Play Dirty

CHAPTER 22

LAURA, HE’S HERE.”

Kay Stafford had appeared in the doorway of Laura’s bedroom, where she was reclined on a chaise. The draperies were drawn. The room was cool and dim. Her assistant spoke quietly and slowly, the way everyone was addressing her today, as though fearing a sudden noise might cause her to shatter like crystal. They could have been right.

“I put him in the den,” Kay said. “Take your time coming down. He said he would wait.”

Laura sat up and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I might just as well talk to him now, although I don’t know what I can tell him today that I couldn’t tell him last night.”

Detective Rodarte had stayed until almost midnight. He’d spent some of that time questioning her. The rest of the time he, his silent partner, and other police personnel had moved in and out of the library, doing whatever it was they did at the scene of an apparent murder.

They consulted in hushed voices, casting looks in her direction, occasionally asking her for information. She was asked by a solicitous policewoman if there was someone she should call. “Someone to stay with you tonight.”

Neither she nor Foster had family. Since the accident, they hadn’t kept close contact with friends. “My assistant,” she replied.

She’d given the policewoman Kay’s home number. Kay had arrived within a half hour, sharing Laura’s shock but somehow managing to perform the simple tasks that Laura seemed incapable of doing. She gave directions, supplied answers to practical questions, and dealt with the telephone, which had begun to ring with irritating frequency.

Kay had a notepad in her hand as they walked downstairs together. “I hate to bother you with all this now, Laura.”

“Go ahead. I don’t have the luxury of collapsing. That will come later, when…when everything’s settled. What do you need?”

A proviso of Foster’s will, which he’d altered when they married, was that, in the event of his death, Laura would serve as head of SunSouth until the board could elect another. She’d been granted power of attorney to make decisions and conduct business. So, in addition to becoming a widow last night, she’d stepped into the role of CEO.

Kay said, “The media are camped outside the entrance of our building, awaiting a statement.”

“Ask Joe to write something generic. ‘Everyone at SunSouth is stunned by this tragic event, et cetera.’ But ask him not to release it before faxing it here for my approval.” She trusted her marketing head to write an appropriate press release, but it was her practice, as well as Foster’s, to sign off on everything. “Tell him not to conduct a formal press conference or respond to any questions about the…the crime. We’ll leave that to the police.”

Kay checked that item off her list. “Operations has asked if they should coordinate a minute of silence in memory of Foster. Anything like that?”

Laura smiled wanly and shook her head. “Foster wouldn’t allow the schedule to be interrupted even by one minute. But the thought is appreciated. Make sure everyone knows that.”

“Have you given any thought to funeral arrangements?”

Laura, having reached the bottom of the staircase, stopped and turned to her. “I can’t schedule the funeral until the body has been released.”

Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. Two years ago, following the car accident, Foster had lain in an ICU clinging to life. She’d feared that each breath would be his last and that soon she would be organizing his funeral. But she hadn’t had time to prepare for talking in those terms now. This time it was a sudden reality. There would be a funeral. When it would be she didn’t yet know.

Last night she had been advised not to go into the library. She had taken that advice. What had been described to her was grotesque, and she hadn’t wanted that to be her last image of Foster. It had been jolting enough to see the zippered body bag as it was wheeled out on a gurney. Inside the bag was her husband’s body, but to the police, it was evidence.

Sensing her employer’s distress, Kay said, “I apologize for having to mention it. But people are keeping the phone lines hot, here at the house and at our offices, asking when the service will be and where. The lobby is already full to overflowing with flowers.”

Laura touched her assistant’s hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something. In the meantime, ask Joe to include in the press release that in lieu of flowers, people could make donations to Elaine’s foundation. Foster would prefer that.”

“Of course. One last thing. The governor issued a statement this morning, extolling Foster as an entrepreneur, model Texan, and human being. Then she called to ask if there was anything she could do on a personal level, as a friend to you both.”

“I’ll respond personally as soon as I can. In the meantime, tell her how much I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

Kay accompanied her as far as the den, where Detective Stanley Rodarte was waiting. Rodarte. Laura had recognized the name instantly from Griff Burkett’s warning. He’d been sure to include mention of an olive drab sedan but had failed to tell her that Rodarte was a homicide detective with the Dallas Police Department.

