chip.”

“Only the size of Rushmore. Your bravery deserved to be commended, not questioned.”

“Thanks, but you can keep your commendations. I hate the attention. Regardless of that, calling a press conference in a place where it was damn near impossible to guard you—”

“I was guarded.”

“Not enough.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Not this time. What about the next?”

“There’ll probably never be a next.”

He placed his hands on his hips. “You’ve decided that?”

“Well, I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me. Marilyn says it was more than likely an isolated incident, unrelated to me.”

“Oh, Marilyn says.
Marilyn
says? You’re willing to gamble your life on what Marilyn says? Is she worried about you, or losing to Sanders?”

“It’s a valid concern. But even if it weren’t for the upcoming election that will determine my professional future, I can’t remain in hiding forever.”

“Who said anything about forever? Just till we catch him.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

“We will.”

“If you don’t?” she pressed. “Who will determine when it’s safe for me to resume my work, the campaign?”

“I can’t give you a date.”

“Exactly! How long am I to keep my life on hold?”

“You won’t have a life if—”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“Crawford!”

“
What
?
”

He and Holly sprang apart and turned toward the lobby end of the corridor, where Neal Lester, full of self-importance, was striding past the policeman Connor. With Neal was a man wearing a Euro-looking suit and a worried frown.

Holly made a startled sound. “Dennis?”

Lithe and long-legged, he outdistanced Neal in order to reach her and draw her into an embrace. Speaking into her hair as he hugged her close, he said, “God, I’ve been wild with worry about you.”

A
half hour later when Crawford walked into the Crimes Against Persons unit, Neal was seated at his desk talking on his cell phone. Nugent was pecking on a computer keyboard, but he paused long enough to point Crawford toward a vacant chair.

He slumped in it, crossed his ankles, and gazed out the window while waiting for Neal to finish. When he disconnected, he said to Crawford, “My wife.”

Crawford hitched his chin in acknowledgment, but he was thinking
Pity the woman
and couldn’t help but wonder if Neal had ever made love to her with the lights on.

“Where have you been?”

“Seeing Harry and Sessions off. These policewomen you put on the judge—”

“Solid. We know the shooter wasn’t female.”

“Okay. Then I called Georgia. I hadn’t had a chance to before now.” Leveling a stare on Neal, he added, “It’s been that kind of morning.”

“Did she see you on TV?”

“No. Grace had the presence of mind to shoo her out of the room while the press conference was on. Thank God.”

“Why would you object to her seeing you? You’re the Rhinestone Cowboy.”

“Didn’t ask to be.”

“Didn’t you? Going after the bad guy in such a  courageous fashion, earning accolades from Judge Spencer.”

“You got a bee up your butt, Neal? If so, let’s talk about it.”

The detective held Crawford’s challenging stare for several seconds, then opened the case file on his desk. “The ex-fiancé’s full name is Dennis White.”

“They were never officially engaged.”

Neal gave him a quick look, then referred again to the file, moving his pen down the bullet point list of facts. “Master’s degree in business from SMU. President of the alumni association. Runs the United Way campaign for the international pharmaceutical company where he’s regional director of sales.”

“Overachiever.”

“Makes six figures annually
before
bonuses.”

“You’d think he could afford socks.”

Neal raised his head. “What?”

“He wasn’t wearing socks.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Crawford merely shrugged.

“Anyway, he checks out,” Neal said.

“You’ve already concluded that?”

“Well, I had ample time to interview him while we were searching the building high and low for you and Judge Spencer. Your private conversations in out-of-the-way places are becoming a regular thing.”

“You should make up your mind, Neal.”

“How’s that?”

“Which is it I’m trying to do? Get under her skirt or kill her?”

Neal tossed down his pen. “Bill Moore told you.”

“It was a chickenshit implication.”

“Was it?”

“You think I contracted Rodriguez to kill the judge, and then set him up to get shot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what it boiled down to.”

“If you were in this chair, wouldn’t you entertain some suspicions? Of everybody in the judges’ court records and case files, here and in Dallas—and detectives both places have gone through them twice—guess who stands out as the most resentful of court-ordered mandates? Right. Crawford Hunt. And it’s your claim alone that the shooter’s ear was pierced.”

“
Wasn’t
pierced.”

“Whatever. Nor did Judge Spencer recall you kicking the gunman. So, based on things attested to
only by you,
I’ve got a hell of a mess going on here.”

“Gee, Neal, I hate messing up your tidy career. I’m sure Judge Spencer regrets it, too. After all, it’s only her life that’s at stake. Which is why I was reading her the riot act about calling that press conference. She was giving it back to me. That’s what you caught us doing in that out-of-the-way place.”

