Friction (24 page)

“No, representing Hunt might be considered a conflict of interest, since you’re so solidly in his corner, and I’m your opponent.”

“I’m still failing to see the purpose of this call.”

“Only to say what a shame it is that you’ve publicly defended the guy who’s suspected of planning the shooting spree. Remember, I told you it was only a matter of time before you messed up. And did you ever.”

“Surely you’re not calling to gloat over an incident that caused the deaths of two men. Even you wouldn’t be that obnoxious.”

“No, what happened to Chet and that other fellow is a tragedy. But in light of recent developments, your exaltation of Crawford Hunt doesn’t speak well of your discernment, does it?”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from revealing what she knew now about Pat Connor and Chuck Otterman. “I can’t comment on an ongoing police investigation.”

He guffawed. “How long are you going to hide behind those skirts? Fact is, you put all your eggs in the wrong basket.”

“Good night.”

“Hold on. This turn of events has created an embarrassing situation for you. But there’s an easy way out.”

“I don’t need a way out of anything.”

“Nice try, but we both know better. Why don’t you fade gracefully into the background and let me run uncontested? See? Win win. I get what I should have had in the first place, you get to save face.”

“Don’t call me again.”

“This is a one-time offer. You should accept it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to shred you. I’m going to find out what our tough Texas Ranger was doing up in your chambers last night. Yes, judge. There’s scuttlebutt over that, too. By the time I’m done, you’ll wish you’d never heard of Judge Waters. You’ll be a speck in the history books of this county’s courts.”

He paused, took a breath, then in a patronizing tone, he said, “I’d rather it not come to that, and I’m sure you don’t, either. So, what do you say?”

She didn’t say anything. Effectively thumbing her nose at him, she clicked off.

Tomorrow, after Pat Connor was in custody and Crawford had been cleared of all suspicion, she would be vindicated.

But that was tomorrow. First, she must endure what she anticipated would be a long night.

As Crawford sped toward the address, which, surprisingly, Nugent had texted him, he left his SUV’s emergency lights off, not wanting to announce his approach. Pat Connor had to be on edge, fearing that he would be found out. A nervous perp, seeing a cop and realizing the jig was up, could get trigger-happy. This was one time Crawford would wait for backup.

But his caution was unnecessary, because when he turned the corner onto Connor’s street, it was alive with activity and ablaze with the flashing lights of half a dozen vehicles.

Neighbors, most dressed in nightclothes, were standing in their yards, talking among themselves, watching with curiosity as uniformed officers strung crime scene tape around the unkempt yard.

“Oh shit.”

C
rawford’s purposeful stride quickly covered the distance to the open front door of a modest house where a patrolman had been posted to keep out anyone who didn’t belong. He eyed Crawford warily and addressed him by name.

Crawford said, “Connor?”

“Found dead on his kitchen floor.”

Crawford expelled a long breath and spat out an obscenity, but as he made to enter the house, the policeman took a sidestep and blocked him. “Lester ordered me to keep everybody out.”

“I’m working with Lester.”

“Crawford, the word going around is that you’re implicated.”

“The word going around has changed.”

“Since when?”

“Since the courtroom shooter turned up dead on his kitchen floor.”

“Pat Connor was the courtroom shooter?”

In answer, Crawford merely raised his eyebrows.

The patrolman looked around to see who might be watching, then said under his breath, “I never saw you.”

“Thanks.”

Crawford stepped across the threshold directly into a forlorn-looking living room. He noticed the gun belt lying on the coffee table, the service weapon still holstered. He registered the sagging curtains, the vintage easy chair positioned directly in front of the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, a side table cluttered with the detritus of a lonely life.

Noticeably missing were family photographs, books, plants, or signs of a pet. Connor was dead, but, by all appearances, he hadn’t been living much of a life.

Without Georgia in his, this might be a crystal ball view of his future.

Made uneasy by that thought, he walked from the living room into the kitchen, where Neal was bent over the corpse and talking with Dr. Anderson who, despite his obesity, had managed to squat. Nugent was standing in the doorframe of an open pantry, looking distinctly ill at ease. When Crawford walked in, he gave a twitch and said, “Uh, Neal.”

Upon seeing Crawford, Neal stood up slowly. “How’d you get in here?”

“Walked.”

Neal let the smart-aleck remark pass. “I got your messages. As it turns out, the warrants for Connor that you requested won’t be necessary.”

“You discovered him?”

“As you see him.” He stood aside.

Connor’s body had crumpled, folding in on itself, his face to the floor. He’d been shot in the back of the head.

Neal said, “Two bullets. Close range. Somebody wanted him not just dead, but very dead.”

Crawford took in the rest of the scene. An open can of Coke stood on the counter with a partially filled drinking glass beside it. A bottle of whiskey was on the floor near the body, tipped over onto its side. Particularly gruesome was the confluence of spilled liquor and blood on the grimy vinyl floor.

