Friction (25 page)

“He couldn’t have gone anywhere,” Nugent called. “I have his key.”

Neal jerked open the driver’s door. Lying on the seat was a cell phone, along with the bulbs that belonged in the dome light and the twin map lights on either side of the rearview mirror. Otherwise, the vehicle was empty.

H
olly was in bed but not asleep. She answered her phone after the first ring.

“You’ve shown a knack for sneaking out,” Crawford said, sounding out of breath. “Think you can you do it again? This time in your car?”

“What number is this?”

“A burner phone.”

“What’s going on? Have you arrested Pat Connor?”

“That didn’t go as planned. I need you to pick me up.”

“Where are you? Where’s your truck?”

“Sitting empty on the courthouse parking lot, and when Neal discovers me missing from it, he’ll go mental, and then he’ll put out an APB, and if I’m apprehended I go to jail. And I can’t go. Not yet. Not tonight. Will you do it?”

She tried to process it all as rapidly as he’d related it. “Why would Neal put out an APB on you?”

“Connor’s dead.”

In clipped cop-speak, he described the murder scene. Amid her murmurs of disbelief, he continued in the same rapid-fire way. “I went there to arrest him, and instead wound up in Nugent’s custody. I went quietly and was willing to go through the first round of questioning. But then I got a phone call.”

“From whom?”

“I’ll explain that when you get here.”

She hesitated, and as though reading her mind, he said, “I wouldn’t ask you to aid and abet, Holly. Timing is everything and, right now, this minute, I haven’t been charged with a crime, and I’m not asking you to commit one. But I need a fair and impartial witness to something I’m about to do, someone with unimpeachable integrity who could later testify as to my motive for doing it.”

“What are you going to do?”

He said nothing for several seconds, then, “Do you think I killed Connor?”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Do you think I was behind the courtroom shooting?”

“No.”

“I’m under the Jackson Street bridge, eastbound side. Ten minutes. If you’re not here by then, I’ll know you aren’t coming.”

As he slid into her passenger seat, he said, “That was twelve minutes. I was getting worried.” He turned to look out the rear window. The wet streets were dark, and no other vehicles were in sight. Which was why a man on foot, walking through the rain, would have attracted attention to any cop on patrol.

Besides, it would have taken him too long to cover on foot the distance he had to go. There was no time to waste.

She pulled back into the traffic lane. “I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Turn around when you can. We’ve got to get on the opposite side of downtown, but keep to the back streets. How did you manage to get away without being followed?”

“I drove over ground through my backyard to the driveway of the main house. I went out that way.”

“You really do have a knack. The next left will put you on Fair Avenue. Go south. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“An hour ago, I told the police on duty at my house that I was retiring for the night. But if they notice that my car isn’t parked in back, Neal will probably issue an APB for it, too.”

“He will, but it won’t do him any good. I switched out your license plates.”

She glanced at him with disbelief. “What? When?”

“Tuesday night. Actually Sessions did, but I asked him to.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t taking the need for guards seriously. In case you shook them, I would have your new tag number. The unsub—even if he was a cop—wouldn’t.”

“I was never in danger.”

“I didn’t know that then. We’d only just discovered that Rodriguez wasn’t the gunman. By the way, he’s been identified.” He recounted everything Nugent had told him. “He was probably in the courthouse to see about getting legal documentation, got nervous about possibly being deported, went up to have a cigarette while rethinking it.”

“He wasn’t involved.”

“Not until he picked up that pistol.” Crawford would forever regret that young man’s fate, but for now he had to table his sorrow over it. Other matters couldn’t be postponed. “At the second caution light, go left. Stay straight for about a mile.”

“How did you get away from Nugent?”

“I disabled the interior lights and crawled out the tailgate. I feel bad about tricking him. He’s a decent guy, just not good cop material.”

“Why does Neal persist in considering you a suspect?”

“You can ask him that when he questions you.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I know he will. Or he should. About three blocks ahead, take a right onto Pecan. What will you tell Neal?”

“That depends on what he asks me. But I’ll have to be truthful.”

“You haven’t done anything illegal.”

“No. Ill-advised, perhaps,” she said, shooting him small smile.

