Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Griff couldn’t remember their names. He wasn’t real sure about the attorney’s. Hunnicutt had made arrangements with him while Griff was still in surgery to repair the bullet wound in his shoulder, which had been nasty and painful but not too damaging, certainly not life threatening.

After a lengthy silence, he asked, “Is Ruiz gonna make it?”

“Seems so,” the younger detective replied. “He’s a tough customer, I’ll say that for him.”

“He is that.” Griff could remember how it had felt having the life squeezed out of him. “He won’t be charged for killing Rodarte, will he?”

The detectives shook their heads in unison. The younger said, “If he hadn’t, Rodarte would have shot you.”

Griff acknowledged that with a small nod.

“That old barn is used as sort of a halfway house for aliens coming in. When he entered the country, Ruiz was directed there, told he could obtain false documents from a guy who’d meet him there. The papers cost him all the money he had, but with them he could get work immediately. Immigration officials are looking for the guys who run that operation.” He paused, then added, “Through the interpreter, Ruiz also admitted to killing Foster Speakman.”

“It was an accident,” Griff said.

“That’s what he claims.”

“It’s the truth.”

“He said you and he were fighting. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Since Griff and McAlister-that was his name, Jim McAlister-hadn’t had time to confer privately before this interrogation, the lawyer cautioned him now with a soft clearing of his throat. Not that Griff would have blurted out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

The younger detective continued. “Ruiz was a bit sketchy about the cause of that altercation.”

Manuelo was being loyal to his late boss. He wouldn’t incriminate Speakman by telling the police that he had been ordered by him to kill Griff. Griff saw no point in telling them, either. He kept his poker face.

“You want to shed any light on that, Mr. Burkett?” the younger detective prodded.

“I can’t.”

“Was there some kind of thing between you and Speakman?”

“Before that night, I’d met him only once, and it was a friendly meeting.”

“You had no cross words that night?”

“No.”

“Did you provoke Ruiz?”

“No. Not intentionally anyway. He attacked me from behind.”

“He admitted that,” the older detective grumbled. He was frowning, as though confused. Or highly skeptical. “Still doesn’t explain why he attacked you.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Come on, Burkett,” the younger detective said. “Of course you know. What were you doing there?”

The lawyer cut in. “I’d like a private word with my client before he answers that.”

“No, it’s okay, Mr. McAlister. I can answer.” Griff was betting that the police didn’t know about his relationship with Laura. He was gambling that Rodarte had kept that like an ace tucked inside his sleeve, waiting to play it when it would be most advantageous to him and most detrimental to Griff and Laura. He said, “The meeting that night was a second job interview.”

“Job?”

“To do endorsements for SunSouth.” It was an implausible claim but also impossible for them to disprove.

“What about all that money?”

“Beats me,” Griff lied, speaking before McAlister could stop him. “The box was sitting on the desk in plain sight. Speakman told me to open it and look inside. I did. About that time is when Ruiz attacked me. Maybe he thought I was about to steal the cash from his boss. As I said, I don’t know what set him off. Whatever it was, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. He worshiped Speakman.”

Clearly the detectives believed there was more to it, but that was all they were going to get from him.

Grudgingly, the younger detective said that Ruiz had told them the same story. “He admitted to killing his boss accidentally during his struggle with you, and said that when he ran from the house, you were trying to save Speakman’s life. All of which clears you.”

Jim McAlister sat back in the vinyl chair, looking complacent.

“Did he also corroborate everything I told you about Rodarte?”

The younger detective nodded. “He didn’t understand what the beef was between you and Rodarte, but everything else he told us matches what you said went down at the old farm.”

“What about Bill Bandy’s murder?” McAlister asked.

“What about it?” asked the older detective.

“For five years suspicion has been cast on my client. He has steadfastly denied any involvement beyond discovering the body.”

The detectives glanced at each other in silent consultation over how much they should tell. Finally the younger detective said, “We’re inclined to believe Mr. Burkett’s allegation against Rodarte. He’s been under investigation by Internal Affairs for a while. Many complaints have been filed against him and some of his pals within the department. Too many to ignore. Serious stuff, like harassment, brutality, corruption. One woman suspect claimed Rodarte fondled her while she was in his custody and then got rough with her when she protested.”

“Sounds like him,” Griff growled. He had hoped to keep Marcia’s encounter with Rodarte out of the fray and was now glad to know she could be left in peace.

The younger detective was saying, “Anyhow, Bandy’s murder case will be reopened and investigated from a different perspective.”

“Am I under arrest?” Griff nodded toward the door of his hospital room, where a uniformed policeman had been posted.

“For the assault on the three police officers in the hotel, as well as for impersonating an officer.”

“There were mitigating circumstances,” McAlister said.

“Save ’em for the judge at his arraignment,” the older officer said. He seemed to hold defense attorneys in no higher esteem than he did the lawbreakers they represented.

“Just be glad you’re not being charged with kidnapping,” the younger detective chimed in. “According to Mrs. Speakman, when you explained to her that Rodarte was impeding justice, she went willingly to help you locate Ruiz.”

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Griff, waiting to see how he would respond. He said, “Without Mrs. Speakman I would never have found him, and without him I would have been falsely charged with murdering her husband. I’ll never be able to repay her trust in me.” He paused, then asked what was in store for Manuelo Ruiz.

“Soon as we clear things up with him, and he’s well enough to travel, he’ll be sent back to El Salvador. He faces charges there. Killed a guy who’d allegedly raped his sister. We figure, let the authorities down there have him. They’ve got first dibs.”

“I wish him well,” Griff said, almost to himself.

“Generous of you,” the older cop said. “If he hadn’t attacked you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“He also saved my life.” Taking a deep breath, Griff closed his eyes and asked tiredly, “Is that it?”

HIS NEW LAWYER TOOK IT FROM THERE. MCALISTER USHERED the detectives out. He instructed Griff to stay in contact and not to answer any further questions without him present, told him to rest, and then he too left.

Griff closed his eyes, but rest eluded him. Although his body was battered and he was exhausted, his mind wouldn’t shut down. Yesterday, he, along with Manuelo, had been transported by helicopter to the trauma center at Parkland Hospital, where both had undergone surgery.

He had vague recollections of being prepped and a few drug-blurred memories of the recovery room. This morning he had awakened in this private room, a little more than twenty-four hours after he saw Rodarte’s skull split open with the sharp edge of a shovel.