by BROWN SANDRA
Rather than relieve him of his lingering doubts and anxiety regarding Susan’s death, she had contributed to them by passing along what Moody had told her. She still didn’t know what to make of her father’s anguished response to the possibility that she’d witnessed the crime, and it seemed doubtful that she would have an opportunity to ask him.
Beyond her concern for all that, she was disconsolate over losing him. For months she’d been trying to brace herself for this inevitable outcome. But now that his death seemed imminent, she realized the futility of trying to prepare for it. One couldn’t. She couldn’t. Death was unacceptable. Even now, when it seemed likely that she would never see her father again, she wanted to reject the finality and permanence of his departure.
But it was a reality that she must face. Quietly she said, “Daddy’s going to die soon.”
Dent moved up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Do you want me to fly you down there?”
“I offered to go. Olivia said no. And she’s right. As much as I want to be there and see him one last time, I can’t go back on the promise I made him.”
“Which was a bitch of a promise to ask of you.”
She tended to agree. The more she learned about that horrible day, the more confounding the facts became. And this quest for the truth had placed her and the people around her in danger. She wanted to fulfill the promise she’d made her father, but she feared the cost of doing so.
She said, “We can’t just stand by and let Ray Strickland continue his personal vendetta.”
“The police have his license plate number. Hopefully he’ll be apprehended soon.”
“But until he is—”
“We gotta keep looking over our shoulders.”
“We’re not the only ones.”
He turned her around to face him. “You’re frowning. What are you thinking?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“We need to warn Moody.”
“You’re right, I don’t like it.”
“He sent Ray’s innocent brother—”
“Presumed innocent brother. Even Moody’s not sure.”
“Okay, but if Allen Strickland was innocent, Moody is a target for Ray’s retribution.”
“He’s had years to get retribution on Moody. He hasn’t.”
“My book set all this into motion.” When he was about to counter that, she placed her fingertips against his lips. “Don’t bother. You know it. I know it. First you, now Gall, were nearly killed because of it. I don’t want anyone else to be hurt, Dent. I feel guilty enough already.”
He released her and turned away.
“You think I’m wrong?” she asked.
“No, dammit, I think you’re right. I just hate having to do that guy a favor.”
“I understand why you feel that way.”
“Thanks for that. What’s the ‘but’?”
“But he owned up to the injustices he did.”
“Some of them. He didn’t play his ace.”
“He might have, if—”
“What?”
“If you hadn’t badgered him. I think he withheld it out of stubbornness. He didn’t—”
“He didn’t want to lose a pissing contest with me.”
She just looked at him.
He conceded with a sigh. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have hit him, but we’d given him plenty of chances to confess his sins before the cigarettes and booze launch him to the Pearly Gates.”
“The cigarettes, the booze, or the pistol.”
“He did seem to have a love affair going with that thing. Couldn’t keep his hands off it.” He thought about it for a moment longer, then said grudgingly, “You’d better call Haymaker. Tell him to call Moody and—Why not?” he asked when she shook her head.
“We can use Ray Strickland’s attack on Gall as a bargaining chip. Out of the goodness of our hearts—”
She ignored his snort.
“—we’ll tell him what happened last night and warn him to beware of Strickland. In exchange, he’ll tell us whatever it is he’s holding back.”
“And you think he’ll go for that.” Clearly, he was doubtful.
“It’s worth a try. We need to know what he knows, Dent.”
“Okay, okay. Call the son of a bitch. Lay out your terms.”
“I can’t call him. I don’t know his number. Haymaker used his phone to call him, and took it back as soon as I’d finished talking to Moody.”
“Get his number from Haymaker.”
“Talking to Moody on the phone won’t be as persuasive as being face-to-face with him. We have to go back to his place.”
“No. We don’t.”
“We do. You know we do.”
“Bellamy, if he blows his brains out today or tomorrow, or if he waits too long to do it and Strickland gets to him first, I really don’t care.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“Even if you don’t care about Moody’s fate, you can’t get vindication for yourself until you know everything, and you won’t know everything unless we convince Moody to give it up.”
He held her stare for several moments, and she knew she’d won when he muttered a litany of curses. “All right, we go back,” he said. “But one thing, and I mean it.”
“What?”
“I’m eating the peach cobbler before we go.”
The overcast day made Dale Moody’s property look even more forlorn. Cypress tree branches weighted down by the humidity drooped low enough to brush the roof of the sedan as it passed beneath them. The murky lake waters were still and sullen looking.
The cabin itself was empty.
As the car rolled to a stop, Dent had such a bad feeling about it that he made Bellamy wait while he went up the steps, onto the rickety porch, and through the screened door, halfway expecting to find only the remains of the former detective.
But there was no sign of Moody, dead or alive.
“He’s not here,” he called to Bellamy, who joined him inside the sad dwelling that stank of stale tobacco smoke, mildew, and mice.
“I’m a bit relieved that we didn’t find him slumped in that chair with his pistol in his hand,” she said.