Neal said nothing, merely glowered as he rocked back and forth in his chair and used his tongue to dab at the split on his swollen lower lip.

Crawford was willing to let it rest for a while. Grudgingly he asked, “Anything else on Dennis White?”

“He claims their breakup was amicable. At the time of the shooting, he was conducting a sales meeting. Thirty people present. Which I would call a solid alibi. Although they’re no longer a couple, he thinks the world of her. To his knowledge she doesn’t have any enemies. Uh…”

He consulted his notes again. “It’s incomprehensible that anyone would want to harm her. It made him ill to think of the trauma she suffered. He’s been trying to shake loose from his schedule to get down here and see for himself that she was all right.”

“It took him three days to shake loose from his schedule? Doesn’t sound ‘wild with worry’ to me.”

“Busy man.”

Lousy boyfriend
, Crawford thought. Even for an ex.

“Greg Sanders?” he asked.

“Cleared.”

“Just like that?”

“No, not just like that. I had two different detectives question him.”

“What did he think of that?”

“They said he was cooperative, that he understood why he might have fallen under suspicion. Anyway, having left the courthouse shortly before two o’clock, which he says Judge Spencer herself can verify, he joined his wife at Golden Corral for a late lunch. Restaurant employees and Mrs. Sanders corroborate.”

Neal had recited all that tongue-in-cheek. Crawford said, “I don’t think he was the shooter, Neal, but he and Holly Spencer are rivals in a grudge match. He’s a defense attorney. Rubs elbows with criminals on a daily basis.”

“I’ve got somebody looking into all that. Have to tell you, though, it doesn’t feel like him.”

It didn’t feel like him to Crawford, either. As Holly had said, it wasn’t the blowhard’s style. Crawford was brooding over that when his attention was drawn to the door, where a man had appeared accompanied by a uniformed officer.

The civilian was around fifty years old, although his severe buzz cut was almost solid gray. Deep squint lines showed up white against an otherwise ruddy, wind-scoured complexion. Whoever he was, he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was dressed in a golf shirt and sport jacket over khaki pants.

The policeman pointed them out to him. He thanked the cop, then started walking toward them, every footfall evincing self-assurance.

“Who’s this guy?” Crawford asked.

Neal turned his head and, upon seeing the man, shot to his feet, sending his desk chair rolling backward.

The man stopped in front of Neal’s desk. “Sergeant Lester?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chuck Otterman.”

The two shook hands across Neal’s desk, then Neal introduced Nugent and lastly Crawford. Otterman’s handshake reminded him unpleasantly of his father-in-law’s. Less a social courtesy than an arm-wrestling match.

Neal ordered Nugent to fetch the man a chair, but Crawford stood up. “He can have this one.”

Otterman thanked him, rounded the desk, and took a seat.

Crawford backed up onto the corner of a nearby desk where he could take the measure of the man without being too obvious about it. Otterman was a stranger to him, but as soon as Neal saw him, he’d reacted with immediate recognition and surprise.

Now the detective gave a nervous little laugh. “We don’t typically see VIPs in this division, Mr. Otterman.”

“I’d hardly call myself a VIP.”

Turning to Crawford, Neal explained. “Mr. Otterman is overseer of the gas drilling company.” Going back to the man, he said, “I attended a luncheon where you spoke. You were very persuasive as to why natural gas is the answer to our energy crisis. You changed a lot of minds that day.”

During Neal’s explanation, Otterman had removed a fifty-cent piece from his pants pocket and was now deftly rolling it back and forth across the backs of his fingers. In response to Neal’s statement, he said, “There are still a few die-hard tree huggers who are critical of my outfit in particular and the industry in general.”

“Progress usually meets with some resistance.”

Crawford was beginning to understand why Neal, being Neal, was kowtowing to Chuck Otterman.

The Lerner Shale spread over one hundred square miles in southeastern Texas and neighboring Louisiana. Prentiss County lay in the center of it. Over the past few years, natural gas companies had paid well for land leases and drilling rights, and, in the case of many, speculation had turned into filthy lucre.

Many local residents had expressed concern over fracking and the detrimental effects that the drilling and extraction process might have on the environment, but they had been outnumbered by those enjoying the up-tick in the local economy.

With it, however, came a corresponding spike in crime. Roughnecks went where the work was. Many took advantage of living away from home, free of wives, girlfriends, and other shackles of domesticity. They brawled, gambled, drank, and womanized in excess. On days off, they were the contemporary equivalent of cattle drive cowboys coming into town to blow their paychecks on various vices and essentially to raise hell.

