by Sandra Brown
“Hey, Thomas?”
Griff pulled up short, and Laura with him. The sound came from the earpiece he’d stuck in his ear after putting on the cop’s uniform. Thomas was being paged by one of his counterparts downstairs. Giving Laura a warning look, Griff clicked on the transmitter clipped to the shoulder seam of the shirt. “Go ahead,” he mumbled.
“Where’s Lane?”
“At the elevator with Mrs. Speakman,” he whispered, as though not wanting to be overheard. “He’s bringing Her Highness down.”
“What for?”
“She wants some carryout.”
“Sick of room service food?”
Griff grunted a noncommittal reply.
“Yeah, she’s got it really tough,” the cop said sarcastically. “Even with Lane tagging along, Rodarte isn’t gonna like it, her going out after dark.”
“Then Rodarte can come babysit her.”
The other cop laughed. “I hear that.” He clicked off.
Griff looked through the peephole, then pulled open the door and checked the hallway. He pulled Laura behind him as he ran toward the service elevator. He’d placed a dolly in the open door to keep it there. When they were inside, he dragged the dolly in and pushed the button for the ground floor.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“In the employee parking lot.”
“Once we’re out of the building, where?”
“To the right.”
“How far?”
“Fairly close.” His eyes drilled into hers, demanding more. She said, “Within steps of the entrance. But we’ll never get past the guard at that door.”
“He’s napping.”
The cop was still out cold, right where Griff had left him, behind a Dumpster, out of sight of any hotel employee who happened to use that entrance. Griff had come dressed in a set of navy blue work pants and shirt, carrying a stack of empty boxes. The ruse had worked long enough for him to get close to the cop and knock him out.
The policeman on the top floor, guarding the stairwell and service elevator, had reacted with surprise when the elevator doors opened and Griff stepped off. “Hey, you’re supposed to clear it downstairs before—” Griff had thrust the boxes at him and punched.
Hearing the commotion, the cop guarding Laura’s door had come running. He’d rounded a corner and got clouted on the head with the butt of his buddy’s service pistol. Of the two, he was the larger. Griff had hastily stripped him of his uniform shirt, hat, and gun belt.
He’d handcuffed each of them behind their backs, also linking the pairs of handcuffs together, then put duct tape over their mouths. Even when they regained consciousness, they’d make an awkward, mute, four-legged animal that would have trouble getting out of the stairwell and raising an alarm.
He was guilty of assault on three police officers. That was the least of his worries.
He knew there was another cop posted at the corner of the parking lot. It was just dark enough that Griff hoped from that distance the cop would see only a uniform shirt and hat and would mistake him for Lane. As he and Laura emerged from the service entrance, Griff kept his face averted but raised his arm and waved. The cop waved back.
Laura led him to her BMW. He unlocked the driver’s side. Thinking of the horn, he said, “Remember what I told you upstairs. If you want to uphold your late husband’s reputation, you do not want me to be caught.”
He closed the door and quickly walked around to the passenger side. Once he was in, he put the key in the ignition and started the motor. “Take the freeway to Oak Lawn. Exit and head north until it merges with Preston.”
She looked at him with surprise.
“That’s right, Laura. We’re going to your house.”
Getting past the policeman at the gate was going to be the next tricky part. While Laura drove, Griff formulated a plan.
“You won’t get away with this,” she said.
“I have so far, haven’t I?”
“Policemen in five states are looking for you.”
“But they haven’t found me.”
“Where have you been hiding?”
He didn’t answer that. “When we get to your place, make sure your headlights are on bright. Pull in so that they’re shining directly into the windshield of the patrol car that’s parked in front of the gate.”
“Are you sure the gate is still being guarded?”
“I’m sure.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Followed Rodarte.”
She looked at him with astonishment. “You’ve been following Rodarte? How?”
“What’s the code on your gate?”
She turned her head back to the road, and her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I can’t think of a single reason why I should tell you that.”
“Can you think of a reason why your husband would have had half a million in cash at your house that night, stacked neatly in a stationery box?”
“I explained that to Rodarte.” In nervous stops and starts, she told Griff about Foster’s heavy tipping practice.
“Half a million dollars’ worth?” Griff said, laughing. “Nobody’s that generous.”
“Rodarte believed me.”
“I doubt it. In any case, I could throw a shitload of doubt on that explanation. Or”—he paused for emphasis—“you could give me the gate code.” She gave him the code, and then he told her how it was going to play out when they reached the estate.
As instructed, when she turned in to the private drive, she pulled in so that her headlights shone directly into the squad car. Griff opened the passenger door. Before getting out, he said, “I could make mincemeat of Foster Speakman’s reputation. Remember that.”
He stepped out of the car, leaving the door open, and walked toward the keypad on the column near the gate.
The policeman had got out of the squad car and was approaching him, his hand raised, shielding his eyes against the glare of Laura’s headlights. Griff kept moving, asking over his shoulder, “How’s it going here? Everything quiet?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Officer?” Laura called out to him.
