Friction, page 21
Her hands now trembling with the memory, she turned off the faucet and dried her face. As she lowered the towel and saw her image in the mirror above the sink, she realized that this is the way she must have looked to him in that moment: hair straggling over her face, eyes glazed and dilated, cheeks flushed, lips parted in bewilderment over what had just happened.
Then as now, her nipples had been so tight underneath her t-shirt, so sensitized, that the abrasion of the soft cloth had been enough to send tingles through her. If he had touched them in that moment, brushed his tongue across them, even fanned them with his breath, her heart might have burst from the pleasure.
But he hadn’t. He had broken that moment of shared wonderment by slipping out of her and levering himself off the sofa. That’s when she was struck with the enormity of what they’d done, the sheer calamity of it. Frantically, she’d pulled down her t-shirt and crammed the hem between her thighs. She rolled onto her side and drew herself into a ball. But there was no cause for modesty, because, by then, he was making his way out, his boot heels thudding against the hardwood floor.
Of all the factors relating to that event, the one that surprised her most was her own spontaneity. She hadn’t paused even long enough to ask herself Should I or shouldn’t I? She had simply acted on a propulsive desire without giving any thought to the wrongness or rightness of it.
Which was unlike her. Following her father’s abandonment, her mother had relinquished all major decision making to her. Bearing that much responsibility, she had carefully weighed every decision. She couldn’t afford to make one wrong turn, because her future, as well as her mother’s, had depended on correctness.
There had been no place in her life, ever, for caprice.
As she gazed at her reflection now, she realized that, despite the consequences that might arise from that one rash act, she didn’t regret it as much as she should. Had she been her careful and cautious self, she would have missed those thousands of incredible physical sensations. She would have missed those erotically charged moments measured by the cadence of their hard breathing. She would have missed the utter wildness of it, the untempered carnality. She would have missed…him.
Better to be remembering it now with a trace of regret than forever regretting that she had denied herself the experience.
But he would always be the man she had compromised ethics for. And to him she would always represent the system standing between him and his child. His parting words to her last night had cut to the quick, but they had summed up the hopelessness of their situation.
After showering and dressing, she went into the kitchen to find Marilyn already there, sitting at the dining table, which she’d turned into a temporary workspace for herself. They exchanged good mornings, and when Holly asked Marilyn how she’d slept, she guffawed. “Some bodyguard I am. I went out like a light. What time did you get home?”
“Around ten thirty. I had a police escort all the way to the back door, then they parked at the end of the drive.”
“They’re still there. Did you happen to watch the news last night?”
“No.”
“They’ve got another person of interest. His name is Chuck Otterman.”
Holly stopped in the act of pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Are you certain?”
“Heard it again this morning. I thought the name sounded familiar, and guess what?” She tapped a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “He’s contributed to your campaign.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve met him.” She realized now why Crawford had asked her about the man, seemingly out of the blue. “What are they saying about him?”
Marilyn filled her in and summed up with, “Frankly, I don’t think it amounts to much. He came forward of his own volition. A guilty person wouldn’t call attention to himself. And what could he possibly have against you?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“I think the media just got wind of his sneaking away from the courthouse and made more of it than is there.” Marilyn pointed at the chair across from her. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
Holly sat.
Marilyn clasped her hands together on the tabletop. “You shot down—maybe not the best turn of phrase—my idea of using the Texas Ranger somehow to—”
“I stand by that decision, Marilyn. He’s got enough on his plate.”
“Holly, he’s a poster boy.”
“For?”
“For long and lean, badass lawman. Your description ‘cop-like’ didn’t include the chiseled chin, the cheekbones, and the fact that he’s a hunk.”
“Honestly, Marilyn. How old are you?”
“Never too old to notice. I Googled him last night. Do you know his history?” Before Holly could reply, she began citing what she called Crawford’s “exploits,” including Halcon.
“And he’s not just a shoot-’em-up. Practically single-handedly, he busted up a kiddie porn ring run by a preacher and his wife from right here in Podunk, but they had customers all over the world. Even had the feds singing his praises.”
She sat forward, leaning into the table. “He’s smart. He’s tough. He was rude as hell to me, but I’ll forgive him that because he has this remarkable soft spot for his daughter. His orphaned child. He was in your courtroom fighting to regain custody of her, when…”
She paused for dramatic effect. “When he’s called upon to save the life of the judge who might very well have ruled against him.” Spreading her arms wide, she exclaimed, “It’s Hollywood. It’s chivalry and valor. People will eat it up. But we’ve got to serve it to them.”
“I’ve recused myself from his custody case.”
That blindsided Marilyn. “What? When? You did? Want to tell me why?”
“No.”
Holly’s succinct but firm reply left Marilyn with no wiggle room for argument. Tactfully backing off that, she picked up a pen and began using it to beat out a rapid tattoo on the table.
A full minute elapsed, then Marilyn tossed down the pen and smacked her hands together. “Actually this is even better. Yes! As the presiding judge, you were limited as to what you could say. Now that you won’t be hearing his case, you can be subjective. You’re free to talk about him in any terms you choose.”
