Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

His primary worry was finding Manuelo-Ruiz, was it?-before Rodarte did. But in order to do that, he needed a car.

He located a Dallas telephone directory under the bed, along with a dusty Gideon Bible. The directory had seen more use, but not by much. It was several years old, and bugs had left droppings on the pages, but it had business listings as well as residential. He used the motel’s phone to place the call.

“Hunnicutt Motors.”

“Is Glen there?”

“Hold please, I’ll see.”

He was subjected to elevator music for several minutes.

“Glen Hunnicutt.” It was a booming voice as large as the man who possessed it.

“Comfort Inn. You said it could just as well have been the honeymoon suite at the Paris Ritz.”

Only another ex-con, even one incarcerated in a minimum-security facility, would recognize the tone and know what it signified, would know not to blurt out a name or say too much. Following a significant pause, the car dealer said, “Hold on.”

Griff heard the receiver being set down, movement, a door closing, more movement. When he came back to the phone, Glen Hunnicutt spoke in a low rumble. “How’re you doin’?”

“I was doing great.”

“Was?”

“Now I’m screwed. I need to borrow a car, and nobody can know about it.”

Glen Hunnicutt was a successful used-car dealer. By his own admission, he’d got greedy. For several years he’d cooked his books, fudging heavily on the income he reported to the IRS. He got caught and was sent to Big Spring to repent.

Being away from his wife had been torture for him. She was all he talked about. With every breath, he bemoaned his homesickness for her and their marriage bed. One evening Hunnicutt really got the doldrums, droning on and on about his celibate misery.

“And it’s not just getting laid I miss. She’s special. I mean it, really. She puts up with me, and that’s saying a lot. I love her so much. That may sound sappy, but it’s the God’s truth. I don’t know if I can take being away from her. I really don’t. She-”

Griff, who’d been an unwilling audience for this lament, sent his chair over backward as he lunged toward Hunnicutt. “Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up?”

Then he hit Hunnicutt in the mouth as hard as he could, his famous throwing arm behind the punch. His knuckles connected with Hunnicutt’s perfect caps, cleanly separating them from his gums.

Hunnicutt, spitting chipped porcelain and blood, was helped to his feet by other prisoners who rushed to his aid while hurling recriminations and insults at Griff. As one held a towel to Hunnicutt’s bleeding mouth, he said, “Joke’s on you, asshole. You’ve just done Hunnicutt here a favor.”

Above the heads of the others, Hunnicutt and Griff made eye contact. Griff held it for several beats before turning away.

It was possible for prisoners in minimum security to obtain furloughs-temporary, unescorted releases from the prison. They were granted for limited and specific purposes, such as a family crisis, a funeral, or specialized medical treatment. Including dentistry.

The next morning, Hunnicutt filed a formal request for a release to have his teeth fixed. He met the requirements. He was given a form that cited all the rules and restrictions of the furlough. He affixed his signature to the bottom, promising to uphold them. A few days later the warden granted him the temporary release.

In between trips to the dentist’s office, Hunnicutt and his wife kept the sheets hot at the Comfort Inn in Big Spring.

For slugging his fellow prisoner, Griff was reprimanded and his privileges were temporarily revoked.

When the car dealer returned, sparkling new caps well cemented, he’d sidled up to Griff and thanked him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Griff grumbled. “I just wanted you to put a lid on it.”

Knowing better, Hunnicutt said, “I owe you one. A big one.”

Griff hoped Hunnicutt remembered that IOU. He was cashing it now. “Nothing fancy or flashy,” he said into the greasy telephone receiver. “Just a reliable set of wheels. Will you help me?”

Following another long hesitation, Hunnicutt said, “I’ve got a boy now.”

Griff’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. He could press the issue. He could remind Hunnicutt that while he and his wife had been screwing each other blind, he’d been doing a series of menial and unpleasant tasks as punishment.

But what right did he have to drag this likable guy, a husband and now a father, into the tub of shit he was in? Hunnicutt would be guilty of aiding and abetting. He’d be violating his probation. It was a lot to ask of him. Too much.

“I understand,” Griff said.

“He just turned four.”

“It’s okay. Forget I asked.”

“He was conceived at the Comfort Inn.”

Griff’s heart skipped a beat. He held his breath.

Hunnicutt said, “Last row of the lot. Third car in from Lemmon Avenue. Keys will be under the mat.”

Griff gripped the phone, squeezed his eyes shut, and what came from his lips might have been a silent prayer of thanks. Then he said, “If you’re asked, I stole the car, okay? Don’t get into trouble over this. Tell them I stole it.”

Hunnicutt said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

Hunnicutt hung up.

On foot, Griff estimated it would take him a couple hours to walk to Hunnicutt Motors. He couldn’t leave until after dark. Twilight came late this time of year. He had approximately nine hours to kill.

He was hungry, but his stomach would have to wait till he could use a drive-through and decrease the chances of being recognized.

Trying to ignore the hunger pangs, he lay on the bed and stared at the dirty ceiling. He thought about Laura, the hell she must be going through, the emotional pain, the guilt.

Because by now, she would know about his fingerprints on the murder weapon. Rodarte, in his insidious way, would have told her he knew about their affair. It was a classic case of jealous outrage, almost a cliché. Her lover had killed her husband.

And how would Laura have responded? How could she have responded? Would she tell Rodarte about their contract? No. Griff couldn’t see her telling all for Rodarte’s avid ears. She would omit that part. Not for Griff’s protection, or even her own. But for Foster Speakman’s. And the child’s. She might be painted a scarlet woman, but at all costs, she would preserve Foster’s reputation and secure the future of her baby.

If only he could talk to her…

But that wasn’t going to happen, so he might just as well stop wishing for it.

He opened the telephone directory again and looked for listings under Ruiz. There wasn’t one for a Manuelo. He hadn’t expected that kind of luck. But maybe the Salvadoran had relatives. Using the motel phone, Griff dialed the first number.

“Hola?”

“Manuelo, por favor.”

His grasp of Spanish was limited to what he’d learned in two years of high school, but he gathered by what the woman said that he had the wrong number.

He went down the list, calling every Ruiz. No Manuelos. And even if he had run down the one he sought, Manuelo wouldn’t have stuck around waiting for Griff to show up. He would’ve run like hell.

The man was no fool.

Without a car, there was nothing more Griff could do until dark. He had no choice but to wait out the long hours of the afternoon.

IT’S NICE OUT HERE.”

At the sound of his voice, Laura jumped and turned around suddenly. “Oh, Detective. Hello.”

Rodarte had crept up on her deliberately, wanting to get an honest reaction out of her, not one she had time to rehearse. He climbed the steps and joined her in the gazebo. “You don’t see many of these anymore.” He pretended to admire the lacy woodwork trim on the circular roof.