Play Dirty

CHAPTER 26

FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE AFTERNOON, GRIFF PACED THE dismal room, wondering how in hell he’d sunk so low. When had this unstoppable decline started? When he accepted Vista ’s first bribe? Or before that, when he began placing bets while at UT? Or had he been irreversibly ill-fated when his mother had abandoned him to run off with her boyfriend Ray?

Sometimes he thought he’d been doomed even before he was born.

During the weeks between his conviction and the day he reported to Big Spring to begin his sentence, he’d conducted a search for his parents. Wasn’t it natural for a child to turn to his parents when he was in trouble?

Thanks to the Internet and websites dedicated to linking lost relatives, it hadn’t taken him long to track down his father. After serving his jail sentence in Texas, he’d left the state, alighting several places but never staying anywhere for long, until he eventually wound up in Laramie, Wyoming. He died there in a local hospital at the age of forty-nine. Hospital records said he suffered from several maladies related to alcoholism.

It took more time to locate his mother. She had either committed bigamy and married men without first securing divorces or simply assumed the names of the various men she lived with.

As the day of Griff’s incarceration approached, he frequently asked himself why he was bothering to try to find her, why he was even curious about her life now, when she’d left him without a shred of remorse. To his knowledge she had never tried to learn what happened to him, so why was reconnecting with her so important?

He didn’t know what drove him. It was a compulsion he couldn’t explain, even to himself, so he gave up and just went with it.

His doggedness paid off. On the day before he was to begin serving his sentence, he found her in Omaha. He obtained an address and a telephone number. Before he could talk himself out of it, he called the number.

It was a decision he came to regret.

Quite a send-off to prison, he thought now, caustically.

Why today, when he was in worse trouble than ever, was he conjuring up all this crap about his parents? Maybe because thinking about them reinforced what he strongly suspected: He had been on this path to self-destruction before he even left the womb.

Which didn’t bode well for the eventual outcome.

Depressed, he lay down on the ratty bed and actually slept for a while. Perhaps that was his body’s way of letting him temporarily escape from his reality. Even kinder was his subconscious, which let him dream about Laura. His hands were on her. He was moving inside her. She was clutching his ass, arching up to receive him, moaning his name. Heartbeats away from coming, he woke up, her name on his lips, soaked in sweat, sporting a painful erection.

He got up, showered, and turned on the TV in time for the local evening newscasts. As he’d feared, a smug-looking anchorman with bad hair announced that the police were seeking Griff Burkett for “questioning in the brutal slaying of Foster Speakman.”

This came as no surprise, of course, but Griff sat dazed, immobilized by the sudden appearance of Stanley Rodarte on the screen. He was standing in the glare of video lights, which intensified his ugliness. “At this point, Mr. Burkett is only a person of interest. All we know at present is that he was inside the Speakmans’ mansion last evening.”

This statement of fact caused a feeding frenzy among the reporters, who began firing questions at him. Full of self-importance, Rodarte denied them answers, saying only “Burkett’s involvement warrants further investigation. That’s all I have for you right now.” He turned his back on them and walked through the iron gates onto the Speakman estate.

Rodarte was there. Inside the ivy-covered walls. With Laura. She would revile Griff Burkett now. Rodarte would stoke that, use it to win her to his side. The thought of her and Rodarte breathing the same air made his empty stomach clench as tight as a fist.

Darkness finally fell. Even with the temperature hovering in the low nineties, it felt good to be outdoors, away from the lingering odors in his motel room. But it took Griff nearly two hours to walk to Hunnicutt Motors, and by that time the heat was taking its toll. He hadn’t dared stop to buy a bottle of water, so he arrived at the car lot gritty with dried sweat and dehydrated.

But the hike had been worth it. The car had been left as promised.

It was a nondescript sedan somewhere between brown and gray. The model name on the trunk lid was unfamiliar to him, and he couldn’t even identify the car’s maker. Pontiac? Ford maybe? The cloth upholstery gave off the musty smell of stale tobacco smoke when he warily opened the unlocked door. No alarm went off.

The keys were beneath the floor mat, the gas tank was full, and the engine fired as soon as he turned the ignition. Conveniently, the chain that was usually stretched across the driveway as a security measure was lying on the pavement. Hunnicutt had thought of everything.

Wyatt Turner, attorney-at-law, lived in one of the nouveau riche neighborhoods of North Dallas. Every house had a swimming pool in the backyard, golf clubs in the garage, and inside, an upwardly mobile couple trying to keep up with the Joneses. Pets were optional. Most had children.

