Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

When the pair of investigators entered the room, Laura Speakman was standing between two police chaplains. One gave them a surreptitious nod, letting them know that she’d been told, but that was obvious. She was as pale as the dead body.

The taciturn detective took up a position against the wall. The other advanced into the room. “Mrs. Speakman?”

“My husband’s dead? There’s no mistake?”

“No mistake. I’m sorry.”

Her knees buckled. The chaplains guided her down onto a sofa. One sat near her, placing his arm protectively along the back of the seat. The other asked a uniformed officer to get her a glass of water.

As the detective approached, he withdrew his card from the breast pocket of his jacket and extended it to her. “Stanley Rodarte, ma’am. Homicide detective, Dallas PD.”

LAURA, HE’S HERE.”

Kay Stafford had appeared in the doorway of Laura’s bedroom, where she was reclined on a chaise. The draperies were drawn. The room was cool and dim. Her assistant spoke quietly and slowly, the way everyone was addressing her today, as though fearing a sudden noise might cause her to shatter like crystal. They could have been right.

“I put him in the den,” Kay said. “Take your time coming down. He said he would wait.”

Laura sat up and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I might just as well talk to him now, although I don’t know what I can tell him today that I couldn’t tell him last night.”

Detective Rodarte had stayed until almost midnight. He’d spent some of that time questioning her. The rest of the time he, his silent partner, and other police personnel had moved in and out of the library, doing whatever it was they did at the scene of an apparent murder.

They consulted in hushed voices, casting looks in her direction, occasionally asking her for information. She was asked by a solicitous policewoman if there was someone she should call. “Someone to stay with you tonight.”

Neither she nor Foster had family. Since the accident, they hadn’t kept close contact with friends. “My assistant,” she replied.

She’d given the policewoman Kay’s home number. Kay had arrived within a half hour, sharing Laura’s shock but somehow managing to perform the simple tasks that Laura seemed incapable of doing. She gave directions, supplied answers to practical questions, and dealt with the telephone, which had begun to ring with irritating frequency.

Kay had a notepad in her hand as they walked downstairs together. “I hate to bother you with all this now, Laura.”

“Go ahead. I don’t have the luxury of collapsing. That will come later, when…when everything’s settled. What do you need?”

A proviso of Foster’s will, which he’d altered when they married, was that, in the event of his death, Laura would serve as head of SunSouth until the board could elect another. She’d been granted power of attorney to make decisions and conduct business. So, in addition to becoming a widow last night, she’d stepped into the role of CEO.

Kay said, “The media are camped outside the entrance of our building, awaiting a statement.”

“Ask Joe to write something generic. ‘Everyone at SunSouth is stunned by this tragic event, et cetera.’ But ask him not to release it before faxing it here for my approval.” She trusted her marketing head to write an appropriate press release, but it was her practice, as well as Foster’s, to sign off on everything. “Tell him not to conduct a formal press conference or respond to any questions about the…the crime. We’ll leave that to the police.”

Kay checked that item off her list. “Operations has asked if they should coordinate a minute of silence in memory of Foster. Anything like that?”

Laura smiled wanly and shook her head. “Foster wouldn’t allow the schedule to be interrupted even by one minute. But the thought is appreciated. Make sure everyone knows that.”

“Have you given any thought to funeral arrangements?”

Laura, having reached the bottom of the staircase, stopped and turned to her. “I can’t schedule the funeral until the body has been released.”

Unexpectedly, tears filled her eyes. Two years ago, following the car accident, Foster had lain in an ICU clinging to life. She’d feared that each breath would be his last and that soon she would be organizing his funeral. But she hadn’t had time to prepare for talking in those terms now. This time it was a sudden reality. There would be a funeral. When it would be she didn’t yet know.

Last night she had been advised not to go into the library. She had taken that advice. What had been described to her was grotesque, and she hadn’t wanted that to be her last image of Foster. It had been jolting enough to see the zippered body bag as it was wheeled out on a gurney. Inside the bag was her husband’s body, but to the police, it was evidence.

Sensing her employer’s distress, Kay said, “I apologize for having to mention it. But people are keeping the phone lines hot, here at the house and at our offices, asking when the service will be and where. The lobby is already full to overflowing with flowers.”

Laura touched her assistant’s hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something. In the meantime, ask Joe to include in the press release that in lieu of flowers, people could make donations to Elaine’s foundation. Foster would prefer that.”

“Of course. One last thing. The governor issued a statement this morning, extolling Foster as an entrepreneur, model Texan, and human being. Then she called to ask if there was anything she could do on a personal level, as a friend to you both.”

“I’ll respond personally as soon as I can. In the meantime, tell her how much I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

Kay accompanied her as far as the den, where Detective Stanley Rodarte was waiting. Rodarte. Laura had recognized the name instantly from Griff Burkett’s warning. He’d been sure to include mention of an olive drab sedan but had failed to tell her that Rodarte was a homicide detective with the Dallas Police Department.

Rodarte was studying a painting of an English hunting scene. He turned when she walked in. “Is this an original?”

“I believe so.”

“Hmm,” he said, sounding impressed. “Must have cost a bundle.”

She didn’t honor that with a response.

“Sure is a beautiful home, Mrs. Speakman.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you redecorate when you moved in after marrying Mr. Speakman?”

“Elaine Speakman had done such an excellent job with the decor, I saw no need to change it.”

Oddly, his smile didn’t improve his looks. It made him uglier. “Most second wives want to rub out all traces of the first.”

The statement was inappropriate and irrelevant. She thought he’d said it only to see how she would react. She hadn’t warmed to him last night, sensing immediately that he was crass and sly. Now she decided she disliked him intensely.

“I’m being asked about funeral arrangements,” she said.

“The ME is performing the autopsy this afternoon. Depending on what it shows, we should be able to release the body to you either tomorrow or the next day. But I advise against making any definite plans without clearing them with me.”

“I understand.”

Turning her back on him, she moved to one of the leather sofas and was about to sit down when he stopped her. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to look at the library now. See if you notice anything out of kilter. Beyond the obvious, that is.”

She’d known that sooner or later she would be required to go in. She was torn, one part of her needing to see the spot where Foster had died, another resistant to ever entering the room again. Given a choice, she might have postponed it for as long as possible, making the dread of it torturous. In a way, she was glad Rodarte had relieved her of having to make the decision on her own.