“Smitty’s been put on notice. On pain of death, he won’t talk about your visit to his club. Conrad won’t. With luck, you’ll be back to your house before it’s noticed that your car’s missing. If you are caught, you can say—truthfully—that a friend called and begged for your help, and you can’t breach that friend’s confidence. All of it the truth.”

“You make is sound so easy. As I told you that night we met, you have more experience with crisis situations than I do. I’m an amateur. Greg Sanders urged me to cut and run before he shreds me.”

After she told him the highlights of their recent conversation, Crawford muttered a few choice epithets. “He’s bluffing, pushing your buttons to see how you’ll react.”

“Maybe. But apparently he has contacts within the police department who’ve been keeping him updated. He knew you’d been implicated in the courthouse shooting. By now he’s probably heard about Connor. That will really make his day.”

“Jesus, Holly, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have dragged you deeper into this, but I didn’t have time tonight to come up with a plan B.”

“You’ve yet to tell me about the phone call that prompted this emergency.”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my father-in-law’s house.”

She braked hard in the middle of the street and turned to him with dismay and anger. “No wonder you’re just now telling me that!”

“I’m only going to talk to him.”

As though he’d told her he was going to beat the living daylights out of Joe Gilroy, she kept her foot on the brake and shook her head firmly. “Whatever you have in mind, I can’t be a party to it.”

“I’m not even armed. Neal took my pistol.” He motioned her forward. “Drive.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Thanks for the lift.”

In a flash, he was out of the car and running as fast as he could in cowboy boots to cover the remaining few residential blocks. The Gilroys lived in a well-established neighborhood of older homes situated on large lots with carefully maintained lawns and mature trees. Holly followed him in her car, but she was forced to keep to right angles while he cut diagonally across driveways and yards.

When he reached the Gilroys’ house, he ran along the side of it toward the rear. He heard the squeal of Holly’s brakes, her car door being shut, her running footsteps slapping the wet pavement of the driveway.

He reached the back door mere seconds ahead of her. He raised his hand to knock, but she rushed up behind him and grabbed his forearm in a two-handed grip. Her breath coming in fast pants, she said, “Crawford, whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. I beg you. For Georgia’s sake.”

The door came open suddenly. “What the bloody hell?” Joe Gilroy, standing behind the screen door, took in the situation at a glance. To Holly, he said, “I tried to tell you, didn’t I? I’m calling the police.”

“I
am
the police,” Crawford said.

“You’re a hazard. This time you go to jail.” Joe turned away.

Crawford was vaguely aware of Holly losing her balance when he shook off her grasp, but through the screen, he could see Joe going for the phone, and he had to stop him.

He pulled on the door handle. Discovering it locked, he jerked on it repeatedly and viciously until the old-fashioned clasp gave way, then he flung open the door and rushed inside.

He was across the kitchen in two strides, snatching the cordless phone out of Joe’s hand, and throwing it to the floor.

Grace appeared, her hand at her throat, crying out in alarm as the two men went at each other. Joe threw punches that would have leveled anyone weaker and slower to react. Crawford dodged the pounding fists and at the same time landed a few well-placed punches.

Holly cried out, “Crawford! Stop! Stop!”

Crawford saw that Joe was becoming winded and used that to his advantage. He drove his shoulder into the older man’s midriff and pushed him backward until he came up against the counter, then planted his hand in the center of Joe’s chest and lodged his knee up between his thighs.

Joe was red-faced with fury. His teeth were clenched. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Maybe,” Crawford said, breathing hard. “Later. But right now, you’re going to get Georgia up—”

“Like hell I am.”

He tried to wrestle free from Crawford’s restraining hand, but Crawford jammed his knee directly beneath Joe’s testicles. “You’re going to get Georgia up and dressed and…and leave. Take her away from here, Joe. Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Get her away from me.”

It never failed to freak Smitty out, this thing that Chuck Otterman did with the fifty-cent piece. It was like he was trying to hypnotize you or something, but it had the opposite effect on Smitty. Rather than lull him, it made him nervous as a whore in church.

