Friction (7 page)

Especially a judge who’s been slam-bam-thank-you-ma’amed
by him.

Thinking back on those moments in her kitchen, he wondered if maybe he had read Holly Spencer all wrong. When she raised her head from his chest and looked up into his face, what if her watery-eyed, parted-lips expression wasn’t evidence of lust but revulsion?

Hell, maybe she hadn’t been telegraphing
Take me and take me now
. Instead, that look might have been a warning that if he didn’t remove his grubby paw from her ass, she was going to scream the house down.

But she hadn’t.

He’d acted on the signals as he’d read them. When he’d crushed her against him and lifted her off her feet, she hadn’t protested. When he’d lowered her onto the living room sofa and she’d raised her hands toward him, it wasn’t to stave him off, but to fight with him for ownership of his belt buckle to see who could get it undone faster.

But in the glaring spotlight of retrospection, he doubted that she would remember it quite like that. He hadn’t had the crying jag, she had. He wasn’t the one who’d been in desperate need of a comforting hug, she was. If he’d stopped it there, he might have been okay.

But…so much for that.

The best thing he could do now was to stay the hell away from her and leave the unanswered questions about Rodriguez for someone else to answer. He didn’t need to get in any deeper.

Irritably, he wiped away the sweat trickling down his torso, a byproduct of his memories of their tussle on her small sofa. Grumbling, he said, “I’ll call your chief and square it, but even he can see how this creates a conflict of interest for me. If I want my kid, it’s best I sit this one out. You know your way to the door.” He turned to the sink and tossed the dregs of his coffee down the drain.

“So that’s a no?”

“Between you and me, that’s a fuck no.”

“Then how should I rephrase it to Mrs. Barker?”

Crawford came around. “Who?”

“Chet’s widow.” Neal reached into the breast pocket of his sport jacket and took out a letter envelope. “This was hand-delivered to the department this morning by one of her relatives. It’s addressed to you, but sent in care of the chief, who took the liberty of reading it before asking me to pass it along.”

He extended the envelope toward Crawford, who actually recoiled from it. Neal laid the envelope on the dining table. “Basically it says how highly Chet thought of you. He felt you were unfairly criticized over…Well, you know.” Neal’s expression turned sour.

“She goes on and on for several paragraphs, reiterating how highly Chet praised you. Your skills. Courage. Blah, blah. You get the idea. Anyway, she appeals to you to get to the bottom of the courtroom shooting and provide her with an explanation for her husband’s death…which came about here only a few months away from of his retirement.”

Crawford looked down at the pastel blue envelope. His name was written on it in a fine script. He closed his eyes and mumbled a chorus of swear words.

Neal said, “I’ll help myself to coffee while you’re getting dressed.”

T
he morgue was in the basement of the county hospital. The medical examiner, Dr. Forest Anderson, was a fifty-something bachelor who loved forensics and French cooking. When he wasn’t busy pursuing one interest, he was elbow deep in the other, which explained why he was almost as wide as he was tall.

In addition to being obese, he had high blood pressure and diabetes, and often joked that his autopsy would be one for the textbooks, and that he regretted he wouldn’t be around to observe it.

As he waddled toward the table on which the cadaver lay covered, he said, “One bullet entered his back, burst through his heart. He never felt it.”

Matt Nugent had been waiting for Neal and Crawford when they arrived. The three of them lined up along one side of the table. The ME moved around to the other, the cadaver’s left, and folded back the sheet as far as the navel.

Over the course of his career, Crawford had seen a lot of bodies, but the dispassion of death never ceased to shock him. It was the ultimate equalizer. Whether one died violently or peacefully in his sleep, death left the remains cold, gray, and eerily motionless.

He took a few seconds to bolster himself, then looked at the dead man’s face.

“This one would also have been fatal,” Dr. Anderson continued. “It went through the neck from the back, severed the spinal column, exited here.” He pointed to the area where the Adam’s apple should have been.

Crawford’s ears had begun to ring. His blood seemed to have come to a boil. He forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose.

“The third shot entered the torso from the back, lower right side, exited through the gut on the left. Until I look inside, I won’t know the damage it did, but I’m guessing it was extensive. Those SWAT guys don’t mess around when it comes to saving a fellow officer.”

Standing beside Crawford, Neal maintained a stoic professionalism. No one acknowledged that Matt Nugent was swallowing noisily.

Anderson said, “Good thing none of them went for a head shot or his face might not be intact.” He looked across at them. “No one’s come forward to ID him?”

Neal answered for the group. “Not yet.”

“Autopsy may shed some light on his last few hours,” the doctor said, rocking back and forth on feet that were comically small compared to the rest of him. “Contents of the stomach. Drugs and alcohol in his system. I haven’t found any needle marks yet, but heavy users can be clever. I’ll be thorough.”

