Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

There wasn’t much traffic to slow Griff down. Rush hour at its heaviest was a couple hours away. He made good time to the Itasca exit. The town still slumbered, but he crawled through it, heeding speed limit signs, not wanting to get stopped now.

It wasn’t difficult to find Lavaca Road. He continued along it until it turned into FM 2010, a narrow, rutted road that seemed to have been traveled so infrequently as to have become completely overlooked.

After a couple miles, he began to fear that he and Laura had been wrong. But then he spotted a dilapidated farmhouse and barn, showing up as smudged shadows against a sky just turning pastel with the rising sun. But he knew he had the right place.

Rodarte’s car was parked in front.

Griff slowed and turned in to the gravel driveway, spotting them instantly-two dark figures silhouetted against the glow in the eastern horizon. He rolled to a stop, turned off the engine, and opened the car door. The early morning atmosphere was soft and silent, deceptively benign.

Keeping the two men in sight, he reached into the duffel bag and took out the policeman’s pistol. Impersonating a deliveryman, incapacitating the cops, his and Laura’s madcap escape from the estate, all seemed a long time ago. Those recollections were blurred.

But vivid in his memory was the look on her face when she realized that the baby was lost.

If…if…if…

There were so many of them, he didn’t even know where to begin regretting.

But one big if remained: if he didn’t live through this, he hoped Laura knew that he loved her. Bad timing or not, he wished he’d said it when he’d had the chance.

He stuffed the pistol into the back waistband of the navy blue work pants he was still wearing. When he got out, he left the car door open, just in case he had to make a quick getaway. He walked along the exterior wall of the house toward the rear, realizing what a large and easy target his white T-shirt made against the faded clapboard. Rodarte and Manuelo Ruiz stood as still as scarecrows in the fallow field.

But then Rodarte raised his arm and waved. “Hiya, Griff.”

Griff disliked guns. Didn’t know much about them. Knew even less about police-issue pistols. But as he crossed the littered yard and walked toward the other two men, he was comforted by the weight of the pistol at the small of his back.

He had to step over a barbed-wire fence that had been knocked down. Dirt clods and fossilized tractor tracks made the ground uneven. But he didn’t look down. He kept his gaze fixed on Rodarte. When he got close enough to make out the detective’s features, Griff saw that he was smiling with amusement as he held his pistol aimed at Manuelo.

The tableau confirmed what Griff had feared-Rodarte didn’t plan to use Manuelo Ruiz as an eyewitness. Even if Griff allayed Manuelo’s fear and persuaded him to return to Dallas and tell the truth about Foster Speakman’s accidental death, Rodarte would never permit it. Because Rodarte didn’t want Griff to be exonerated. He didn’t even want him locked away for good. He wanted him dead.

And now Griff understood why. He knew why Rodarte had been waiting for him outside Big Spring FCI. He understood why he’d been tailing him and monitoring his every move since his release. He’d thought Rodarte was trying to scare him into making either a mistake or a confession. Fact was, Rodarte was scared of him.

The ground at Rodarte’s feet was littered with cigarette butts. At Manuelo’s feet lay a shovel. Behind him were a mound of freshly turned dirt and a wide hole. The implication sickened Griff. The bastard had made the Salvadoran dig his own grave while he stood there, smoking and smiling.

Probably, Griff thought, he and Manuelo would share the grave.

Manuelo stood as still as a statue carved of teak. His eyes were as hard and impenetrable as polished stones. Griff couldn’t tell if he was afraid, resigned, or waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had no idea what his arrival would signify to the Salvadoran. He wished he had the Spanish-language skills to tell him that Rodarte was their common enemy, not each other.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Rodarte said when Griff halted about ten yards away from him.

“You were expecting me?”

“Hoping. What kept you? Bet I know.” He winked. “The widow’s hot snatch. Hope you got a piece of it, ’cause it’ll be your last.” Leer still in place, he said pleasantly, “Hand over the pistol.”

“Pistol?”

“You want a knee blown out?”

“You can’t aim at both of us at the same time. If you take your gun off Manuelo, he’ll be on you before you can blink.”

“Okay. What say I shoot him first, then blow your knee out just for giving me lip?”

Griff reached behind his back.

“Easy.”

With exaggerated slowness, Griff pulled the pistol from his waistband. He could kill Rodarte without remorse. Marcia was reason enough, not to mention the rest of it. But even with a fatal wound, Rodarte might have time to get off one shot. Griff couldn’t risk Manuelo dying. He still needed the aide’s testimony about Speakman. He held the pistol far out to his side.

“Toss it over.”

Griff did as told. The pistol landed among the butts at Rodarte’s feet. “Thanks. Now we can all relax.”

Nodding in Manuelo’s direction, Griff said, “Let him go.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“He’ll head straight for El Salvador. You’ll never see him again.”

“Probably. But why should I lose sleep over it? He might develop a guilty conscience about running out on you.”

“So you know he killed Speakman?”

“Must have, or you wouldn’t have told me where he was at.”

“I realized that mistake too late.”

“Lost your famous timing, Number Ten?” The detective formed a sad face. “Gee, that’s too bad. And just when you needed it most.”

“Let him go. Your quarrel is with me, not him.”

Rodarte chuckled. “Well, you’ve got that right.”

“You want me to go down.”

“What gave me away?”

“You want me to go down for Bill Bandy. But not because you think I killed him. You know I didn’t.”

Rodarte grinned. “You’re getting warmer.”

“You know I didn’t because you did.”

“And they call jocks dumb.” He snorted. “Of course, it did take you five years to figure it out.”

“The Vista boys hired you to muzzle him permanently.”

“It was sort of an audition. There was word going around that Bandy’s days were numbered. The Vista trio were afraid he was going to turn them over like he did you. I’d been wanting to do some moonlighting for them, but they’re a tight little clique. It’s hard to win their trust.”

“So you seized an opportunity.”

“I offered my services.”

“Thinking that if you rid them of Bandy, they’d welcome you into their fold and put you on their payroll.”

Rodarte beamed his ugly smile. “Who better to help out with problems like Bandy than a homicide detective who can steer murder investigations in the wrong direction?” He began to laugh, deep inside his chest, then out loud. “It was a great plan, and then it got even better. Swear to God, Burkett, when you showed up at Bandy’s place, I nearly pissed my pants. I couldn’t have planned it any better.”

“You were there when I arrived.”

“In the back room. Before I snapped his neck, he swore up and down he didn’t have a secret stash, but have you ever known a bookie who didn’t lie? If I returned some skimmed funds to Vista in addition to getting rid of Bandy, think how pleased they’d be.

“So I was back there tossing the place when I heard the door. You came barging in like a bull elephant with a grudge to settle. When I realized it was you, I could barely contain a fit of the giggles. While you were woe-is-me-ing over Bandy’s body, I sneaked out back.”