“Me, too,” he admitted.
She glanced behind her through the screened door. “The lake?”
“If he drowned himself, he drove his car into the water. It’s not here.”
“I hadn’t noticed, but you’re right.”
On the metal TV tray, which seemed to be the focal point of the room and of Moody’s life, were the overflowing ashtray and an empty whiskey bottle. “Conspicuously missing is the .357,” Dent remarked.
Bellamy went into the kitchen and checked the oven. “Also conspicuously missing is the case file. What do you make of that?”
“That he took his evidence with him and isn’t coming back.”
The idea came to Rupe as he was trying to eat a bowl of Cream of Wheat, which was about as solid a food as he could manage.
The second morning after taking the beating from Dale Moody, his gums were still puffy and red and hurt like hell from the extensive dental work. His nose was so grotesquely swollen it spread practically from ear to ear and made slits of his eyes. His own kids would have run screaming at the sight of him.
He’d cooked the Cream of Wheat himself, having called the maid the night of the attack and told her to take a few days off. He didn’t want anybody to see him like this, not even the person who cleaned his commode.
Making up an excuse that stretched plausibility, he’d had his assistant cancel everything on his calendar, including a day’s worth of filming TV commercials and a luncheon for leading businessmen at the governor’s mansion. He’d encouraged his wife to stay another week or two at the beach.
Rupe Collier had gone underground.
But as he gingerly masticated the warm cereal, he rethought his position. He could be a vict
im who crawled into his lair and hid until he was once again presentable, which, according to the cheeky ER doctor, could be as long as two months.
Or he could milk this for all it was worth.
Which, after a day of self-imposed solitude, was an option Rupe found much more appealing.
He looked like a monster, but that was why the drastic change in his appearance would be so effective. Customers and TV viewers who were used to seeing him immaculately dressed and groomed would be outraged over what he’d suffered. Victims of violent crime won sympathy, right? They deserved and often got a soapbox, and when they spoke, people listened. Rather than hide his disfigurement, he would grandstand it. He would make his brutalized face a cause celebre.
Excited by the prospects, he fed the remainder of his breakfast to the garbage disposal and went in search of a business card he had planned to throw away, if not shred. Fortunately, he’d done neither. He found it in the satin-lined pocket of his suit jacket. He called the cell-phone number, and it was answered on the second ring.
“Talk to me.”
“Mr. Van Durbin? Rupe Collier.”
The columnist’s disgruntled tone changed, becoming instantly chipper. “I’m still not in the market to buy a car.”
“I could make you a good deal on one, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”
“Is that so?”
“Our chat called to mind some ambiguities regarding the Susan Lyston case. Elements of it, that I’d rather not have been reminded of, have resurfaced, and I can’t stop thinking about them. Especially in light of. . . .” Rupe let that dangle like the carrot it was intended to be.
“In light of what?”
“You’ll know when you see me. Are you free?”
Twenty minutes later the EyeSpy columnist rang his doorbell, and when he saw Rupe, he exclaimed, “Christ on a crutch!”
It was the astonished reaction Rupe had hoped for. If he got that kind of response from a jaded writer for a sleazy tabloid, think how an average decent person—and potential customer of Collier Motors—would react.
He ushered Van Durbin and his photographer inside, promising the latter that he could take pictures of him after he’d had his talk with Van Durbin. He left the scruffy young man in the den with a cold can of Coke and ESPN on the flat screen, then led Van Durbin into his home study, which was furnished even more lavishly in Texas chic than his office at the dealership.
The writer picked up a silver frame that held a place of honor on the corner of Rupe’s desk. “Your wife?”
“A former Miss Texas.”
Van Durbin gave an appreciative whistle and returned the frame to its spot as he sat down in a chair facing the desk. He removed his pencil and notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and quipped, “So, how does the other guy look?”
Rupe formed a reasonable facsimile of a smile, wondering if it looked as distorted as it felt, and figuring that if it did, all the better. “I didn’t land a single punch.”
“You sold the guy a lemon?”
He and the ER doctor must have attended the same school of comedy. Rupe formed the expected grin, then turned serious. “I wish that was all it amounted to.” Leaning back in his chair, he made a steeple of his fingertips and studied his manicure. “I wasn’t quite truthful with you before, Mr. Van Durbin.”
“Your wife was only first runner-up?”
If Rupe’s gums weren’t already throbbing, he would have been grinding his teeth. He wanted to squash Van Durbin beneath his boot heel like a cockroach. It was taking a huge amount of self-control to appear contrite.
“When we spoke a few days ago, I was trying to protect the integrity of the Austin Police Department and the honest officers who serve this community.”
“Implying that there are some dishonest officers serving it as well?” Van Durbin winked. “Let me guess. Dale Moody.”
“As you are already aware, he and I worked closely together to indict and convict Allen Strickland. However—”
“I thrive on howevers.”
“—there were some . . . tactics . . . used during that police investigation which I found off-putting. I turned a blind eye to them. I’m not proud of it, but I was young and ambitious, and I was assured that these, uh . . .”