“We count on that.” Neal took a step back and motioned for Crawford to take his place nearer the head of the table. Crawford did so and bent over Jorge Rodriguez to closely examine his face. Needlessly. The instant he’d looked at him, he’d seen all he needed to see.

He straightened up and stepped away from the table. “I don’t know him.”

The younger detective stopped swallowing long enough to ask, “You’re positive?”

“Positive. I’d never seen this man before yesterday.” Then, backing away, he said, “I’ll be outside.”

Crawford was pacing the length of Neal’s car when the two detectives exited the hospital a few minutes later. Neal told Nugent that he would meet him at the police station after he drove Crawford home.

They rode in silence for several blocks. Finally Neal said, “It was worth a shot.”

Crawford stared out the passenger window. He had aimed the AC vents directly at himself, and they were blasting cold air, but it wasn’t enough. He felt hot and itchy from the inside out. “As I was leaving, I heard the ME ask what time you were coming back.”

“I asked Judge Spencer to take a look at him, too.”

Crawford looked over at him. “Is that necessary?”

Neal shrugged. “His name wasn’t familiar to her, but she may recognize his face. Worth a shot.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

Neal said querulously, “I didn’t want you along any more than you wanted to be there.”

“But you have the chief’s size twelves up your anus.”

“Because the city leaders’ are up his. Already the department’s been put on notice that the Hispanic community is gearing up for a full-fledged protest, crying racial profiling, even though two of our SWAT guys are Hispanic. And then there was that appeal from Chet Barker’s widow.”

“Which is the only reason I agreed to come with you.”

“Mrs. Barker wants answers. We all do. Everyone was hoping that when you saw Rodriguez up close, you’d say, ‘Oh,
that
guy. Now it all makes sense. I know why he did it.’ But you didn’t, so your services are no longer needed. You did Mrs. Barker a personal favor. You’re off the hook.” Neal stopped at a traffic light and turned toward him. “So what’s eating you?”

Under his breath, Crawford said, “Nothing.”

Neal continued to scrutinize him until the light turned green. No more was said until he pulled the car to the curb in front of Crawford’s house. Crawford pushed open the door, eager to get out. “Good luck.” He closed the car door and tapped the roof twice, hoping that Neal would consider the matter closed and drive away without asking any more questions.

If anyone pressured Crawford now, he feared he would implode.

Holly arrived at her office later than usual, having stopped by the Barkers’ house to hand-deliver a condolence card for the recent widow. She had intended to drop it with whomever answered the door and promptly leave, not wanting to impose on the family’s grieving. But Chet’s daughter had invited her to come inside. “Mama will want to see you, Judge Spencer.”

For the next hour, she had shared remembrances of Chet with members of his family, including Mrs. Barker, and had been touched, in view of their personal tragedy, that they expressed concern for her safety and well-being.

By the time she reached her office, two policemen sent by Sergeant Lester were set up at a portable table, searching through her court records and case files for any mention of Jorge Rodriguez.

“Nothing so far,” Mrs. Briggs told her. “And I myself ran a search of his name before they even started.”

“Judge Waters put all his records on thumb drives before he retired,” Holly told her. “Be sure they see those, too.”

“I’ve already handed them over. I also spoke with someone in the Dallas firm and brought them up to speed. Everyone there is worried about you. Frankly, so am I. Forgive me for saying so, but you look completely done in.”

“I just came from a visit with Mrs. Barker.” She knew her eyes must still be red from crying.

“Why don’t you go home? Why did you even come in today?”

“Actually I prefer being here and staying busy to sitting at home, dwelling on yesterday. I’m fine.”

The older woman looked skeptical, but didn’t argue. “You’ve had numerous calls from media. As instructed, I referred them to Sergeant Lester.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“And Ms. Vidal has called here three times.”

“She’s left messages on my cell phone, too. I’ll call her now.”

Holly went into her private office and closed the door. Once seated behind her desk, she fortified herself with several swallows of water straight from the bottle before using her cell phone to call Marilyn Vidal.

In her gruff smoker’s voice, Marilyn answered after the first ring. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“I’m calling now.”

“The local Dallas stations carried the story this morning. The
full
story. You underplayed it when you called me last night. For God’s sake, Holly, that maniac could have killed you.”

“I didn’t want you to worry. The truth is that I was very fortunate my life was spared. I can’t overstate how horrible it was. To see my bailiff killed right in front of me… It was ghastly.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you feel like talking about it?”

She didn’t. But Marilyn was orchestrating her campaign. It was only fair that she understand her present state of mind. She talked Marilyn through it, starting with the appearance of the gunman in the courtroom and bringing her up to the moment.

She omitted any mention of Crawford Hunt’s visit to her home, of course, having placed that subject off limits even to herself. She refused to think about it.