The Turners had only one. Griff had never seen Wyatt Junior in person, but he’d seen his picture on Wyatt’s desk. He was a fifty-fifty blend of his parents, which was unfortunate for the kid. Griff had met Susan Turner only once, at a social function long before he was in need of Wyatt’s services. She was a pallid woman, virtually colorless, with a personality to match. She practiced law also, but not criminal law like her husband. Taxes, corporate, probate, something dull like that. And Griff bet she was good at it. She was uptight, unfriendly, and unattractive. Compared with her, Wyatt was the life of the party.

Griff cruised past their house and saw that there was only one light on inside. He hoped it was Wyatt burning the midnight oil and not Susan. He parked two streets over and conscientiously locked the car door when he got out. He had dressed in shorts and T-shirt, running shoes, ball cap. In a neighborhood of yuppies like this one, people ran at all hours, whenever they could wedge the workout into their busy schedules. He hoped that if he was seen, he’d be mistaken for a guy who had time to exercise only late at night.

He jogged the two blocks. One dog barked at him from behind a wood fence, but otherwise he went unnoticed. At least he hoped so. Someone inside one of these upscale homes could have spotted him and called a neighborhood security watch or the police. That was a risk he had to take.

He had noticed that the house next door to the Turners’ had a For Sale sign out front. The property was dark, inside and out, which was to his advantage. When he reached it now, he detoured off the sidewalk into the shadows of the yard. He went around to the side yard that abutted the Turners’ driveway. There he crouched in the shrubbery to catch his breath and plan his next move.

Through open blinds, he could see into the lighted room of the Turners’ house. It was a home office, reminiscent of Bolly’s except much neater. A stuffed deer head mounted on the wall. Framed diplomas. Law books on the shelves. A computer monitor was on, casting a bluish light onto the desk and several open files.

The lawyer appeared, coming into the room carrying a glass of milk and what looked like a sandwich on a plate. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. The tail of the T-shirt was tucked into the elastic waistband of the pajamas. Tucked in. In spite of his situation, Griff had to smile at his lawyer’s sleeping attire. But he shared a bed with Mrs. Turner, so that explained it. Griff would have sooner made love to a corn husk.

Turner sat down at the desk, took a bite of the sandwich, and as he chewed, he gazed into his computer monitor. Griff took a deep breath and stepped out of the shrubbery. He crossed the driveway and walked up to the pair of French doors that opened directly into the office. He tapped lightly on a pane of glass.

Startled, Turner looked in his direction. When he saw Griff, his face registered a series of expressions-astonishment, apprehension, finally anger.

Griff tried the door handle. It was locked. He jiggled it several times, making metal rattle against metal. He read the curse on Turner’s lips as he got out of his chair. He glanced cautiously into what Griff presumed was a hallway, then quickly came to the door and opened it.

Angrily he whispered, “Do you know that every cop within five hundred miles is after you?”

“Then you’d better let me in before one of them spots me on your doorstep.”

Turner motioned him in, then stepped outside and looked down his driveway into the street. Satisfied that there were no wolves at the gate, he shut the door, after which he went around the room hastily drawing the blinds closed.

Griff picked up the sandwich and began wolfing it down. Between the car lot and here, he’d used the drive-through window to pick up a Whataburger and demolished it as he drove. It had taken the edge off his hunger but hadn’t appeased it. Peanut butter and jelly had never been his favorite, but right now it tasted delicious. He drank the milk, too. Turner was watching him, seething.

“I need this more than you do,” Griff said through a mouthful. Then, motioning toward his lawyer’s paunch, he added, “A lot more.”

“I want you out of here.”

“I need information.”

“I’m not CNN.”

“You’re my lawyer.”

“Not anymore.”

Griff stopped chewing. “Since when?”

“Since you-” Turner’s loud voice startled even him. He froze, listening, then went to the door and looked into the hallway again. “Don’t move,” he whispered to Griff over his shoulder. “Don’t make a sound.”

The lawyer disappeared into the dark hallway. Griff could hear doors-he assumed to bedrooms-being softly closed. Despite Turner’s warning, he went to the French doors and separated the slats of the blinds to peer out, wondering if Hunnicutt’s car parked two streets over had aroused a watchful homeowner’s suspicion. Had anybody noticed a jogger at midnight suddenly disappearing into the dark shadows surrounding a vacant house?

Turner returned, walking on tiptoe. Quietly he pulled the door closed behind himself. “Susan’s a light sleeper.”

“Since when aren’t you my lawyer?”

“Since you murdered Foster Speakman,” the lawyer returned, matching Griff’s angry stage whisper. “Christ, Griff. Foster Speakman! You could just as well have killed the president. Is it true you were screwing his wife?”