The cop turned toward her. Griff reached the column, punched in the sequence of numbers she had given him, holding his breath until the double gate began to swing open.
“Is everything all right here?” Laura had alighted and was standing in the open door of her car, talking to the policeman.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This additional security is so unnecessary.”
“Better to be safe, ma’am.”
“I need to pick up some things from the house. I shouldn’t be long.”
By now, Griff was back at the car, sliding into the passenger seat. She bent down and addressed him. “You don’t have to go inside with me,” she said, following the script he’d given her. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll be perfectly safe inside my own home.”
“I’m supposed to stay with you, ma’am. Rodarte’s orders,” he said, making sure the other cop heard it.
She huffed as though vexed and looked back at the officer. “Could you move your car please, before the gate closes?”
Quickly he returned to his squad car, started it, and rolled it forward far enough to clear the gate. Laura drove through.
Griff didn’t start breathing again until the gate closed automatically behind them. But if that officer was any kind of sharp, he’d be checking with Rodarte to see if Laura’s visit to her home had been approved. Or he would soon be receiving a call from the hotel telling him that Mrs. Speakman had been abducted. Griff hoped to be in and out before either happened.
“Go in through the front door, where he can see us.”
She followed the driveway and parked directly in front of the house. Griff got out and approached the mansion’s grand entrance, looked around, played the role of bodyguard in case they were being observed. Laura used her key and opened the front door. The alarm sta
rted beeping. She made no move toward the keypad.
Griff said, “The house on Windsor Street would become a tourist attraction.”
She understood the warning and punched in the code that silenced the alarm.
“Lights?”
She touched a switch that seemed to turn on every light in the house. “Fancy,” he said, impressed.
“Now what?”
“Now we go to the garage. Specifically, to Manuelo Ruiz’s apartment above the garage.”
She looked at him with incredulity. “Is that what this is about?”
“That’s what this is about. How do you get to the garage?”
Looking like she wanted to argue, she turned instead and walked stiffly across the foyer. He followed, relieved that she was leading him in the direction opposite the library.
The kitchen was three times larger than the house Griff had grown up in.
On the far side of it was a door. Laura walked toward it. “Wait,” he said. “That goes outside?”
“Through the mudroom, then outside.”
“Is the exterior door visible from the front gate?”
“No.”
Griff went around her, opened the door, and saw a utility area that deserved a more glamorous name than mudroom. He opened the exterior door and looked out. There were no longer policemen patrolling the estate grounds. They’d been pulled off when Rodarte had moved Laura to the hotel yesterday evening. Griff had been watching, and he knew.
Nevertheless, he felt exposed as he and Laura crossed the motor court between the house and the detached garage. Laura indicated a door at the side of the building. “Manuelo’s apartment is through that door and up the stairs, but you won’t find him there.”
“I don’t expect to.”
There was a keypad on the wall adjacent to the door. “Another freaking code?” Griff motioned to it impatiently, and Laura punched in a sequence of numbers. The door opened with a metallic click. They slipped inside. Griff pulled the door closed behind them and heard the lock engage.
“No lights,” he said, sensing that she was groping the wall for the switch plate. “You came to pick up stuff from the house, not the garage. The lights stay off.”
He pulled a small flashlight from the policeman’s belt and switched it on. He shone the beam down at their feet, but he could see her in the ambient light.
“Laura. Is there really a baby?”
CHAPTER
31
JUDGING FROM THE LOOK ON HER FACE, THE QUESTION HAD TAKEN her completely by surprise. She stared at him for several seconds, then made a small motion with her head.
He felt an expanding pressure inside his chest. He’d never felt anything like it before, so he couldn’t put a name to it. It was a strange feeling, and yet a good one. Like supreme satisfaction. Like the total opposite of what he’d been feeling the other day in the motel when he’d reviewed his life history.
He looked down at her abdomen but couldn’t detect any change. Of course there wouldn’t be any yet.
He wondered if she was thinking, like he was, about their last afternoon together, when he’d reached around her and closed the front door. How could they have foreseen the cataclysmic impact that simple motion would have? Because of it, one life had ended. And another had begun.
His gaze tracked back up to her face. Their eyes met and held. This warm, closed space in which they were standing seemed suddenly to be very small and airless. He didn’t dare take a deep breath for fear of breaking the silence that pressed in on them, teeming with implication.
He knew there must be something appropriate to say to a woman who had your baby inside her, but damned if he could think of what it might be, so he didn’t say anything, just continued staring into her eyes, until she finally looked away.
He touched her chin and brought her head back around to face him. “I’ll go to death row unless I find Manuelo Ruiz. Do you understand?”
She shook her head, slowly and then more adamantly. “No, I don’t. It’s not possible. Manuelo worshiped Foster. He wouldn’t—”
“But I would?”
She searched his eyes, then made a motion with her head and shoulders that could have meant either yes or no. But even if she had the slightest doubt, it was crushing to him.
He dropped his hand. “I don’t know why I hoped you would believe me when my own lawyer didn’t even bother to ask whether or not I had killed your husband. He just assumed I had. I didn’t. Manuelo did.”