“Jorge Rodriguez might have been seated in the gallery during a proceeding, but he was never a principal in any case I presided over. At least none has been found under that name.”

Marilyn, never one to mince words, said, “That’s both good and bad.”

Holly understood exactly what she was driving at. “No direct connection between us has been established. Therefore, no fingers are pointed at me.”

“Which is the good part,” Marilyn said. “The bad part? The kook’s motive is left wide open to wild speculation.” She mulled it over for several seconds, then said, “I’ll have to give some thought to how we address that. In the meantime, how are you holding up personally?”

“I’m all right.”

“Pull the other one, Holly.”

“I have some residual shakiness,” she admitted. “I’ve been told that might hang on for several days. I didn’t sleep well.” Not one wink after her guest’s departure. He’d left her sprawled on the sofa, covered by little more than an orgasmic blush and suffering from acute mortification.

“Do you have someone staying with you?”

Yanked back into the present by Marilyn’s question, she replied with a subdued no.

“Have you considered calling Dennis?”

“No.”

“Maybe—”

“No, Marilyn.”

“You’re probably right. That might be perceived as a sign of weakness, and we can’t have that.”

Holly had made that determination on her own last night. She envisioned Marilyn grinding out her cigarette, sympathetic but unfailingly pragmatic.

“Let me think about how best to handle this.”

“It’s not up to us to handle it, Marilyn. The police are handling it.”

“They have their agenda and we have ours. Have you been approached by the media for a statement?”

She told her what Mrs. Briggs had reported. “But last night before I left the police station, the lead investigator discouraged me from discussing the incident publicly until the culprit has been positively identified and his next of kin contacted. As of now, to my knowledge, that hasn’t happened.”

“Again, good and bad. You need to be out there, visible, courageously carrying on. But I had just as soon you not be photographed while you still have the shakes.”

“They’re not that bad, Marilyn. It’s just that you don’t get over something that traumatic in a few hours. At least I don’t.”

“Of course not. I understand. Take today. Get a grip. I’ll be in touch.”

With that she was gone. No sooner had Holly disconnected than Mrs. Briggs came in carrying a large vase of red roses. “These just came for you.”

Holly opened the small envelope attached. “Greg Sanders,” she said without inflection. “Expressing his concern and sending best wishes.”

Mrs. Briggs snorted her disdain. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”

“Where he advocated tighter courthouse security, and cited all the times he’s made personal appeals to the county commissioners for funding? Yes, I saw that.”

“And the other part?” her assistant asked in a softer tone.

Holly left her desk chair and walked over to the window. “Could yesterday’s tragedy have been spawned by some deep, dark secret in my past?”

“He didn’t come right out and pose the question, but that was the gist of it.”

“He’s too clever to say anything libelous. But the thought has been planted in the general public’s mind.”

“In yours, too, I think.”

Holly continued to stare at nothing out the window. “Until I know better, I’ll continue wondering if I was responsible for it. If I learn I was, it will haunt me forever.”

“Despite what you say, you’re not fine. Please go home. Pull the covers up over your head and—” Mrs. Briggs was interrupted by the telephone on Holly’s desk. She answered on the second ring. “Judge Spencer’s office. Yes, she’s right here.” Extending the receiver toward Holly, she said, “Sergeant Lester.”

Holly returned to her desk and took the receiver. Mrs. Briggs left, pulling the door closed behind her. Holly said, “Hello, Sergeant Lester.”

“I told her it was him so you’d take the call.”

Her stomach dropped. She closed her eyes. But the image persisted of him looking down at her while standing beside the sofa, hastily buttoning up his fly. He’d walked out before taking time even to tuck in his shirttail or buckle his belt. Neither of them had spoken a word.

“I’m hanging up,” she said.

“Wait. Don’t.”

“Never pull another trick like this.”

“Listen to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Little you know, judge. There’s a lot to say.”

“Good-bye.”

“We’ve got to talk.”

“No, we don’t. We definitely do
not
. Don’t call me again.”

She hung up before he could say anything else. With a cold and clammy hand, she replaced the receiver on the phone. Then, folding her arms on her desktop, she laid her head on them and tried to control her breathing, which was as difficult to do as it was to block the memory of her and Crawford Hunt tugging at their clothing, clumsily adjusting limbs as they sought purchase on the narrow sofa, of her groaning with frustration, of him swearing with impatience until he was moving deep inside her, when the tenor of their groans and swearing had changed entirely.

After one solid rap on the office door, Mrs. Briggs pushed it open. Holly sprang upright. From the threshold, her assistant looked at her with a mix of puzzlement and concern. But Holly’s expression must have looked like a silent order for her not to pry, not even to inquire what was the matter.

Mrs. Briggs cleared her throat. “I hate to disturb you, Judge Spencer, but you asked for a half hour’s notice before you were due at the morgue.”