Friction, page 17
“I was guarded.”
“Not enough.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Not this time. What about the next?”
“There’ll probably never be a next.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “You’ve decided that?”
“Well, I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me. Marilyn says it was more than likely an isolated incident, unrelated to me.”
“Oh, Marilyn says. Marilyn says? You’re willing to gamble your life on what Marilyn says? Is she worried about you, or losing to Sanders?”
“It’s a valid concern. But even if it weren’t for the upcoming election that will determine my professional future, I can’t remain in hiding forever.”
“Who said anything about forever? Just till we catch him.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“We will.”
“If you don’t?” she pressed. “Who will determine when it’s safe for me to resume my work, the campaign?”
“I can’t give you a date.”
“Exactly! How long am I to keep my life on hold?”
“You won’t have a life if—”
“Stop yelling at me!”
“Crawford!”
“What?”
He and Holly sprang apart and turned toward the lobby end of the corridor, where Neal Lester, full of self-importance, was striding past the policeman Connor. With Neal was a man wearing a Euro-looking suit and a worried frown.
Holly made a startled sound. “Dennis?”
Lithe and long-legged, he outdistanced Neal in order to reach her and draw her into an embrace. Speaking into her hair as he hugged her close, he said, “God, I’ve been wild with worry about you.”
Chapter 16
A half hour later when Crawford walked into the Crimes Against Persons unit, Neal was seated at his desk talking on his cell phone. Nugent was pecking on a computer keyboard, but he paused long enough to point Crawford toward a vacant chair.
He slumped in it, crossed his ankles, and gazed out the window while waiting for Neal to finish. When he disconnected, he said to Crawford, “My wife.”
Crawford hitched his chin in acknowledgment, but he was thinking Pity the woman and couldn’t help but wonder if Neal had ever made love to her with the lights on.
“Where have you been?”
“Seeing Harry and Sessions off. These policewomen you put on the judge—”
“Solid. We know the shooter wasn’t female.”
“Okay. Then I called Georgia. I hadn’t had a chance to before now.” Leveling a stare on Neal, he added, “It’s been that kind of morning.”
“Did she see you on TV?”
“No. Grace had the presence of mind to shoo her out of the room while the press conference was on. Thank God.”
“Why would you object to her seeing you? You’re the Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“Didn’t ask to be.”
“Didn’t you? Going after the bad guy in such a courageous fashion, earning accolades from Judge Spencer.”
“You got a bee up your butt, Neal? If so, let’s talk about it.”
The detective held Crawford’s challenging stare for several seconds, then opened the case file on his desk. “The ex-fiancé’s full name is Dennis White.”
“They were never officially engaged.”
Neal gave him a quick look, then referred again to the file, moving his pen down the bullet point list of facts. “Master’s degree in business from SMU. President of the alumni association. Runs the United Way campaign for the international pharmaceutical company where he’s regional director of sales.”
“Overachiever.”
“Makes six figures annually before bonuses.”
“You’d think he could afford socks.”
Neal raised his head. “What?”
“He wasn’t wearing socks.”
“I didn’t notice.”
Crawford merely shrugged.
“Anyway, he checks out,” Neal said.
“You’ve already concluded that?”
“Well, I had ample time to interview him while we were searching the building high and low for you and Judge Spencer. Your private conversations in out-of-the-way places are becoming a regular thing.”
“You should make up your mind, Neal.”
“How’s that?”
“Which is it I’m trying to do? Get under her skirt or kill her?”
Neal tossed down his pen. “Bill Moore told you.”
“It was a chickenshit implication.”
“Was it?”
“You think I contracted Rodriguez to kill the judge, and then set him up to get shot?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what it boiled down to.”
“If you were in this chair, wouldn’t you entertain some suspicions? Of everybody in the judges’ court records and case files, here and in Dallas—and detectives both places have gone through them twice—guess who stands out as the most resentful of court-ordered mandates? Right. Crawford Hunt. And it’s your claim alone that the shooter’s ear was pierced.”
“Wasn’t pierced.”
“Whatever. Nor did Judge Spencer recall you kicking the gunman. So, based on things attested to only by you, I’ve got a hell of a mess going on here.”
“Gee, Neal, I hate messing up your tidy career. I’m sure Judge Spencer regrets it, too. After all, it’s only her life that’s at stake. Which is why I was reading her the riot act about calling that press conference. She was giving it back to me. That’s what you caught us doing in that out-of-the-way place.”
Neal said nothing, merely glowered as he rocked back and forth in his chair and used his tongue to dab at the split on his swollen lower lip.
Crawford was willing to let it rest for a while. Grudgingly he asked, “Anything else on Dennis White?”
“He claims their breakup was amicable. At the time of the shooting, he was conducting a sales meeting. Thirty people present. Which I would call a solid alibi. Although they’re no longer a couple, he thinks the world of her. To his knowledge she doesn’t have any enemies. Uh…”
He consulted his notes again. “It’s incomprehensible that anyone would want to harm her. It made him ill to think of the trauma she suffered. He’s been trying to shake loose from his schedule to get down here and see for himself that she was all right.”