“He couldn’t.”
“It was a bizarre accident. Seeing what he’d done, the guy wigged out. He bolted. He’s scared and may be halfway to El Salvador by now. But without him, I’m sunk.”
He shone the flashlight beam on his wristwatch. They’d driven away from the hotel twenty-seven minutes ago. Thomas and Lane and the rest of them were probably catching hell from Rodarte by now. Soon a posse would be dispatched.
“My time’s running out.” He motioned her up the staircase.
On their way, she said, “If Manuelo is running, this is the last place he would be.”
“Officially, there’s no record of the man beyond a social security number, which was fake, and a Texas driver’s license with a phony address.”
“How do you know this?”
“Rodarte. He was quoted in the newspaper.”
“If the police can’t find him, how do you hope to?” By now she had reached the door at the top of the stairs. It was unlocked. Griff switched off the flashlight and followed Laura into the apartment.
“Where are the windows?”
“There aren’t any. Only skylights on the back side of the roof.”
Trusting her to be telling the truth, he turned the flashlight back on but kept it aimed at the floor. It was a spacious single room which, Griff estimated, covered half of the garage below. It was equipped with a small kitchen area with dormitory-size appliances, and a TV in a cabinet opposite the bed. The bathroom was compact.
The apartment had already been tossed by the police. Bureau drawers had been left open, the closet door stood ajar. The twin bed had been stripped. The mattress was askew.
“Hold the light.” Griff passed her the flashlight, then started his search with the TV cabinet. “How did Manuelo come to be Foster’s aide?”
“He was a janitor at the rehab center. Foster was there for several months after he got out of the hospital. One day after a strenuous therapy session, he experienced respiratory distress. He was no longer hooked to monitors, he couldn’t reach the call button. Manuelo happened by. He didn’t summon help but came in, lifted Foster out of bed, and carried him to the nurses’ station. Foster credited him with saving his life. I think Manuelo felt the same about Foster. His life improved dramatically when Foster took him in.”
The drawers of the cabinet had yielded nothing except some loose coins, a broken pair of sunglasses, nail clippers, underwear, folded T-shirts. “In from where?” Griff asked. “Where had he lived before?”
“Foster may have known. I never did,” she replied, following his movements with the beam of the flashlight. “Manuelo showed up here with a small duffel bag of belongings and moved into this apartment. Foster bought him new clothes. He paid for his training as a nursing aide, on how to care for paraplegics. Manuelo was devoted to Foster.”
Griff snuffled. “Yeah. I know.”
Although the bed obviously had already been searched, he felt the mattress and box springs, looking for bumps where something could have been stashed. He moved the bed away from the wall and motioned for her to direct the flashlight onto the floor beneath it. Low-nap carpet. No sign that it had been sliced to form a secret pocket. “Did he have family? Friends?”
“Not to my knowledge. Griff, Rodarte has already asked me all this. The police have been searching for Manuelo since the night…the night Foster died.”
“The first time I saw him, Manuelo struck me as a survivor,” Griff said. “Foster told me he’d walked to the U.S. from El Salva
dor.” A small curtain hid the plumbing for the tiny kitchen sink. He parted it but found only pots and pans, some dishwashing liquid. He looked in the oven and microwave but came up empty. He checked the fridge but found nothing except a few canned drinks, condiments, three oranges.
“Walking through Guatemala and Mexico? That tells me that he was either very, very poor or running from something and didn’t want to risk traveling on public transportation. Probably both.”
In the bathroom, he looked in the tank of the toilet, then took the light from Laura and shone it down the shower drain.
She asked, “How do you know to do that?”
“Some things you learn in prison.”
There was nothing in the medicine cabinet above the sink except shaving implements, toothpaste, toothbrush. He returned to the main room, hands on hips, looking about. The ceiling? He couldn’t see any seams in the material where Manuelo might have cut out a section to form a hiding place.
Inside the closet were several pairs of black trousers, two pairs of black shoes, and a black baseball-style jacket. “Where’s the duffel bag?” he asked rhetorically.
“The what?”
“You said he arrived with a small duffel bag of personal belongings. Where is it?”
“I suppose he took it with him.”
“Trust me, he didn’t stop to pack that night. He didn’t take his clothes or his toiletries. It said in the newspaper that cash was found in his apartment. Nobody leaves money behind, unless they don’t leave of their own accord.”
“Which is why Rodarte suspects you of—”
“Killing Manuelo, too. I know. But I didn’t. Laura, the man was hysterical. Out of his head. He ran like the devil was after him.” He frowned at the look she gave him. “No, it wasn’t me he was afraid of.”
She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she said, “He didn’t pack, so you believe that his duffel bag is here somewhere. So what? What good would finding it do us?”
“Maybe none. But a top-notch rehab hospital wouldn’t have hired even a janitor without immigration documents. If Manuelo sneaked into the country, he must have had help getting falsified papers so he could get work. He had to have had a contact. And I bet he would have stayed in touch with that contact in case he had to get the hell out of Dodge, quick. He would have—”