“Tactics?”
“Yes. I was assured that they were commonplace and accepted as a part of police work. An unpleasant aspect of the job, perhaps, but excusable because, after all, officers deal with lawless individuals. Often, violence is the only language that violent offenders understand. I was told—”
“By Moody? He’s the one telling you all this?”
“That’s right. Anytime I asked Dale how he had come by a piece of information during an interrogation, or how he’d obtained an article of evidence, he would dismiss my concerns. The more outspoken I became about his methods, the more truculent he got.
“So,” Rupe said, raising his hands in the sign of surrender, “I took the high road. I backed off. I let him conduct his investigation as he saw fit. I concentrated on what I could control, which was preparing the case for trial and representing the state in the courtroom.”
Van Durbin squinted at him. “Having second thoughts about Strickland’s conviction?”
“Not at all. I did my job. His fate was up to the twelve jurors, not me.”
“Then what’s this little mea culpa chat about, Rupe?”
“I believe Bellamy Price shares the misgivings I had about Dale Moody’s investigation. In her book, the detective’s competence and integrity are brought into question.”
“So are the prosecutor’s.”
“She did that for dramatic effect, to create tension and conflict between those two characters. I didn’t take it personally. But apparently Dale Moody took offense at the way his character was portrayed, because since you and I spoke the other day, he’s come out of hiding.”
Van Durbin swiftly added two and two together. “Holy shit! Dale Moody did that to you?”
“Night before last. He jumped me and attacked so viciously I was powerless to defend myself.”
“You didn’t write Low Pressure. Why’d he attack you?”
“Your column. He saw me quoted in it.”
“You didn’t say anything derogatory about him.”
“No, but—”
“He knows you could have.”
Rupe didn’t respond but made a face that strongly hinted that the writer had guessed correctly. He reached up and touched his bandaged nose. “I think this demonstrates how afraid Moody is that you’ll turn up something that could prove to be embarrassing. Possibly criminal,” he added in an undertone.
Van Durbin gnawed on the eraser of his pencil as though weighing a decision, then hiked up his hip and withdrew a sheet of paper from his rear pants pocket. He unfolded the square and pushed it across the desk toward Rupe. “Recognize them?”
It was a grainy black-and-white photograph of Bellamy Price leaning over a balcony railing, looking terribly distressed. Behind her was a bare-chested Denton Carter. “Where was this taken? When?”
“Outside Carter’s apartment, night before last.”
“What was going on between them?”
“Don’t I wish I knew,” Van Durbin said, bobbing his eyebrows. “But that looks like a bandage around his waist to me. And get a load of his face. Doesn’t look as bad as yours, but he’d taken a pounding, too.”
When Rupe raised his eyebrow quizzically, Van Durbin shrugged.
“I don’t know who, what, when, where, or why.” He frowned with malice. “Never got a chance to ask him, either. He sicced the police on me and my photographer.”
He relayed what had happened and Rupe laughed in spite of the pain it caused.
Van Durbin scowled. “Funny now. Wasn’t then. Took me hours to get my editor on the phone so he could tell them I wasn’t a weenie-wagger. The point is, D
enton Carter got crosswise with somebody.”
“You think it was Moody?”
Van Durbin turned his question around. “What do you think?”
Rupe thoughtfully settled against the back of his chair. “I don’t know. If one of them is bearing a grudge against the other, it should be Dent. Moody came down hard on him, and, if not for Dent’s alibi, he would have been tried for the crime.”
“Wait,” Van Durbin said, sitting forward. “Are you saying it could have gone either way? Dent Carter or Strickland?”
Rupe didn’t answer, letting the writer draw his own conclusions and hoping to Christ he would catch Rupe’s drift without being so smart as to see through the manipulation.
Lowering his voice to a confidential pitch, Van Durbin said, “Doesn’t that kinda contradict what you said earlier about second-guessing Strickland’s conviction?”
“I said Strickland’s fate was in the hands of the jurors.”
“But their verdict was based on what you told them, and you told them he was guilty.”
“My arguments to that effect were founded on what came from Moody’s investigation. Was everything factual? At the time, I accepted it as such.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Maybe.”
“But you’re not one hundred percent sure?”
“Moody was under a lot of pressure from his superiors to nail that girl’s killer. He’d already put forth one suspect that fizzled. He’d’ve been made to look like a bumbling fool if his case against Strickland had fallen apart, too. The man was determined to see Strickland convicted.”
“By whatever means necessary?”
Again Rupe avoided giving a straight answer. “All I’m saying is that Dale felt the squeeze from city hall, the PD, the almighty Lystons, and Joe Q. Public.”
“So he bent rules to produce a culprit.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But if he’s got nothing to hide, why did he attack you?”
Rupe looked pained. “My thought exactly. It’s hardly the action of a man who is entirely innocent of wrongdoing. He also threatened me against speaking about this. To you. To anyone. But saying nothing smacks of a cover-up, and I want no part of it.”