Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

GRIFF WOKE UP WONDERING WHERE THE HELL HE WAS.

And then he remembered, and wished he had remained asleep.

Foster Speakman’s blood was on his hands. The man had died fighting for his life, blood gushing from his neck, his terrified eyes fixed on Griff.

Griff sat up and buried his face in his hands. “Fuck me.”

If not already, then very soon, every cop in Texas and neighboring states was going to be looking for him. When the fingerprints on the letter opener in Foster Speakman’s neck were run through databases and matched to Griff’s, Rodarte would feel like he’d won the lottery. Better.

He hadn’t got Griff for Bill Bandy. But this time there was so much physical evidence placing Griff in the Speakmans’ library at the time of Foster’s death, they probably wouldn’t even bother with a trial.

Nor was there any question of motive. Rodarte knew about Griff’s rendezvous with Laura and had determined they were for sex. All the elements stacked up. Griff Burkett would go straight to death row. He might just as well start swabbing his arm in preparation for the needle.

Rodarte would go on TV and say that Griff Burkett, already a convicted felon who had been implicated in one murder, had gone to the Speakman mansion, argued with the defenseless, cuckolded husband-who was confined to a wheelchair, for crissake-and savagely stabbed him. No doubt he would emphasize the savagery of the crime by throwing in a few more adverbs, like ruthlessly, brutally, and heinously.

The media would lick their chops. The story contained the juicy ingredients that make a reporter salivate: A victim already stricken with tragedy. Money. Sex. A cozy rendezvous. A ne’er-do-well who had seduced the beautiful wife into an affair that ultimately led to the violent death of her husband.

It was the stuff that could win a Pulitzer for a journalist who didn’t mind wallowing in slime.

Griff sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and looked at the bloodstains embedded in the creases of his hands. He’d scrubbed them until the small bar of soap was a sliver, and the stains were still there, an indelible part of his hand print.

Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

Well, actually, they could. Laura would be told that he had killed her husband.

Last night, after fleeing the Speakmans’ estate, he’d driven to his apartment and hastily packed several changes of clothing. But he didn’t tarry there, knowing that would be the starting point of the search for him. He’d been at home when he was arrested the first time, dragged out in handcuffs, shamed before his neighbors, his disgrace spotlighted in the media. He didn’t want a repeat of that humiliating scene, so he left hastily, taking only what he could carry, knowing he might never set foot inside the place again.

He drove to a shopping center and abandoned the red Honda in the parking lot. Soon an APB would be issued. Every law enforcement officer would be on the lookout for it, so he had to put distance between himself and the car.

He’d walked for miles, keeping to dark streets, no particular destination in mind. Just walking. Trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do now. First order of business was to find a place to hole up until he could get his head on straight.

He’d reached the motel by coming up on the back side of it. It faced an interstate highway but was set well back from it on the access road, a low-slung row of rooms squatting between a pawnshop and a store that sold retread tires for as low as $14.99. The businesses were closed, their doors bolted for the night.

It was a low-rent, hasty-tasty motel with a flickering red-neon Vacancy sign in the office window. Actually befitting him. It was the kind of place his mother would have gone to with a man she met in a bar. The kind of place where Griff might have been conceived.

The clerk was glassy-eyed from the joint he was sucking on when Griff walked in. Griff asked how much for a night, laid cash on the counter, and picked up the key that was wordlessly slid toward him. He wasn’t even required to sign a register. If the junkie noticed the bloodstains, he was indifferent to them.

Griff let himself into the room, dropped his duffel bag, and went directly into the phone-booth-size bathroom. The toilet was stained. It smelled of piss. The whole room stank of other bodies, mildew, lives in ruin. He stepped into the shower fully clothed, washing himself and his clothes, letting the water run until the red current swirling around his feet faded to pink and finally became clear.

The bedspread was stained, but he was too exhausted to care. The amorous grunts and groans coming through the thin wall from the room next door kept him awake, but the rhythmic knocking of the headboard lulled him into an uneasy doze just as the sun was coming up.

Now, though, he was fully awake. It was going on noon, and he had to know just how grim his situation was. He switched on the TV that was bolted to the wall. Local stations were beginning their midday newscasts, and, as expected, Foster Speakman’s murder was the lead story on every one.

They showed live video pictures of the estate’s perimeter wall, police cars blocking the gated entrance. One station had its helicopter circling the property, although there wasn’t a good view of the house because of the trees. A file photo of “this prominent Dallas businessman and distinguished citizen” appeared on the screen. The picture of Speakman was several years old, taken, Griff guessed, before the car accident, when he was more robust.

The governor, speaking from her office in Austin, solemnly hailed Foster Speakman as a man who had been, and would remain, an inspiration to all who knew him. She commended him for the courage with which he had faced his personal tragedy. His murder was shocking. Her heart went out to his widow, Laura Speakman, who had demonstrated a courage and poise that matched those of her late husband. She vowed the full assistance of her office and every state agency in the apprehension and conviction of Speakman’s murderer. “The perpetrator of this egregious crime will answer for it,” she pledged.

A Joe somebody, whom Griff remembered from the SunSouth office parking lot, was identified as the airline’s spokesperson. He resolutely dodged microphones and cameras as he waded through reporters on his way into the corporate building.

“He’s promised a statement will be forthcoming shortly,” the anchorwoman told her viewers. “We’ll get that to you as soon as possible. Greg, you interviewed investigators at the scene. What have you learned from them?”

Greg, the field reporter, had taken up a position outside the ivy-draped estate wall. He said the police were reluctant to discuss the details of the case at this time. “One interesting aspect to this mystery,” he said, “is that the victim’s aide, Manuelo Ruiz, who was constantly at Mr. Speakman’s side, apparently wasn’t in the home last night. His absence is unexplained.”

“That is interesting,” the anchorwoman said without interest.

The well-coiffed anchorwoman didn’t attach any importance to Manuelo’s disappearance, but it was damn important to Griff that the aide hadn’t yet been found.

He continued to flip through the channels until all the stations moved on to other stories. He hadn’t been named as a suspect, but neither had anyone else. Only that one reporter had mentioned Manuelo. And Rodarte hadn’t appeared in any of the reports Griff saw.

“Has his nose to the ground looking for me,” he muttered, switching off the set.

Griff’s involvement was still unknown by the general public, so that bought him a little time. He had a hiding place. It was unlikely the motel clerk would remember the guest in room number seven, even when Griff’s face started appearing on TV screens. So he had some breathing room.