by Sandra Brown
He looked at the computer. It was still grinding. “I remember one Sunday afternoon in Texas Stadium, lying on the turf after I’d been sacked by a thousand pounds of Broncos in front of a capacity home crowd. I looked up through that stupid hole in the ceiling of the stadium, and even then, knocked flat on my butt and having lost seven yards on the play, I was so goddamn happy to be there I laughed out loud. Everybody thought I’d had my bells rung, got a concussion, or just plain cracked under pressure. No one could guess I was laughing out of pure joy over the game. The game.” He shook his head and snuffled a sad laugh. “Yeah, I loved it. God, I loved it.”
Several moments elapsed. He heard Laura draw in a long breath and let it out slowly. “And they loved you.”
When he looked back at her, she was staring at a photo of him with the Millers. “You mean Coach? Ellie?” He shrugged uneasily. “Emphasis on the past tense.”
She indicated the walls, the full shelves, and said softly, “It’s all still here, Griff.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to the computer. “Finally.” He moved the cursor to the icon that would link him to the Internet. He felt Laura move up behind him and look over his shoulder.
“What’s your plan?”
“Haven’t got one. Go on some kind of search engine, I guess. See if I can find this address. Start with city of Dallas, move to Dallas County, expand to the whole damn state if necessary.”
“Is that your top speed?”
He typed by hunting and pecking. He looked up at her over his shoulder. “Are you faster?”
They switched places. She sat in the desk chair. He braced his arms on the back of it so he could see the monitor. She was a much more proficient typist. “Manuelo didn’t write down whether it was Lavaca Street or Road or Lane,” she remarked. “We’ll have to try them all.”
“How many Lavaca Streets, Roads, et cetera do you think there are in Texas?”
“Hundreds?”
“That’s my guess, too. And Rodarte’s got better computers and more people.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Be my guest.”
“Tax records. Every property is taxed.”
“You think a person who provides fake documents to illegal immigrants pays property taxes?”
“The taxes would be assessed. Whether or not they’re paid is another matter.”
“Okay. Are there tax records online?”
“We’ll try. Tax assessor records for Dallas County?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She began searching for such a website. “Tell me about Bill Bandy.”
The request surprised him, and for a moment he didn’t say anything. Then, “What do you want to know?”
“How you met. How you got involved with him.”
He gave her a condensed version. “When I got in over my head, he introduced me to a syndicate. They canceled my debt, in exchange for a few interceptions, fumbles. Nothing that couldn’t happen to any quarterback on any given Sunday.”
“Bandy betrayed you.”
“The feds offered him probation in exchange for setting me up, and I’ll bet they didn’t have to twist his arm too hard.”
“There’s a Lavaca Street in Dallas, but the addresses have three digits, not four,” she reported.
“Try Lavaca Road.”
“The newspapers said that Bandy delivered the two million to your Turtle Creek condo.”
“True. He was wearing a wire. Second I took the box of cash from him, agents came busting through my front door, read me my rights.”
“You were put in jail?”
“Yes,” he said tightly, remembering the humiliation of that experience. “Wyatt Turner got me released on the condition that I give up my passport. Soon as I got out, I went looking for Bandy.”
Laura stopped typing, turned and looked up at him.
“Right. It was a stupid thing to do. But I was furious. I guess I wanted to frighten him into thinking he was as good as dead for setting me up.” He cursed himself under his breath. “What a goddamn fool I was. When I got to Bandy’s place, the door was open. I went in. I almost walked out without seeing him. He’d been stuffed between the back of the sofa and the wall. His neck had been wrenched so hard his head was practically facing backward.”
“Who killed him?”
“I’m sure the Vista boys were behind it. They wanted him silenced, so he couldn’t give them up like he had me.”
“They could’ve killed you, too.”
“I think they thought it would be more fun to keep me alive, let me be charged with Bandy’s murder. I’m sure it was them who tipped off the cops.”
“How did they know you were going to be at Bandy’s place?”
“I guess they figured I’d go after Bandy, at the very least to tell him how disappointed I was in him,” he said with sarcasm. “I was still kneeling beside the body when two squad cars showed up, responding to an anonymous 911 call from a pay phone, they said.”
“Vista was watching you.”
“Obviously. And if you could see this guy called Bennett, you’d think he could sit through a tornado without blinking. Anyway, here I was, facing federal charges of racketeering and illegal gambling, and there was my bookie, the one who’d ratted me out, dead on the floor.