Holly sighed. “Marilyn—”
“I know you don’t want to expose his daughter to the media. I get that. Besides, I doubt the grandfather would permit it. He wouldn’t even listen to my pitch. But what if we—”
“Wait. Back up. You tried to pitch this idea to Joe Gilroy?”
“About half an hour ago.”
Holly looked down at Marilyn’s cell phone lying on the table between them.
Marilyn said, “I Googled him, too, and had their home number in no time. Not that it did me any good to call. The instant I introduced myself and told him who I was, he hung up on me. But we can still cash in without using the little girl. We can—”
“Excuse me for just a moment.” Holly pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Holly left Marilyn dictating notes into her cell phone. When she returned a few minutes later, Marilyn was still at it. She completed her thought, then clicked off the phone. “I’ve come up with some ideas just off the top of my head. We don’t have to implement all of them, but… What’s that?”
Holly sat Marilyn’s packed suitcase near the back door. “Don’t you recognize it?”
“You’re moving me out?”
“No, I’m firing you.”
Marilyn’s lips went slack.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done, Marilyn. You were worth every penny I’ve paid you up to this point. But the lengths to which you’ll go to win the election are repugnant to me.” When she saw that Marilyn was about to speak, she held up her hand. “Argument is futile. Our association ends now. Please clear the table before you go. Have a safe drive back to Dallas.”
Neal was waiting in the corridor outside the ME’s domain when Crawford arrived a few minutes before nine o’clock. Neither spoke. Crawford took up a position against the wall and just looked at the other man.
Finally Neal said, “The PD is all abuzz this morning.”
Crawford turned away to look down the long hallway, currently deserted. Neal didn’t take the hint. “Is it true you got served a TRO?”
“Yes.”
“Did you threaten your father-in-law?”
“No.”
“You’re capable of violence. I have firsthand experience.”
Crawford brought his head back around and caught Neal swabbing his lower lip with his tongue. “But I don’t give advance warning of it,” Crawford said. “Sort of defeats the purpose.”
“You’re destructive,” Neal said, gathering angry momentum. “That little stunt you pulled last night with the TV station set this investigation back—”
“What investigation, Neal? You’re soft on the one thing we have going.”
“Otterman? The chief—”
“Awww. Did you get called into the principal’s office?”
“I got reamed.”
“For letting this case congeal on your tidy desk?”
“For your unsubstantiated allegations—”
“I didn’t allege a goddamn thing. True or false, Otterman came to us and admitted to talking a cop into letting him leave the courthouse. Huh? True. True or false, I asked him to take a look at Rodriguez, and he said okay. Also true. What did I allege?”
Neal remained silent but irate.
Crawford took a breath and assumed a more conciliatory tone. “Look, you want me to talk to the chief and take full responsibility for any backlash over Otterman, I’m happy to do that.”
“Hell. No. I don’t want you talking to anybody. Something about you just naturally pisses people off.”
“And here I was hoping to get elected homecoming king.”
“Who trashed your house?”
The flippancy of Neal’s question grated the part of him left raw and exposed by the vandalism. But he replied with a forced nonchalance. “The PD really was abuzz this morning, wasn’t it? Forget holding seminars on home security. Y’all ought to conduct them on gossiping effectively.”
“Wasn’t gossip. It’s a matter of record. You called the police to your house. Responders filed a report.”
Crawford knew the chances of catching the intruder were slim to none. Anyone committing a crime that specific, that targeted, knew what they were doing, and it was doubtful they’d left incriminating evidence behind. Even so, the room was being dusted for prints this morning.
The vandal had entered through a window in Georgia’s room, but a flashlight search of the area outside it hadn’t yielded much. One of the officers had theorized that the culprit had been looking to steal something that he could swiftly pawn for drug money. “When he found dolls instead of electronics or jewelry, he got mad and went a little crazy.”
Crawford didn’t agree with that theory, but he hadn’t argued. He’d called in the police only so there would be a record of the break-in if ever he should need it, say for an insurance claim.
“Any idea who did it?” Neal asked him now.
Crawford wouldn’t have answered anyway, but he was spared the need to. “Here’s Otterman.”
The man stepped off the elevator and strode toward them, looking as robust and arrogant as he had the day before. The only difference was that he was dressed in work clothes. The legs of his khakis were stuffed into boots that were caked with mud. He stopped a few feet from them, his eyes as hard as drill bits as he addressed Neal. “Are you so desperate for leads that you had to put my name out there?”
Neal quailed. “No one from our department referred to you as a person of interest, Mr. Otterman. That was the reporter’s inference. He’s since been corrected and promises to recant.”
“For all I care he can refer to me as Jack the Ripper. It doesn’t change the truth, which I told you yesterday. The only skin off my nose is that reporters are calling me for comment when I’ve got a tight schedule, a busted piece of equipment, and a crew standing around scratching their balls while I’m down here with you.” He checked his wristwatch. “Can we get on with this so I can get back to work?”