“It took him three days to shake loose from his schedule? Doesn’t sound ‘wild with worry’ to me.”
“Busy man.”
Lousy boyfriend, Crawford thought. Even for an ex.
“Greg Sanders?” he asked.
“Cleared.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. I had two different detectives question him.”
“What did he think of that?”
“They said he was cooperative, that he understood why he might have fallen under suspicion. Anyway, having left the courthouse shortly before two o’clock, which he says Judge Spencer herself can verify, he joined his wife at Golden Corral for a late lunch. Restaurant employees and Mrs. Sanders corroborate.”
Neal had recited all that tongue-in-cheek. Crawford said, “I don’t think he was the shooter, Neal, but he and Holly Spencer are rivals in a grudge match. He’s a defense attorney. Rubs elbows with criminals on a daily basis.”
“I’ve got somebody looking into all that. Have to tell you, though, it doesn’t feel like him.”
It didn’t feel like him to Crawford, either. As Holly had said, it wasn’t the blowhard’s style. Crawford was brooding over that when his attention was drawn to the door, where a man had appeared accompanied by a uniformed officer.
The civilian was around fifty years old, although his severe buzz cut was almost solid gray. Deep squint lines showed up white against an otherwise ruddy, wind-scoured complexion. Whoever he was, he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was dressed in a golf shirt and sport jacket over khaki pants.
The policeman pointed them out to him. He thanked the cop, then started walking toward them, every footfall evincing self-assurance.
“Who’s this guy?” Crawford asked.
Neal turned his head and, upon seeing the man, shot to his feet, sending his desk chair rolling backward.
The man stopped in front of Neal’s desk. “Sergeant Lester?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chuck Otterman.”
The two shook hands across Neal’s desk, then Neal introduced Nugent and lastly Crawford. Otterman’s handshake reminded him unpleasantly of his father-in-law’s. Less a social courtesy than an arm-wrestling match.
Neal ordered Nugent to fetch the man a chair, but Crawford stood up. “He can have this one.”
Otterman thanked him, rounded the desk, and took a seat.
Crawford backed up onto the corner of a nearby desk where he could take the measure of the man without being too obvious about it. Otterman was a stranger to him, but as soon as Neal saw him, he’d reacted with immediate recognition and surprise.
Now the detective gave a nervous little laugh. “We don’t typically see VIPs in this division, Mr. Otterman.”
“I’d hardly call myself a VIP.”
Turning to Crawford, Neal explained. “Mr. Otterman is overseer of the gas drilling company.” Going back to the man, he said, “I attended a luncheon where you spoke. You were very persuasive as to why natural gas is the answer to our energy crisis. You changed a lot of minds that day.”
During Neal’s explanation, Otterman had removed a fifty-cent piece from his pants pocket and was now deftly rolling it back and forth across the backs of his fingers. In response to Neal’s statement, he said, “There are still a few die-hard tree huggers who are critical of my outfit in particular and the industry in general.”
“Progress usually meets with some resistance.”
Crawford was beginning to understand why Neal, being Neal, was kowtowing to Chuck Otterman.
The Lerner Shale spread over one hundred square miles in southeastern Texas and neighboring Louisiana. Prentiss County lay in the center of it. Over the past few years, natural gas companies had paid well for land leases and drilling rights, and, in the case of many, speculation had turned into filthy lucre.
Many local residents had expressed concern over fracking and the detrimental effects that the drilling and extraction process might have on the environment, but they had been outnumbered by those enjoying the up-tick in the local economy.
With it, however, came a corresponding spike in crime. Roughnecks went where the work was. Many took advantage of living away from home, free of wives, girlfriends, and other shackles of domesticity. They brawled, gambled, drank, and womanized in excess. On days off, they were the contemporary equivalent of cattle drive cowboys coming into town to blow their paychecks on various vices and essentially to raise hell.
Law enforcement officers were frequently summoned to the man camp, a village of temporary dormitories that housed the roughnecks, either to settle disputes or mop up after one that had ended with bloodshed.
Crawford figured that one of Otterman’s men had gotten sideways with the authorities.
Neal pulled his chair back to his desk and sat down. “To what do we owe this honor, Mr. Otterman?”
“This morning’s news.” He shot a significant glance toward Crawford, flipped the coin, and caught it in his fist. “It was a shocking turn of events. Floored me, if you want to know the truth.”
Neal asked, “Any particular reason why?”
“Because I was in the courthouse at the time of the shooting.”
The statement stunned even Crawford. No one spoke for a moment, then Neal stammered, “I…I didn’t notice your name on the list of people evacuated.”
“My name wasn’t on the list.”
“That explains it,” Nugent exclaimed, as though he’d just discovered gravity. He grinned across at Crawford, who immediately had the attention of the other two as well.
He held Otterman’s gaze for a beat, then addressed Neal. “Nugent and I discovered a discrepancy in the number of people evacuated and the number questioned before being released.”
“And you kept this information to yourself?”