“Enter Detective Stanley Rodarte, who’d been dispatched to investigate the crime scene. He came in and introduced himself, told me what a great ballplayer I’d been, and what a shame it was that I’d turned crooked. Then he looked at the body, looked back at me, and started laughing. It seemed that open and shut.”
“No address like this on Tarrant County’s tax records, either,” Laura said.
“Denton? What’s on the western side of Tarrant?”
She consulted a map on the screen, where the counties were delineated. “Parker.”
“Try that, too. Damn,” he said, looking at the map and realizing the scope of this effort. “This could take all night.” He consulted his watch, wondering if Rodarte had already isolated the address and was speeding toward it.
“It wasn’t the open-and-shut case Rodarte thought it would be,” Laura said.
“Bandy’s back room had been torn all to hell. Ransacked. My prints were on the sofa, the wall behind it—hell, I was kneeling beside his body when the police arrived. But they couldn’t place me in that back room, hard as Rodarte tried. The grand jury found it impossible to believe that I would avoid leaving prints or other evidence while ransacking the place, then take off gloves before killing Bandy. And if I had, where were the gloves?”
“Why was his back room ransacked?”
“Rodarte is of the opinion that Bandy had money squirreled away in there somewhere and that I helped myself to it.”
Again she turned and looked up at him. “But you didn’t have any cash stuffed in your pockets at the time, did you?”
“No. But it wouldn’t necessarily have been cash I was looking for. It could have been a bank account number. A combination to a safe. Something I could commit to memory. Later, when I was out of prison, I’d have a treasure waiting for me.” He looked at her hard. “Just so you know, I never went into Bandy’s back room. I didn’t know what was or wasn’t in there. As far as I know, he didn’t have any funds stashed away for a rainy day.”
Quietly she said, “I didn’t ask.” She turned back around and, after scanning the information on the monitor, said, “There’s no Lavaca anything in Parker County.”
Griff opened the duffel bag and removed Manuelo’s map. “Pull up that map of the state again.” She did. When it appeared on the monitor, he tapped a spot. “That red crayon star is here.” He pointed to the southern tip of the state. “Somewhere between Mission and Hidalgo.”
“We assume that’s where he entered the country. Lord, how far is that from here?”
“Four hundred miles at least. Probably closer to five.”
“Lots of counties.”
“Ye
ah, but I’d bet his contact wouldn’t be too far from this area. Say Manuelo came north through San Antonio and Austin.”
“Basically following I-35.”
“Basically. Let’s concentrate on the counties immediately to the south of Dallas–Fort Worth.”
“Hood, Johnson, Ellis.”
“Check those and work your way down.”
They found it in Hill County. “Griff! There’s a Lavaca Road in Hill County. On the outskirts of town it turns into FM 2010. We thought it was a house number!”
He leaned over her, and she pointed it out on the screen.
“What town is that?” he asked.
“Itasca.”
“Repeat that,” Rodarte said.
“Itasca.”
“Where the hell is that?” He was driving with one hand, holding his cell phone to his ear with the other.
He’d had a desk cop back at the police station searching for the address Griff Burkett had rattled off to him before hanging up. Thanks to a satellite and technology he didn’t understand, Laura Speakman’s cell phone had been tracked to a movie theater. Before he could even get excited about it, they’d found the damn thing lying on the parking lot pavement.
From there the trail had gone cold because Mrs. Speakman’s car had been left at the mansion, they didn’t know what Burkett was driving now, and the moviegoers they’d questioned didn’t know diddly. Rodarte had left Carter there to try to pick up the trail. Actually, Rodarte was glad he could assign his partner another task. From here on, he preferred working alone.
Rodarte became furious thinking about Griff Burkett and his adulterous lover—had she plotted her husband’s murder with him?—laughing up their sleeves at him. The idiots he’d posted to guard her were going to be looking for jobs tomorrow. Then he was going to hurt them. And their wives. And their kids. They would come to regret the day they were born.
And that didn’t begin to cover what he had planned for Griff Burkett and the poor, innocent, grieving widow. He wished he’d fucked her when he had a chance. Who would she have told? The cops? he thought, scoffing. No way. Not when he could turn it around and tell them about her illicit affair with her husband’s killer. Yeah, he should have responded to the impulse he’d had there in her hotel room, bent her over and fucked her. His problem was he was just too nice a guy.
The desk cop was rattling off directions. “From where you’re at, go south on 35 E till you get to I-20 and head west. Then out of Fort Worth, take 35 dubya south. Watch for the exit.”
“So where’s this Lavaca Road or whatever?”