Law enforcement officers were frequently summoned to the man camp, a village of temporary dormitories that housed the roughnecks, either to settle disputes or mop up after one that had ended with bloodshed.

Crawford figured that one of Otterman’s men had gotten sideways with the authorities.

Neal pulled his chair back to his desk and sat down. “To what do we owe this honor, Mr. Otterman?”

“This morning’s news.” He shot a significant glance toward Crawford, flipped the coin, and caught it in his fist. “It was a shocking turn of events. Floored me, if you want to know the truth.”

Neal asked, “Any particular reason why?”

“Because I was in the courthouse at the time of the shooting.”

The statement stunned even Crawford. No one spoke for a moment, then Neal stammered, “I…I didn’t notice your name on the list of people evacuated.”

“My name wasn’t on the list.”

“That explains it,” Nugent exclaimed, as though he’d just discovered gravity. He grinned across at Crawford, who immediately had the attention of the other two as well.

He held Otterman’s gaze for a beat, then addressed Neal. “Nugent and I discovered a discrepancy in the number of people evacuated and the number questioned before being released.”

“And you kept this information to yourself?”

“I’ve been busy,” he said in terse reply to Neal’s superior tone.
Fending off your illogical allegations
. Neal probably would have rebuked Nugent for failing to pass along the information, but Otterman picked up there.

“I’m sorry for creating confusion.” He had resumed fiddling with the coin. “I thought, as everyone else did, that the man killed on the roof was the culprit. End of story. This morning when I found out differently, and realized that a madman was still at large, I knew I had to do my civic duty and admit to leaving before I was accounted for.”

Neal shook his head with perplexity. “The entire courthouse was secured within minutes. How did you manage to leave undetected?”

“Before you answer that one,” Crawford said, “I’d like to know why you were there in the first place.”

Otterman shifted in his seat to look more directly at Crawford. “To meet with an assistant DA.”

“Why?”

“In the hope of getting charges against one of my employees dropped or reduced.”

“What’d he do?”

“It’s alleged that he assaulted a man with a tire iron.”

“But he’s innocent.”

Crawford’s droll tone caused the other man to smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “No. He beat the crap out of the guy. But the guy had it coming.”

“How so?”

“He’d caught his wife in bed with my roughneck. But instead of laying into him, the man started in on his wife.”

“Your roughneck came to her defense with a tire iron,” Neal said.

“That’s right.”

“Cool.”

That from Nugent, who’d been hanging on to every word. Crawford wasn’t so caught up in the tale as he was in Otterman’s calm telling of it. He couldn’t pinpoint what bothered him, but something was off, possibly the man’s arrogance. Most people entering any law enforcement agency did so with a degree of self-consciousness. Not so Mr. Otterman. He was supremely cocksure.

He caught Crawford watching his play with the coin and chuckled. “I used to smoke four packs a day. This took its place. No nicotine, but it gives me something to do.”

If he figured to steer Crawford away from the topic, he figured wrong. He asked, “Which assistant DA did you meet with?”

“I’ll take it from here,” Neal said, giving Crawford a look that would drive nails. “We appreciate your coming forward, Mr. Otterman. However, this department prides itself on how quickly it responded to the emergency, implementing an evacuation plan we’d rehearsed. It would be helpful to know how you managed to escape our security.”

“I didn’t. I was herded out like everybody else.”

“Under police guard?”

“That’s right. They were hustling everybody along. People were nervous, afraid. The officers were trying to keep panic to a minimum. We were told they were taking us to an area of safety where we would be ‘sheltered’ until the gunman was apprehended.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have time to be sheltered. Once we got clear of the courthouse, I went my own way.”

“You just walked off?” Nugent asked.

“No. An officer stopped me. He ordered me to stay with the group. But when I told him who I was, he let me go.”

Crawford asked, “What was his name?”

“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

“Because you were in such a big hairy hurry to get away from there minutes after a fatal shooting had occurred.”

Otterman’s hand closed tightly around the coin and his left eye squinted fractionally more than the right one. “I don’t care for your accusatory tone.”

“Neither do I,” Neal said.

Crawford forced himself to smile. “No accusation, Mr. Otterman. It’s just that officers wear name tags.”

“I didn’t notice his name tag.”

“Can you describe him? Ethnicity? Short, tall?”

“Youngish. Average height. Caucasian. He was in uniform.”

“PD or deputy sheriff?”

“Policemen wear blue?”

Crawford bobbed his head.

“Then he was a policeman, but I can’t be more specific than that. I’m sorry.”