Every time he came to this place, he dreaded it more, and always considered himself lucky when he was able to leave under his own power, drive away in his own car, all his parts still attached, his heart lub-dubbing in a more or less regular rhythm.

The only reason he risked coming here was because doing business with Otterman was so profitable. But their transactions required him to drive for miles through an eerie swamp, nary a light to be seen after sundown, to this fishing cabin that had probably been put together by a coon-ass using Elmer’s and thumbtacks.

He’d once asked Otterman what state it was in, Texas or Louisiana.

“Are you into geography?”

“Not really.”

“Then what difference does it make?”

The difference it made was a long list of federal crimes involving words like “interstate trafficking,” but Smitty kept his concerns to himself and had continued to make periodic trips to this old fishing shack way out in the middle of spooky-effing-nowhere.

The corrugated tin roof leaked. A bucket had been placed on the floor to catch the constant drip from the hard rain that contributed to the chilling atmosphere. The plunking sound the drops made as they splashed into the bucket was driving Smitty to distraction, but Otterman seemed unbothered as he set aside his coin and counted out hundred-dollar bills onto the table between them, forming neat stacks of fifty. When he had ten stacks, he passed them one by one to Smitty, who placed them in a pouch.

With a flourish, Smitty zipped it up and flashed Otterman a grin. “Those boys guarantee their product. You have any trouble with the guns, you be sure to tell me.”

“You can count on that.”

Otterman’s tone wasn’t the friendly kind that Smitty had been hoping for. Truth was, it had the undercurrent of a threat and made him need to pee. With false bravado, he said, “When you need more, you know who to call.” And he winked. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Otterman.” He stood up.

“Sit down.”

Smitty dropped back into his seat. For what seemed like an endless time, the only sounds in the room were the incessant drips, the rain striking the metal roof like a hail of bullets, and distant rumbles of thunder.

Finally, Otterman said, “Pat Connor. Know that name?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“Prentiss policeman.”

“Oh well, no wonder.” Smitty shot a laugh over his shoulder at the two men standing behind him. “I don’t have many friends among enforcers of law and order.”

“Earlier this evening, Connor met with me in your crappy nightclub.”

“What about?”

“A couple hours later, he died in his kitchen.”

“Ticker gave out?”

“He was shot dead while pouring himself a drink.”

Now Smitty really had to pee. “You don’t say? Huh. I hadn’t heard that. The clubs don’t close till two a.m., so I don’t often see the evening news.”

“He was discovered too late to make tonight’s news.” Otterman glanced up at the man standing at Smitty’s right shoulder. “But I have it on good authority that two bullets were fired into the back of Connor’s skull.”

Smitty whistled, or tried to. His lips were too rubbery to pucker. “That ought to do it, all right.”

“To have been executed like that, Connor must have let down someone who was counting on him to deliver. Money. Goods. Information. Something of value like that.”

Smitty actually flinched when Otterman suddenly sat forward and leaned toward him across the table. “Do you know Crawford Hunt?”

He screwed up his face as though thinking hard. “Crawford Hunt, Crawford Hunt. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place him.”

Otterman said mildly, “Take your time. Think about it.”

After a few seconds, Smitty pretended to have suddenly remembered. “Oh, yeah. Wasn’t he the guy—”

“The Texas Ranger.”

“Right, right,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Wasn’t it him who was in the courtroom when it got shot up this week? Is that who you’re talking about?”

Otterman flipped the coin, caught it and formed a fist around it, then leaned even closer toward Smitty. “You’re a pimp, a crook, and a creep. The only reason I tolerate your company is so I don’t have to personally deal with the backwoods, redneck lowlifes around here who supply surprisingly good guns.

“But if you ever lie to me again, not only is your lucrative sideline with me finished, I’ll also burn your ratty clubs to the ground, and then stick the barrel of one of those pump-actions up your anus and pull the trigger.”

Smitty swallowed and bobbed his head in complete understanding.

Otterman sat back and calmly resumed rolling the coin across the backs of his fingers. “Let’s try to have an honest conversation. I’ll go first. After I left your club tonight, Crawford Hunt was seen there. In your company, Smitty. He also had a woman with him. They carried somebody out.”