Griff held his accusatory stare for several seconds, then crammed the last of the sandwich into his mouth, muttering, “You should be so lucky.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He finished the milk, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t know a lawyer could fire a client.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Griff spread his arms wide. All he had on him was the car key and his cell phone clipped to the elastic waistband of his running shorts.

“I’d call you dangerous,” Turner said. “He said you stabbed Speakman in the neck with his letter opener. A paraplegic, Griff. He said Speakman tried to fight back, tried to protect himself from you, but-”

“He who? Who said? Rodarte?”

“Of course Rodarte. He and that silent partner of his came to my office this morning. Rodarte did all the talking. He asked if I knew where you were, and fortunately I could honestly say no.” Turner frowned, unhappy over knowing Griff’s whereabouts now. “Rodarte is having a field day. This time, make no mistake, he’s got you.”

“I don’t get my day in court?”

Turner gnawed the inside of his cheek and cast a worried glance toward the closed door. “Make it quick.” He sat down in his desk chair and tried to look lawyerly-a role hard to pull off in the pajama outfit. “How’d you meet the Speakmans?”

“I was invited to their home. Speakman proposed a business deal.”

Turner looked dubious. “What kind of business?”

“We talked about me doing some ads for his airline.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but he couldn’t tell Turner the truth. Not yet. Foster Speakman’s reputation be damned. As far as keeping his secret was concerned, all bets were off. But Laura shared that secret. Griff would keep it for her sake.

“That’s nuts,” Turner remarked.

“That’s what I told him. But, come to find out, he had a lot of idiosyncrasies and weird ideas. Anyway, he told me to think it over, he would, too, so forth.”

“The wife? Laura?”

“I met her that same night.”

“Instant lust, Rodarte said.”

“Rodarte said that?”

“Words to that effect. He said the two of you had a hot and heavy affair.”

Griff wondered where Rodarte was getting his information. Probably he was merely speculating and making it sound like fact. “She and I got together. Four times to be exact. Over a period of months. The last time we saw each other, she called it off.”

“Why?”

Disinclined to tell Turner more than that, he shrugged. “Typical reasons. Guilt mostly. I thought I’d never see her again.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer, but his expression must have given him away.

Turner groaned. “You just handed Rodarte motivation on a silver platter. To get the girl, you bumped off her husband. You don’t even need a criminal law degree to see that, Griff.”

“Besides motivation-”

“And opportunity.”

“I didn’t barge in on Speakman last night. I went to the mansion at his invitation.”

“He invited you?”

“He invited me.”

“What for? Did he confront you about the affair? Had the wife felt so guilty she confessed all?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much Laura told him about us.” In all honesty, he didn’t.

“Have you been in touch with her?”

He shook his head.

“I advise you not to try.”

“As my former lawyer?”

Ignoring the sarcastic dig, Foster asked, “Can you prove Speakman invited you to the mansion last night?”

“Not yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Losing patience, Griff said, “Besides motive and opportunity, what’s Rodarte got on me?”

The lawyer hesitated.

“Come on, Turner. You owe me at least that much. What am I up against?”

Turner snorted. “Well, there’s the murder weapon covered with your fingerprints. Your DNA will match the tissue they dug out from under Speakman’s fingernails.” He pointed toward the bloody scratches on the backs of Griff’s hands. “Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Hell, Griff,” he said, wincing, “Rodarte doesn’t need anything else to nail you for Speakman. But there’s also this guy named Ruiz.”

“Manuelo. Speakman’s aide. Looks like a South American headhunter with a pleasant but empty smile.”

“Nobody’s seen him.” Turner paused and looked at him expectantly. When Griff didn’t say anything, he continued. “Rodarte checked with Immigration. No file on him. He was an illegal.”

“You’re using the past tense.”

“Was he there last night?”

Again Griff refrained from saying anything.

“Don’t bother lying,” the lawyer said. “They found blood on the rug and in your car. My old Honda. The blood wasn’t yours or Speakman’s. Rodarte surmises it’s Ruiz’s. He’s searching for his remains.”

Beneath his breath, Griff said, “Fuck!”

“Well finally, the oracle speaks. And isn’t that an eloquent statement?” the lawyer said with asperity. “Was he alive when you left him?”

“Which?”

Turner rubbed his high forehead as though to smooth out the worry lines. “Either.”

“Speakman was dead. Ruiz was adiós.”

“He escaped you?”

“He ran.”

“Did he see Speakman get stabbed?”

Griff didn’t respond.

“Did you…Was Ruiz also injured? Was that his blood on the rug and in the Honda?”

Griff was about to answer, then checked himself. “Are you my lawyer or not?”

Turner studied him for a moment, than asked quietly, “What about the money, Griff? The half million. And don’t play dumb, because your fingerprints were on the lid of the box. So, what was that about?”

