Play Dirty

CHAPTER 23

LAURA COVERED HER MOUTH WITH HER HAND, AFRAID SHE would be ill in front of the two detectives.

“Are you okay?” Rodarte asked.

She shook her head, surged to her feet, and ran from the room. She barely made it into the powder room in time to retch into the toilet. Because she hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the evening before, there wasn’t much to empty. But the bile was bitter and continued to make her gag for several minutes. When the spasms finally ceased, her clothing was drenched with sweat. Her ears buzzed, her extremities tingled, and she was trembling uncontrollably.

She covered her face with her hands. From the moment she saw the police chaplains in the Jetway, she’d known that what they were about to tell her was catastrophic and that, whatever it was, Griff Burkett was involved. That overwhelming intuition had now been confirmed, and she wasn’t sure she could survive it. Knowing that he’d killed Foster might very well be the death of her, the death of the child she carried.

But she couldn’t think of the baby now or she truly would go mad.

“Laura?” Kay was knocking on the door. “Laura?”

“Just a moment.” She rinsed her mouth out and splashed cold water over her face, which was as pale as chalk. She ran her fingers through her hair, then, forcibly composing herself, opened the powder room door.

Kay was there, Rodarte just behind her. His expression was more inquisitive than concerned. Kay said, “I’m taking you upstairs and putting you to bed.”

“No. I’m better now. But could you please bring me a glass of Coke, Sprite, something fizzy?”

Kay was reluctant to leave her, but she went to fix the drink. Laura brushed past Rodarte and led him back into the library. Her knees were rubbery. Her damp clothes made her chilled in the air-conditioning. She wrapped herself in a throw before returning to the chair she had so quickly vacated.

The other detective hadn’t left his post, or even moved as far as Laura could tell. The three remained in silence until Kay delivered her the requested drink. “Call me if you need me,” she said, shot Rodarte a baleful look, and gave Laura’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you, Kay. Please close the doors as you leave.”

Laura sipped her glass of soda, hoping it would settle her stomach and not come right back up.

Again Rodarte began without preamble. “Did you know him before he went to prison?”

She shook her head.

“Only since he got out?”

She nodded.

“How did you meet? Where?”

“In this room.” She could tell that surprised him. “Foster was interested in him. He’d heard on the news that he was being released. He wrote to him, asked him to meet with him here.”

“Interested in him, how? What was it about a criminal football player that interested your husband?”

Looking him right in the eye, she lied. “I don’t know.” Telling the truth wasn’t an option. She had to protect her child’s future. She also had to protect the secrecy that Foster had insisted upon. “Mr. Burkett was only here that one time. By the time I was asked to join them for an introduction, they had concluded the business part of their meeting and were having a drink together.”

“It was friendly?”

“Very. At least it seemed so.”

He studied her a moment. She wasn’t sure he believed her. In fact, she was almost certain he didn’t. But there was no one to dispute her. “Was it during this friendly get-together that sparks ignited between you and Burkett?”

“Excuse me?”

“How soon after that did you two start hooking up at that house on Windsor?”

The glass of soda almost slipped from her unsteady hand.

He grinned. “I bet you’re wondering how I know about your romance. Well, see, I’ve had my eye on Burkett ever since the day he got out of Big Spring.”

“Why?”

“I investigated the murder of Bill Bandy. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Griff Burkett was implicated in his murder.”

“He committed the murder, Mrs. Speakman. No question in my mind. But he was clever, didn’t leave any hard evidence, not enough for me to get an indictment from the grand jury. But there’s no statute of limitations on homicide. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see justice done for the late Bill Bandy.”

Griff had known the detective was following him. It was clear now why he hadn’t wanted her talking to Rodarte, why he had used scare tactics to warn her against being alone with him. He hadn’t wanted her to hear the conviction in Rodarte’s voice when he said, He committed the murder.

“He was more careless this time,” Rodarte was saying. “Or more arrogant. Leaving behind the murder weapon. Fingerprints.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“First thing I intend to ask him when we find him.”

She raised her head and looked over at him. He read the question in her eyes.