Rodarte was studying a painting of an English hunting scene. He turned when she walked in. “Is this an original?”

“I believe so.”

“Hmm,” he said, sounding impressed. “Must have cost a bundle.”

She didn’t honor that with a response.

“Sure is a beautiful home, Mrs. Speakman.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you redecorate when you moved in after marrying Mr. Speakman?”

“Elaine Speakman had done such an excellent job with the decor, I saw no need to change it.”

Oddly, his smile didn’t improve his looks. It made him uglier. “Most second wives want to rub out all traces of the first.”

The statement was inappropriate and irrelevant. She thought he’d said it only to see how she would react. She hadn’t warmed to him last night, sensing immediately that he was crass and sly. Now she decided she disliked him intensely.

“I’m being asked about funeral arrangements,” she said.

“The ME is performing the autopsy this afternoon. Depending on what it shows, we should be able to release the body to you either tomorrow or the next day. But I advise against making any definite plans without clearing them with me.”

“I understand.”

Turning her back on him, she moved to one of the leather sofas and was about to sit down when he stopped her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to look at the library now. See if you notice anything out of kilter. Beyond the obvious, that is.”

She’d known that sooner or later she would be required to go in. She was torn, one part of her needing to see the spot where Foster had died, another resistant to ever entering the room again. Given a choice, she might have postponed it for as long as possible, making the dread of it torturous. In a way, she was glad Rodarte had relieved her of having to make the decision on her own.

Woodenly, she left the den and led the way across the vestibule to the double doors of the library. The hardware on them had been dusted for fingerprints. Seeing that she noticed the smudged dark powder, Rodarte said, “Murder is messy business.”

He pushed the doors open, and she stepped into the room. “You remember Carter,” Rodarte said.

His partner detective, whom she recognized from the night before, was standing in front of a wall of bookshelves, silent and grim as a sentinel. Neither his stance nor his expression changed when she came in.

Except for him, most of the room looked surprisingly normal. Only one area near the desk was in disarray. The desk itself and everything on it had been dusted for fingerprints. An end table lay on its side. The lamp and everything else that had been on the table were scattered across the rug, most broken. The rug itself was buckled. Foster had never allowed even the fringe of it to be mussed, insisting that it be raked several times a day.

She made an involuntary hiccuping sound when she saw his wheelchair.

And there was blood. On the wheelchair. On the rug. On the desk.

Rodarte touched her elbow. “Would you like to do this later?”

What she would have liked was for him not to touch her. She removed her elbow from his hand. “Other than what is obvious, it doesn’t appear that anything has been disturbed.”

“Good.” He pointed her toward a seating group. “Let’s sit down.”

“In here?”

He shrugged and made a face that asked, Why not?

Either he was stupid and insensitive, a jerk, or just plain cruel. Laura suspected the latter, but she didn’t want to take issue with him over where he would conduct this interview. “I’ve been sitting or lying down all day. I’d rather stand.” She went over to the wall of windows, keeping her back to the room.

Forgoing a graceful lead-in, Rodarte asked, “Why did you go to Austin yesterday?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Carter had finally moved. He took a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket. But it was apparent that he was merely reinforcement. Rodarte was the lead investigator.

“At my husband’s request, I went to handle a problem. There had been reports of luggage theft. Our handlers had been accused. One, as it turned out, was guilty. The Austin police have the reports if you care to check.”

“You took a SunSouth flight back?”

“The nine o’clock, last of the evening. On final approach for landing, the flight attendant notified me that I would be escorted off the aircraft. Your chaplains met me in the Jetway. They took me to a private lounge in the airport and told me that my husband had died. I didn’t learn that he’d been murdered until you told me.”

“Up to the point when you were escorted off the plane, you didn’t know that anything was amiss here at home?”

“How could I?”

“Phone call? Text message?”

“I didn’t know anything was amiss.”

“You’d been gone all day. Did you talk to your husband yesterday at any time?”

“Around noon, he called my cell to ask how things were going. Then I called him around six to tell him that the matter had been settled and that I would be on the nine o’clock flight back and not to wait dinner on me.”