“Runs out the east side of town and turns into farm-to-market 2010. We reckon that’s where the numbers came from. It’s not exactly a street address, but it makes sense.”
“I guess,” Rodarte said, unconvinced. “But stand by in case I need to call you again.”
“I already called the local po-lice down there. Chief’s name is Marion.”
“First?”
“Last. Plus I alerted the Hill County SO. Marion’s sending a squad car to scout out the area, see if his boys can pick up anything. When you get there, you’ll have plenty of backup.”
“Is there still an APB out for Manuelo Ruiz down there?”
“I asked Marion to jog everybody’s memory.”
“And one for Griff Burkett?”
“Considered armed and dangerous. Just like you said, Detective.”
“He’s got a cop’s service weapon.”
“Told Marion that, too. Pissed him off.” After a pause, he added, “And to think we used to cheer the son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, to think.”
The best that could happen would be for Burkett to be spotted and plugged by an underpaid, overanxious Hicksville cop, a Cowboys fan who bore a grudge based on principle.
Someone else killing Burkett would remove any suspicion from him. But there was a distinct downside: it would deprive him of taking down that bastard himself, and that was something he very much looked forward to.
“What’s the number of the police station down there?” Rodarte asked the desk cop. Once he had it, he clicked off and called that number. He identified himself and was soon patched in to Chief Marion. “Rodarte, Dallas PD.”
“Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Just calling to follow up. What’s happening down there?”
“There’s nothing on FM 2010 except an old farmhouse. Vacant. Looks like it was abandoned a long time ago. My men said a strong wind would knock it down.”
“No shit?”
“The place was deserted. We’ll keep looking, but among my officers and the sheriff’s deputies, they don’t know of anything else out that way. Not for miles.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
“Sure thing, Detective.”
Rodarte closed his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, cursing his culpability. Had Burkett sent him on a wild-goose chase? Given him some busywork to keep him occupied while he and his ladylove got away?
He pulled his car to the shoulder of the freeway, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. He kept the motor idling while he considered his options.
“Itasca,” Laura repeated. “Ever heard of it?”
“No, but I’ll find it.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Great work. Thanks.” He moved toward the door. “Switch out the light till I’m gone. And remember not to turn any lights on unless the door to this room is closed.”
“You’re going now?”
“Right now. I just hope Rodarte doesn’t have too much of a lead.”
“But we don’t know if that’s it, Griff. And even if it is, Manuelo may be long gone.”
“I’ve gotta try. He’s my last hope.”
“I’m coming, too,” she said decisively.
“Un-huh. No way. I don’t know what I—”
“I’m coming with you.” She stood up, but when she did, a strange look came over her face and she pushed her hands between her thighs.
“What’s the matter?”
She just stood there, looking at him with alarm. Then her face crumpled, and she groaned, “Oh, no.”
CHAPTER
35
EVEN WHEN HE SAW THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, SAW THE streaks of it on the legs of her tracksuit, Griff didn’t comprehend what was happening until he looked into her eyes and saw the anguish in them. “Oh, Jesus.”
In a keening voice she said, “My baby.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. “Laura, I gotta get you to a hospital.”
“There’s nothing to be done.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s lost.”
“No, no, we’ll stop it. We can. We will.”
She looked around frantically. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He got to the door ahead of her and reached inside to switch on the light. She slipped around him and closed the door behind her.
“Laura?”
“Don’t come in.”
He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.
He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.
The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.
“Is it hopeless?”
She nodded.
He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “D
oes it hurt?”
“A little. Like really bad cramps.”
“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.
“I need something to put on.”
He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”
“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”
Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.
He yanked a robe off a hanger, then began rifling bureau drawers until he found her underwear. Not the skimpier, lacier kind he’d seen Laura in, but what he came up with would do.
Pads. Wouldn’t Ellie be past menopause? Hell if he knew. He searched their bathroom but didn’t find any personal products in any of the cabinets. The guest bath? Ellie had nieces who came to visit occasionally. Maybe…
In the guest bath closet he found extra toilet tissue, toothpaste and soap, disposable razors, even cellophane-wrapped toothbrushes. Pads and tampons. Thank God for Ellie. He grabbed the box of pads.
Laura was sitting on the lid of the toilet, hugging her waistline, staring into near space, rocking back and forth. He set the items on the counter, then crouched in front of her. She was still wrapped in the towel. He saw the goose bumps on her bare arms and legs. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
“You didn’t. It’s all right.”
“You’re cold.” He placed the thick robe around her shoulders. “Put your arms in.” He guided her arms into the sleeves, then pulled the robe together over her chest, towel and all.