“Beats me,” he replied laconically, with a shrug. “Speakman says, ‘Look in the box.’ I looked in the box. I guess he was showing off how rich he was.”

“It wasn’t for you?”

Griff looked at him as though that was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“Rodarte suggested that Speakman was paying you off for something.”

Griff’s gut tightened. “Like what?”

“Something you had delivered. Or a service you’d performed for him.”

“Shit, Turner, where’s your brain? Where’s Rodarte’s? If that money had been for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have left it behind. I’d have it and be living it up in some exotic locale, not bumming peanut butter sandwiches off you.”

The lawyer wasn’t fazed. “Lotta money, Griff. Large bills banded together. Stacked neatly in a box. Kind of like the take you got from Bandy for throwing the play-off game against the Skins.”

“I’m telling you-”

“Okay, okay. For now let’s say Speakman just liked keeping boxes of cash around and it had nothing to do with his murder. Rodarte doesn’t even need that element to get a conviction.” Turner stood, circled his chair, placed his hands on the back of it, as though he were about to address the court. “Listen to me, Griff. This is a prosecutor’s dream case. They’ve got hard evidence. They’ve got your DNA. And if Ruiz is alive-”

“He is. Or was last time I saw him.”

“And if he isn’t already back in Honduras-”

“El Salvador.”

“Whatever. If they can catch him, they’ll have an eyewitness in addition to the incriminating evidence. But,” he said, lightly slapping the leather chair back for emphasis, “on the positive side, you placed the 911 call, right?” Griff nodded. “So that suggests you didn’t want Speakman to die. It can be argued that Speakman invited you there, and if the jury buys that, then the next step is their believing that there was no premeditation on your part. You went to Speakman’s house at his invitation. He confronted you with the affair you were having-”

“Had.”

“Had with his wife. You argued. Something he said lit your fuse, next thing you know-”

“I picked up the letter opener on his desk and plunged it into his neck.”

Turner actually looked sad about it. “You’ve got a good chance of being charged with manslaughter, instead of murder one. That’s probably the best you’ll do on this one, and I’m telling you that both as counsel and as a friend.” He paused to let that sink in.

“I hate to paint such a bleak picture, but that’s how it is, Griff. And you’re only making yourself look guiltier by running. Turning yourself in to Rodarte will be rough. I’m not saying it won’t. But it’ll be much harder for you if you don’t.”

“I’m not turning myself in.”

“If you do-tonight, now-I’ll represent you. I’ll be right there with you every step of the way. Let them conduct their investigation, and then we’ll see just how badly the evidence is stacked against you. Rodarte has been known to exaggerate, to insinuate that he has more than he actually does, but we know he has the weapon and, coupled with the motive, it’s damn incriminating.

“It actually works in our favor that you left the money behind. You didn’t commit robbery, so it’s not a capital murder. I’ll argue like hell for the manslaughter charge. I’ll also file for change of venue. Get the trial out of Dallas.

“But wherever it’s conducted, you can bet the prosecutor will hammer home how defenseless Speakman was against you. He’ll paint you as a brute who attacked a man who couldn’t possibly fight back and win. He’ll make the jurors despise you, and any argument you put forth won’t change the indisputable fact that you were a football player and he was a paraplegic.

“Turn yourself in and let me take over your defense. The only time you have to speak is at your arraignment, when you plead not guilty. You don’t have to breathe a bloody word to Rodarte, the jury, nobody.”

Griff had listened patiently, but now he said, “And you think not talking will make me look innocent? Come on, Wyatt.”

“I believe in jurisprudence, in our system of justice.”

“Well, your perspective on it is different from mine. You promised me I’d get off with probation if I cooperated with the feds and told them what I knew about Vista’s operation. Look what happened to that.”

“That was different.”

“Right. We were dealing with the federal grand jury and what-ifs. This time Rodarte’s got my prints on the instrument that killed my lover’s husband.”

Turner’s head dropped forward. He stood, a frown creasing his brow. Finally he raised his head. “I appeal to you once more, Griff. Give yourself up.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“That’s it.”

Griff studied him a moment, then said softly, “You haven’t even asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

Snuffling a rueful laugh, Griff said, “Never mind. Have you heard from Jerry Arnold?”

“He called this afternoon. Kept saying, ‘Why would he do something like this?’ Stuff like that. You’ve lost another fan.”

Griff wasn’t surprised. “Well, thanks for the info. And the sandwich.” He turned toward the French doors.

“Griff, wait.”

“See ya, Turner.” He opened the door.

He heard the squeal of brakes as though a car had taken a corner too fast. He heard gunning engines, the whish of rubber on hot pavement. And in the house across the street, the front windows reflected colored lights. Red. Blue. White.