Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

From there the trail had gone cold because Mrs. Speakman’s car had been left at the mansion, they didn’t know what Burkett was driving now, and the moviegoers they’d questioned didn’t know diddly. Rodarte had left Carter there to try to pick up the trail. Actually, Rodarte was glad he could assign his partner another task. From here on, he preferred working alone.

Rodarte became furious thinking about Griff Burkett and his adulterous lover-had she plotted her husband’s murder with him?-laughing up their sleeves at him. The idiots he’d posted to guard her were going to be looking for jobs tomorrow. Then he was going to hurt them. And their wives. And their kids. They would come to regret the day they were born.

And that didn’t begin to cover what he had planned for Griff Burkett and the poor, innocent, grieving widow. He wished he’d fucked her when he had a chance. Who would she have told? The cops? he thought, scoffing. No way. Not when he could turn it around and tell them about her illicit affair with her husband’s killer. Yeah, he should have responded to the impulse he’d had there in her hotel room, bent her over and fucked her. His problem was he was just too nice a guy.

The desk cop was rattling off directions. “From where you’re at, go south on 35 E till you get to I-20 and head west. Then out of Fort Worth, take 35 dubya south. Watch for the exit.”

“So where’s this Lavaca Road or whatever?”

“Runs out the east side of town and turns into farm-to-market 2010. We reckon that’s where the numbers came from. It’s not exactly a street address, but it makes sense.”

“I guess,” Rodarte said, unconvinced. “But stand by in case I need to call you again.”

“I already called the local po-lice down there. Chief’s name is Marion.”

“First?”

“Last. Plus I alerted the Hill County SO. Marion’s sending a squad car to scout out the area, see if his boys can pick up anything. When you get there, you’ll have plenty of backup.”

“Is there still an APB out for Manuelo Ruiz down there?”

“I asked Marion to jog everybody’s memory.”

“And one for Griff Burkett?”

“Considered armed and dangerous. Just like you said, Detective.”

“He’s got a cop’s service weapon.”

“Told Marion that, too. Pissed him off.” After a pause, he added, “And to think we used to cheer the son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, to think.”

The best that could happen would be for Burkett to be spotted and plugged by an underpaid, overanxious Hicksville cop, a Cowboys fan who bore a grudge based on principle.

Someone else killing Burkett would remove any suspicion from him. But there was a distinct downside: it would deprive him of taking down that bastard himself, and that was something he very much looked forward to.

“What’s the number of the police station down there?” Rodarte asked the desk cop. Once he had it, he clicked off and called that number. He identified himself and was soon patched in to Chief Marion. “Rodarte, Dallas PD.”

“Yes, sir,” he said crisply.

“Just calling to follow up. What’s happening down there?”

“There’s nothing on FM 2010 except an old farmhouse. Vacant. Looks like it was abandoned a long time ago. My men said a strong wind would knock it down.”

“No shit?”

“The place was deserted. We’ll keep looking, but among my officers and the sheriff’s deputies, they don’t know of anything else out that way. Not for miles.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Rodarte closed his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, cursing his culpability. Had Burkett sent him on a wild-goose chase? Given him some busywork to keep him occupied while he and his ladylove got away?

He pulled his car to the shoulder of the freeway, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. He kept the motor idling while he considered his options.

“Itasca,” Laura repeated. “Ever heard of it?”

“No, but I’ll find it.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Great work. Thanks.” He moved toward the door. “Switch out the light till I’m gone. And remember not to turn any lights on unless the door to this room is closed.”

“You’re going now?”

“Right now. I just hope Rodarte doesn’t have too much of a lead.”

“But we don’t know if that’s it, Griff. And even if it is, Manuelo may be long gone.”

“I’ve gotta try. He’s my last hope.”

“I’m coming, too,” she said decisively.

“Un-huh. No way. I don’t know what I-”

“I’m coming with you.” She stood up, but when she did, a strange look came over her face and she pushed her hands between her thighs.

“What’s the matter?”

She just stood there, looking at him with alarm. Then her face crumpled, and she groaned, “Oh, no.”

EVEN WHEN HE SAW THE BLOOD ON HER HANDS, SAW THE streaks of it on the legs of her tracksuit, Griff didn’t comprehend what was happening until he looked into her eyes and saw the anguish in them. “Oh, Jesus.”

In a keening voice she said, “My baby.”

He reached for her, but she backed away. “Laura, I gotta get you to a hospital.”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s lost.”

“No, no, we’ll stop it. We can. We will.”

She looked around frantically. “Where’s the bathroom?”

He got to the door ahead of her and reached inside to switch on the light. She slipped around him and closed the door behind her.

“Laura?”

“Don’t come in.”

He placed both palms on the door and, leaning into it, ground his forehead hard against the wood, never in his life having felt so useless. Miscarriage. He’d heard the word, knew what it meant, but had never realized that it entailed that much blood, or caused this much despair. He felt pointless, superfluous, and helpless. The laws of nature had emasculated him.

He stood outside the bathroom door for what seemed forever. Several times he knocked, asked how she was doing, asked if there was something he could do. She replied in monosyllabic mumbles that told him nothing.

The toilet flushed numerous times. Water ran in the sink. Eventually he heard the shower. Shortly after it stopped running, she opened the door. She was wrapped in a towel. His eyes moved over her from the top of her wet hair to her toes and back up, stopping on her eyes, red-rimmed and tearful.

“Is it hopeless?”

She nodded.

He assimilated that, marveled at the anguish it caused him. “Does it hurt?”

“A little. Like really bad cramps.”

“Um-hmm,” he said, as though he had any idea what menstrual cramps felt like.

“I need something to put on.”

He looked beyond her. Her tracksuit was in a sodden heap on the floor of the shower. “I’ll find something.”

“Do you think Mrs. Miller has some pads?”

Pads? His mind scrambled. Pads. Right. Ask him about Tiger Balm or jock itch remedies and he was conversant. Athlete’s foot? On it. But he’d never even walked down the feminine hygiene aisle of a supermarket. Not on purpose anyway. He’d never bought a product for a girlfriend, wife, daughter. His knowledge of such things was limited to the box of tampons his mother had kept beneath the bathroom sink. He knew they were necessary, but that’s all.

“I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t even think about the lights he was turning on as he went banging through the house, bumping into walls, flinging open doors he’d left closed the last few days. In the Millers’ bedroom he opened the closet they shared. Coach’s clothes hung on one side, Ellie’s on the other, shoes lined up neatly beneath.