“I’ve been busy,” he said in terse reply to Neal’s superior tone. Fending off your illogical allegations. Neal probably would have rebuked Nugent for failing to pass along the information, but Otterman picked up there.
“I’m sorry for creating confusion.” He had resumed fiddling with the coin. “I thought, as everyone else did, that the man killed on the roof was the culprit. End of story. This morning when I found out differently, and realized that a madman was still at large, I knew I had to do my civic duty and admit to leaving before I was accounted for.”
Neal shook his head with perplexity. “The entire courthouse was secured within minutes. How did you manage to leave undetected?”
“Before you answer that one,” Crawford said, “I’d like to know why you were there in the first place.”
Otterman shifted in his seat to look more directly at Crawford. “To meet with an assistant DA.”
“Why?”
“In the hope of getting charges against one of my employees dropped or reduced.”
“What’d he do?”
“It’s alleged that he assaulted a man with a tire iron.”
“But he’s innocent.”
Crawford’s droll tone caused the other man to smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “No. He beat the crap out of the guy. But the guy had it coming.”
“How so?”
“He’d caught his wife in bed with my roughneck. But instead of laying into him, the man started in on his wife.”
“Your roughneck came to her defense with a tire iron,” Neal said.
“That’s right.”
“Cool.”
That from Nugent, who’d been hanging on to every word. Crawford wasn’t so caught up in the tale as he was in Otterman’s calm telling of it. He couldn’t pinpoint what bothered him, but something was off, possibly the man’s arrogance. Most people entering any law enforcement agency did so with a degree of self-consciousness. Not so Mr. Otterman. He was supremely cocksure.
He caught Crawford watching his play with the coin and chuckled. “I used to smoke four packs a day. This took its place. No nicotine, but it gives me something to do.”
If he figured to steer Crawford away from the topic, he figured wrong. He asked, “Which assistant DA did you meet with?”
“I’ll take it from here,” Neal said, giving Crawford a look that would drive nails. “We appreciate your coming forward, Mr. Otterman. However, this department prides itself on how quickly it responded to the emergency, implementing an evacuation plan we’d rehearsed. It would be helpful to know how you managed to escape our security.”
“I didn’t. I was herded out like everybody else.”
“Under police guard?”
“That’s right. They were hustling everybody along. People were nervous, afraid. The officers were trying to keep panic to a minimum. We were told they were taking us to an area of safety where we would be ‘sheltered’ until the gunman was apprehended.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have time to be sheltered. Once we got clear of the courthouse, I went my own way.”
“You just walked off?” Nugent asked.
“No. An officer stopped me. He ordered me to stay with the group. But when I told him who I was, he let me go.”
Crawford asked, “What was his name?”
“I have no idea. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”
“Because you were in such a big hairy hurry to get away from there minutes after a fatal shooting had occurred.”
Otterman’s hand closed tightly around the coin and his left eye squinted fractionally more than the right one. “I don’t care for your accusatory tone.”
“Neither do I,” Neal said.
Crawford forced himself to smile. “No accusation, Mr. Otterman. It’s just that officers wear name tags.”
“I didn’t notice his name tag.”
“Can you describe him? Ethnicity? Short, tall?”
“Youngish. Average height. Caucasian. He was in uniform.”
“PD or deputy sheriff?”
“Policemen wear blue?”
Crawford bobbed his head.
“Then he was a policeman, but I can’t be more specific than that. I’m sorry.”
“What floor were you on when the shooting took place?”
“Crawford.”
Otterman raised his hand to stave off Neal’s attempt to intercede. “It’s all right, Sergeant Lester.” To Crawford, he said, “I was on the third floor, where the district attorney’s offices are located. By the way, the assistant DA I met with was Alicia Owens.”
He pocketed the coin as he stood. “I think that about covers it.” He smiled at Nugent. “I’m glad I could clear up that discrepancy in the head count.” Then to Neal, “I hope you catch the suspect soon.”
Neal came to his feet. Nugent followed his example. Crawford remained with his behind propped on the corner of the neighboring desk.
Neal said, “Thank you for coming forward, Mr. Otterman,” and reached across his desk to shake hands.
Otterman nodded and turned toward the door.
Crawford said, “I’d like you to take a look at Rodriguez.”
“What?”
“Why?”
Otterman and Neal had spoken at the same time, but Crawford ignored the detective and replied to Otterman. “We haven’t confirmed his identity. We don’t know what he was doing in the courthouse on Monday and—”
“Now you never will.”
The remark was meant to be snide, and, although Crawford knew it was aimed at him, he let it bounce off. “If you took a look at him, maybe you would remember seeing him in the courthouse. It could be the clue we need to tie up those loose ends.” When Otterman failed to respond immediately, he added, “Just a thought. Since you’re so into civic duty, and all.”
He had intentionally created a dilemma for the man. If Otterman agreed, it would be a concession to their authority, and Crawford felt that he didn’t like conceding authority to anyone. If he declined, he would have two strikes against him, because, in spite of Neal’s bowing and scraping, much could be made of the fact that Otterman had left the scene of a capital crime.