“No, we haven’t located him yet. He’s gone underground. We’ve got cops staking out his apartment, but there’s been no sign of him. That old Honda he’s been driving? We found it in a strip center parking lot up in Addison. Lab guys are going over it now. I’ve got men watching the house on Windsor, too, but he hasn’t been there. By the way, the yard service came this morning and mowed the grass, edged the sidewalk. Who pays for the upkeep on that house?”

“I do. I lease it.”

He glanced around the luxurious surroundings, making a silent comparison between the two houses. When he came back to her, he said bluntly, “What for?”

She gave him a look full of meaning.

He studied her for a moment, then flashed that revolting grin. “I already knew you rented the house.”

“I know,” she said coldly.

He spread his hands wide. “Sorry. It was my duty to check it out, Mrs. Speakman. The lease isn’t in your name, but I traced it back through that corporate name to you.”

“It wouldn’t have been that difficult to do.” It was a subtle insult to his investigative skills, but if he caught the slight, he didn’t take issue with it.

“When’s the last time you saw Burkett?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, moistly clenched in her lap. She knew the cagey detective would pick up on the body language, but she couldn’t help herself. “Almost six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks? That long?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

She gave him the exact date and saw that Carter wrote it down in his small spiral notebook.

“What made the date memorable?” Rodarte asked.

“I told him that I wouldn’t be coming back.”

He whistled softly. “How’d he take it?”

“He understood and accepted my decision.”

“Really?” he asked skeptically.

“Really.”

“Why did you end the affair?”

“I don’t see the relevance of that.”

“There may be none. Or it could be extremely relevant.”

She lost the staring contest. “What we were doing was wrong. I couldn’t do it anymore. I told him we couldn’t see each other again.”

“Before him, had you had other affairs?”

“No.”

“No one would blame you. In light of Mr. Speakman’s…”

“Mr. Speakman’s what?” she demanded frostily.

He backed down. “Burkett was your first and only affair since you married Speakman?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And when you broke it off, Burkett didn’t argue, put up a fuss, beg you to reconsider?”

“No.”

“Huh.” Thoughtfully, he scratched his acne-scarred cheek. “That doesn’t sound like the Griff Burkett I know.”

Coolly she said, “Then perhaps you don’t know him very well.”

“Apparently you don’t, either, Mrs. Speakman. Because when you called off your affair, Burkett didn’t take it lying down. Not at all. He’s been simmering over it. Last night he came here, overpowered Manuelo Ruiz, then drove a letter opener into your husband’s neck. Classic crime of a jilted lover.”

She forced herself not to look away from him. She deserved his implied scorn, she supposed, although in light of her grief, and guilt, it seemed unusually cruel punishment. It was one thing to endure the censure of people you respected. It was quite another to bear the scorn of someone you held in low esteem.

He got up and walked to the desk. “You’re sure nothing is missing from this room?”

“I don’t believe so. I can’t be sure until I’ve looked more thoroughly.”

“When you feel like it, please do.”

“Certainly.”

“Does this mean anything to you?”

He’d pulled on a pair of latex gloves to pick a single sheet of paper up off the desk. He carried it over to her. “I wanted you to see this before I bagged it as evidence.”

He held the sheet so she could read the typewritten paragraphs. There were three of them. After several tries to get through the first sentence with any degree of comprehension, she looked up at him with puzzlement. “It’s nonsense.”

He laughed shortly. “I’m glad you said that. I thought I was losing it. It made no sense to me, either. It’s just a bunch of big words strung together, right?”

“Just a bunch of big words.”

“Any explanation?”

“No.”

“Do you think your husband typed these paragraphs?”

“Why would he?”

“Beats me. I wondered if maybe he’d lost some of his mental faculties, too.”

She was affronted by the question, and she let it show. “‘Too’?”

“If I seem insensitive, I’m sorry. Your husband’s physical condition was obvious. How was he mentally? A lot of people depended on him being Foster Speakman, CEO. Employees. Stockholders. Even passengers who fly SunSouth relied on him being all there.”

“Let me assure you that he was all there, Mr. Rodarte. Foster was in full command of his faculties.”

“I thought maybe his car accident had jarred something loose.” He tapped the side of his head. “Maybe you hadn’t even noticed.”

“I would have noticed.”

“Well, the signs could’ve slipped past you. You’ve been awfully busy.”

He paused strategically. Busy with your lover. That was the implication. She refused to take the bait and only stared at him with a passivity she was far from feeling.