“Just those two calls?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Speakman have any appointments scheduled last night?”

“None I was aware of.”

“Well, apparently he did meet with someone here.”

She turned and looked at him.

“There was no sign of a break-in,” he said by way of explanation. “Whoever killed your husband was let into the house.”

“Manuelo would have answered the door.”

He frowned. “We still can’t find him, Mrs. Speakman.”

Last night when Rodarte had asked her help in reconstructing the crime scene, she had mentioned the aide. Rodarte had written down his full name. When she explained what Manuelo’s duties encompassed, the detective had ordered that the entire estate be searched. There had been no sign of the man.

“His room over the garage is still empty,” he told her now. “Bed is made, no dishes in the sink. Clothes in the closet. He doesn’t own a car, right?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And none of the vehicles belonging to you and Mr. Speakman is missing. So how did Mr. Ruiz leave and where did he go?”

“I have no idea. The only thing I know with certainty is that he wouldn’t have left Foster alone.”

“Does he have relatives?”

“I don’t believe so. At least none I know of.”

“You’re sure he was on duty last night?”

“He’s always on duty, Mr. Rodarte.”

“Twenty-four/seven?”

“Yes.”

“Your housekeeper-cook, Mrs. uh-”

“Dobbins.”

“Right. She said she leaves at six o’clock.”

“As soon as dinner is prepared. I can’t imagine why there would have been a change in that schedule. Have you questioned Mrs. Dobbins about last night?”

“She put a roasted chicken in the warming tray and left at six. She said Manuelo Ruiz was here when she left. She’s sure of that because she told him she was leaving. So it’s assumed he was here.”

“I’m certain he was. He wouldn’t have left Foster alone,” she repeated. “Never.”

Rodarte walked over to the area in front of the desk where the rug was bunched up. He squatted down as though to study the dark stains on it. “Much as I hate to, we need to talk about the actual slaying.”

“Must we? You were so descriptive last night. It sounded very…horrible.”

“It was. That’s why I advised you against looking at your husband’s body. It was nothing you wanted to see, believe me. He was still in his wheelchair with a letter opener sticking out the side of his neck.”

She hugged her elbows tightly against her torso. “I’m certain by your description that it was Foster’s letter opener. It was a replica of Excalibur. I gave it to him for Christmas because he loved the Arthurian legend. It stayed on his desk there.”

“Mrs. Dobbins confirmed that. But once I get it from the ME, I’ll have you identify it so there’ll be absolutely no doubt.”

Something else to dread, she thought.

Rodarte said, “What it looks like is, the killer pushed it in to the hilt, then tried to pull it out. But the blade had severed the artery, so when he tried to remove the weapon from your husband’s neck, the wound started gushing blood. I guess he panicked and decided to leave it.”

“And my husband bled to death.”

“Right.” Rodarte stood up. “We found two blood types on the rug. One was your husband’s.”

“Two?” She looked at the bloodstains, then at Carter, finally back at Rodarte.

He shrugged. “We don’t know who the second type belongs to. Could be Manuelo Ruiz’s, but we have nothing to match it with. Except for the DMV, Ruiz isn’t in any database we’ve run him through. He has a current Texas driver’s license. That’s it.”

“He drove Foster in a customized van.”

“Did Ruiz have papers?”

“Immigration papers? I assume so.”

“He didn’t.”

Her temper sparked. “If you knew that, why did you ask?”

He gave her what he probably mistook for a disarming grin. “Habit. Always trying to trap somebody in a lie. Hazard of my job.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Detective.”

His face brightened. “Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me about you and Griff Burkett.”

She hadn’t seen that coming. A wave of dizziness assailed her.

Noticing her instability, Rodarte motioned her toward a sofa. “This may take awhile. Want to rethink sitting down?”

She hated conceding that she needed to, but she did. She sat down in an armchair. Rodarte offered to get her a glass of water. She declined with a shake of her head. He sat in the chair facing hers and, leaning toward her, clasped his hands between his widespread knees. She noticed that his fingernails needed trimming.

“I’ll save us both some time here, Mrs. Speakman. Griff Burkett’s fingerprints were all over the letter opener that killed your husband.”