Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“Just that?”

“Well, there may have been some flashes of tongue against nipple,” he added, grinning unrepentantly. “And the times after that, I thought about you, lying in there, prim on the top, nothing on the bottom, waiting for me. Worked every time. Of course, that last day was different.”

“Yes.”

He touched her lips with the backs of his fingers. “The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was let you leave and go back to him.”

“I think he knew something had happened that afternoon. Something shattering for me. When I got home that evening, he acted strangely. I was undone, and he knew it. He was almost taunting me.”

Easing him away from her, she turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve come to realize that all this-you, the baby, all of it-was Foster’s way of punishing me for being at the wheel when he was injured.”

“How could he blame you? It was an accident.”

“That’s just it, Griff. He didn’t believe in accidents. You have to understand his OCD. Everything had to be done in sequence and in a particular way. No deviation whatsoever. He believed that any change in the order of things resulted in calamity.

“He wanted to drive home that night because he’d driven us there. But I said no because he’d had more to drink than I had. I interrupted the sequence, and what happened was a consequence of that. He never blamed me out loud. But I think now that he did inside. He must have harbored a deep resentment that became corrosive.”

Griff was glad she was talking this through. She needed to, more for herself than for him.

“I could have conceived a child by going the clinical route, using a donor. Foster used his OCD as an excuse not to. But that wasn’t the reason. I see that now. I loved him purely and exclusively, and he knew that. Our marriage was sacred and precious to me. I valued it above everything. So he devised a way to weaken it, if not destroy it altogether.”

“Like his legs.”

“Like his legs. Morally, he knew how I felt about his plan. I told him time and again I thought it was wrong, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He played upon my being an overachiever, never backing away from a challenge or task. I can see now how deftly he manipulated me. He appealed to what he knew would get me to agree.”

“Then he put you in bed with me, a pariah, a man you couldn’t admire and wouldn’t like.”

“No,” she said with a sad smile. “There you’re wrong. He chose you because you were handsome and strong, unquestionably masculine. You’d been abstinent for five years. I’d been for two. How could each of us not become attracted to the individual who was giving us what we’d been missing? He wanted us to be attracted. Especially me. So that, in my heart, I would be committing adultery, violating the marriage vows I’d held so dear.”

What she was saying made sense. Or it would have to the twisted mind of Foster Speakman. “Once the child was conceived and I was dead, you would feel the loss, along with the guilt.”

“I think that’s what he had in mind.”

“You believe me? Everything I told you about how he died? Without question?”

“It’s hard to think this way about my husband, but yes, Griff, I believe you. Your death was part of his plan. The perfect punishment. I would never be able to look at the child without thinking of you and remembering my sin. My infidelity would never have been acknowledged as such, but I would have spent the entirety of my life trying to make up for it.” After a long moment, she turned on her side again to face him. “We dragged you into a terrible mess. I apologize for that.”

“You didn’t drag me, I jumped in willingly, with far fewer scruples than you. I was after the easy money. Lots of it. Even Rodarte said that a hustler like me would-”

“Rodarte!” She sat bolt upright and gave him a shove. “You’ve got to go now.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You have to, Griff. I’m fine. But I won’t be if you stay with me instead of finding Manuelo. You must go. You know I’m right.”

He did know that. Regretfully, he got off the bed, then bent down to stroke her hair. “You’re sure you’ll be okay with…everything.” He motioned toward her middle.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Stay in bed. Try to sleep.” He kissed her lips lightly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Before he could talk himself out of going, he turned.

Coach and Ellie were standing in the open doorway. In his loudest sideline voice, Coach bellowed, “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

HERE’S THE THING, RODARTE TOLD HIMSELF. GRIFF BURKETT had successfully (a) lured or (b) kidnapped Laura Speakman from the hotel. He had escaped arrest at her mansion. He was driving an unknown vehicle. Basically, he was in pretty good shape to elude capture for a while longer, maybe even enough to get far away.

So why had he used the Speakman broad’s cell phone to call him, knowing that Rodarte would be able to track the call and mark their location? Sure, Burkett had been smart enough to leave the phone in that theater parking lot, but why take such a risk in the first place?

Burkett wouldn’t. Not unless he had something to say that was mighty important, something that he felt would get him off the hook completely.

Rodarte sat in his car on the shoulder of the interstate and smoked half a pack-fuck quitting-before determining that Burkett hadn’t been playacting. He’d sounded excited and definitive. Burkett believed that Lavaca Road in Itasca was a link to Manuelo Ruiz, whom he claimed had killed Speakman accidentally. Meaning Burkett was innocent.

It must be true. If Ruiz had witnessed Burkett murdering Speakman, Burkett would be racing down to Itasca to silence the man, not calling Rodarte and telling him where to find him.

Conclusion: Manuelo Ruiz was no longer a footnote in the case. He’d been bumped up to a principal player. His new status called for action.

Rodarte used the redial button on his cell phone. It rang only once before being answered. “Itasca PD.”

“This is Rodarte again. Put Chief Marion on.”

A few clicks, then, “Detective Rodarte?”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. I got two men still watching the house, though.”

“Call them back and cancel the APB on Manuelo Ruiz.”

Rodarte sensed Marion’s surprise. “Why’s that?”

“Somebody screwed up,” Rodarte said, faking exasperation. “Dumb computer geeks. Looking for a house address and came up with a route number instead. Got y’all hyped up for nothing. I hope to God they never issue those guys guns.”

The other cop chuckled. “Thanks for the call, Detective. I’ll pull everybody in, including the sheriff’s office. My officers will be disappointed. They thought they were going to get in on something big.”

“Not tonight.”

“What about Burkett?”

“Still at large.”

“Big guy like him, you’d think he’d be easy to spot.”

“You’d think.”

“Well, we’ll keep an eye out.”

Rodarte apologized again for the mix-up, said he hoped he hadn’t kept Marion and his officers up too late, and told him good-bye. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, then, smiling, pulled his car onto the interstate and headed toward Itasca.

When he saw the Millers, Griff thought, The surprises just keep on coming.

Both had on sandals, shorts, and florid Hawaiian-print shirts. Ellie was wearing a straw hat. A wilted lei drooped from her neck. She looked flummoxed. Coach, in spite of his ridiculous attire, was seething.

Hoping to defuse the impending explosion, Griff said, “Coach, Ellie, this is Laura Speakman.”