“Your husband took medication.”

“Yes. Drugs to strengthen his immune system. Others for the health of his digestive tract, which was severely damaged in his accident. Sometimes a sleep medication.”

“Along with those, he took prescriptions for acute anxiety. I’ll spare us some more time here, Mrs. Speakman. I’ve already talked to your husband’s psychiatrist.”

Laura drew a deep breath. “As an adolescent Foster was diagnosed with OCD. Obsessive-”

“I know what it is.”

“Then you also know that it can be controlled with medication.”

“I believe you.” He chuckled. “I’m a little obsessive myself. You poll a hundred people on the street, nearly all are crazy in one way or another.”

Such an inane remark didn’t warrant a response.

“Would you say your husband’s OCD was under control?”

“Yes.”

“Was he depressed?”

“No.”

“Not even just a little?” the detective wheedled. “For instance, he might have been a little depressed over your affair with Burkett. The guy turns my stomach for what he did, but even I gotta admit, he’s got a face the ladies go for. The height. The hair. The gladiator’s body. To a man who’s disabled, like your husband was, that in particular would be a slap in the face. Did he know about Burkett and you?”

She shook her head.

He cupped his ear.

“No,” she said tersely. “He didn’t. Not to my knowledge.” She stood up. “Is that all, Detective?”

“Not quite. Did Burkett try to contact you after the breakup?”

She considered lying, then thought better of it on the chance Rodarte already knew the answer to this question, too. “A couple of times, he called the SunSouth offices and tried to talk his way past Kay. I never took his calls.”

“You haven’t seen him since that day you told him it was over between you?”

“No.”

“Or talked to him?”

“The one time he reached me, I hung up on him.”

“Did he ever issue threats against your husband?”

“Of course not!”

“Did he ever suggest to you that if your handicapped husband was out of the picture, you’d be free to come back to him? Instant divorce. That kind of thing. Did he ever suggest that he might remove your husband?”

She looked at him aghast. “If he had, don’t you think I would have acted on it? Reported it?”

His smirk insinuated much.

She drew herself up straight. “No, Mr. Rodarte. Griff Burkett never posed a threat to either Foster or me.”

“That you know of.”

She was about to speak when she realized that it was a valid speculation. Hedging, she said, “He never threatened me.”

“But he could have threatened your husband without your knowledge.”

“Foster never said-”

“But Burkett could have.”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

Rodarte glanced at his mute partner, his expression tongue-in-cheek. When his attention came back to Laura, he said, “Did Burkett ever mention a hideaway? Ever talk about a friend with a lake cabin, or a private getaway, someplace he may be laying low now?”

“Nothing like that. He didn’t confide in me. We didn’t talk much at all.”

Too late she realized she’d walked right into that one. “No, I guess not,” Rodarte said, leering and casting his partner another glance. “Mrs. Speakman, it goes without saying that if you hear from Burkett, you’ll contact me immediately.”

“Of course.”

“I’m posting some men here at the house.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Burkett may have come here last night for the two of you,” he said quietly. “He didn’t know you were going to be in Austin, did he?”

She shook her head slowly, stunned by the thought that Griff would want to harm her. “It wasn’t decided that I would go until early yesterday morning.”

“So when Burkett came here last night, he expected you to be here, too.”

“I suppose.” She closed her eyes, trying to imagine Griff in a murderous rage. His hands were large and strong, but they could be gentle. Were they also capable of violence? She couldn’t imagine that. Could she?

“I advise you to keep someone with you,” Rodarte said. “Actually, I’d rather you move to an undisclosed location until Burkett is apprehended.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do.” He looked around the room and silently consulted Carter, who closed his notebook and slid it back into his breast pocket. “I guess that’s all for now. Unless you can think of anything else that might be pertinent.”

She shook her head absently. Then she remembered a question she had wanted to ask him. “Who reported the murder?”

“Nine-one-one got a call.”

“From Foster?”

Rodarte shook his head. “The ME said he wouldn’t have had time. He wouldn’t have been able. And there was no phone near him.”

“Manuelo doesn’t speak English.”

“No, the caller definitely spoke English.”

“So it was Griff Burkett.”

Rodarte shrugged. “Looks like.”