Crawford was standing near the large red button next to the double doors. He pressed it and they were buzzed in. He stood aside and let the other two go in ahead of him, Otterman looking straight ahead, continuing to pretend that he didn’t exist.
Neal had notified the staff that they were coming and asked them to be ready. Dr. Anderson was otherwise occupied, but one of his assistants was there beside the table. Once they were in place, he respectfully folded back the sheet.
Crawford kept his eyes on Otterman, who, in spite of his repeated denials of knowing Jorge Rodriguez, instantly gave himself away. Crawford saw the man’s gut quicken with a sharp indrawn breath. He blinked several times, then hastily looked away.
“Mr. Otterman?”
He recovered himself so rapidly and so well that if Crawford hadn’t been watching for signs, he would have missed them. When Otterman replied to Neal’s discreet prompting, it was as though he had dropped a welder’s mask over his face. His transformation was that sudden. His expression was closed, unforgiving, unrevealing.
He said, “I don’t know him.”
Chapter 20
Crawford drove straight from the morgue to the courthouse. Neal had arrived moments ahead of him. When Crawford walked into the CAP unit, the detective was smoothing down his necktie as he lowered himself into his desk chair. His maddening calmness infuriated Crawford.
He strode over to the desk. “He was lying.”
“I would have laid odds you’d say that.”
“I saw it, Neal.”
“You saw what you wanted to see.”
“The signs were there. Plain as day. He recognized Rodriguez immediately, dammit. Even you couldn’t have missed his reaction.”
Neal shot him a fulminating look, but Crawford sensed he wasn’t quite as indifferent to Otterman as he pretended. “You did notice, didn’t you?”
“A flicker,” Neal admitted. “Nothing to get you this excited. Maybe he and Rodriguez had been at side-by-side urinals.”
“And maybe Rodriguez was part of a plot.”
“Plot? We haven’t established a plot. Suddenly this is a conspiracy, and Chuck Otterman is behind it?” He laughed shortly, then his eyes narrowed on Crawford. “Why are you so keen on him?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because there’s no evidence that points to him,” Neal said, raising his voice. “No motive. Nitpicky things like that which are essential to upholding our system of justice. Even if they’re no big deal to you, they are to the DA.”
He was right, and Crawford had nothing to counter with, but he wasn’t throwing in the towel, either. “I still say he’s playing us. He made a preemptive strike by coming in here and staging the honest citizen, mea culpa scene. Smart move. By telling us himself that he was there, rather than letting us find out on our own, we’re less likely to suspect him.”
“I don’t suspect him. We dug and found nothing remotely connecting him to Judge Spencer except a donation to her campaign.”
“Maybe we dug in the wrong place.”
“On that point, I couldn’t agree with you more. We’re digging in the wrong place.” Neal’s cell phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He answered and listened for a moment, then said, “Hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece. “My wife. Our youngest is throwing up.” He swiveled his desk chair around to face the window, giving Crawford his back.
Crawford walked over to the makeshift coffee bar, which amounted to a Nixon-era machine and fixings. He poured tepid sludge into a Styrofoam cup, then used his burner phone to speed-dial Smitty.
The club owner answered with a grumbled, “Who’s this?”
“Just checking to see if my phone is broken or something.”
Recognizing his voice, Smitty swore. “You said to call if I had something. Have I called? No.”
“There’s a guy I know at the IRS—”
“I swear!”
“—who actually gets off doing audits.”
“Honest to God, the object of your affection hasn’t even been to the club—”
“Tickled Pink?”
“None of them. Not since you were here. Proving what I’ve said all along. You’re a jinx.”
“Have you talked to anybody about him?”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re scum. Have you?”
“I’ve put out some feelers, okay? Nothing’s come back.”
Just then Matt Nugent entered the room, bringing with him several files. He looked excited. Crawford glanced over at Neal, whose back was still to the room.
“Do better, Smitty, or I’m gonna have to alert the vice squad to that underage girl you’ve got dancing.”
“Shit! How’d you know about her?”
“I didn’t.”
Crawford clicked off, pitched his cup of coffee into the trash can, and deftly intercepted Nugent. “Morning, Matt. Neal’s on the phone. Whacha got there?”
“Nothing.”
But Crawford could tell by Nugent’s bobbing Adam’s apple that it was something. Giving the young detective no time to protest, he forced him to execute an about-face and steered him back into the corridor. He moved them out of earshot of other police personnel and, before Nugent could stop him, plucked one of the files from his collection.
“You’re not s-supposed to see those,” he sputtered as Crawford opened the file.
No, he was quite certain Neal hadn’t wanted him to see these. The photographs were grainy, blurred, apparently taken with a telephone lens of a moving object: himself. They documented his comings and goings over the past twenty-four hours. On foot. In his truck. Arriving at the courthouse. Leaving it. Sitting at the bar where he’d nursed a bourbon. Being served a TRO beneath the beam of his front porch light.