“Looks like he was pouring himself a drink and was unaware of his visitor,” Neal said. “Either that, or he had enough trust to turn his back on him.”

Crawford addressed the ME. “How long’s he been dead?”

“Best guess, couple of hours.” He reached for Crawford’s hand. Crawford helped haul him up. He puffed a thanks. “I’ll notify you as soon as I can be more precise on the timing.”

“That his phone?” Crawford indicated the cell phone Neal was holding in his gloved hand.

“One of them.”

“He had more than one?”

“The one with his official number was on the end table in the living room. It’s already been bagged. I found this one in his pants pocket.” He activated the phone, accessed a page, and held it up for Crawford to see the screen.

“The video of Georgia.”

“Sent by text to your cell phone at—”

“I know what time I got it, Neal,” Crawford said tightly. “I was there.”

Sensing the tension between the two, the ME said, “Excuse me. I’ll go check on the ambulance. Let me know when I can have him.”

Following his departure, the other three were left in an awkward, almost hostile silence. Crawford was the first to speak. “Have you searched the house?”

“I have uniforms doing that,” Neal replied. “Nugent made a walk-through as soon as we got here.”

Nugent said, “I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Crawford said. “He left behind the evidence of the courtroom shooting. We’ll be able to match his DNA to what we got off the painter’s overalls and mask.”

“What makes you think he was the courtroom shooter?” Neal asked. “You failed to elaborate when you called Nugent and threatened him to get his butt in gear, or else.”

Crawford used his phone to open the email he’d sent to himself and showed Neal the picture of Pat Connor with Otterman. “This was taken earlier this evening. I instantly recognized Pat as the shooter.”

“He was one of the officers guarding the judge during the press conference.”

“A short while ago, I remembered that.”

“You didn’t have an epiphany then.”

“He wasn’t wearing a hat.”

“And the hat made all the difference to you?”

“You’re scoffing, but actually it did.” To Holly, too. But he couldn’t tell Neal that.

Neal continued. “It was Pat Connor who told me about your meeting in chambers last night with Judge Spencer. He saw you leave, hot under the collar.”

Crawford remembered that a cop had been lurking in the darkened corridor as he’d left Holly’s office. “Was he by any chance my tail taking the pictures?”

“No.”

“Then what was he doing up there at that hour?”

“More to the point, what were you?”

He didn’t answer that. “It should tell you something that, since Monday, Pat Connor had placed himself in our paths, mine and the judge’s, when I hadn’t bumped into him more than a handful of times in the past five years. He was keeping tabs on us. He was the shooter, Neal. Same hair. Body type. Check his left knee. He’s probably still got the bruise.”

“I’ve already told Dr. Anderson to look for that. But even if Connor was our shooter, why’d he do it?”

“Somebody put him up to it.”

“I agree. Who?”

“Best guess?” Crawford tapped the screen of his phone to pull up the picture again. “He was with Otterman. Early this evening. In a club called Tickled Pink.”

“How’d you get the picture?”

“That’s your question? You’re standing three inches from a dead cop who had a covert conversation
today
with a man who by his own admission left a crime scene,
and that’s your question
?”

Neal remained unflappable. “True to form, you’re making a coincidence into a crisis, just so you can spring into action and dazzle us all.”

“Fine. You don’t want to soil your hands with something potentially messy like a corrupt cop schmoozing with a bigwig, give it over to me. Because I don’t give a shit who I offend. I want the bastard behind Chet’s death, and I think it’s the same smug bastard who lied about me and Rodriguez. Soon as Otterman gets to headquarters, put me in an interrogation room with him. I’ll wring his thick neck till he—”

“He’s out of town.”

“What?”

“He’s gone fishing for the weekend. His secretary doesn’t know where. She thinks somewhere in Louisiana. He’ll be back on Monday. I asked her to have him call me if he reported in, but she doesn’t expect him to.”

Disbelieving what he was hearing, Crawford looked over at Nugent, who gave an abashed shrug. When Crawford went back to Neal, he regarded him with genuine perplexity. “You’re content to sit back and wait until Monday?”

“Oh, not at all. I’ll be busy turning your life inside out. I did obtain a search warrant, but it’s for
your
house. Consider it served.” He removed the document from his pocket and shoved it at Crawford.

Looking down at the corpse, he continued. “Connor sent you a video of your daughter. Was that intended as a wake-up call? A subtle threat? I don’t know, but, knowing how you feel about her, it’s definitely a motive. Can you account for your time this evening?”

He could. But not without involving Conrad and Holly. Instead, he tried to reach Neal in a way that Neal would respond to. “You’re making a ruinous career choice here, Neal. Think it over very carefully before you decide to proceed.”

“I’ve already decided.”

“You’re arresting me?”

“Not yet. I’m asking you to come down to headquarters for questioning.”

“This time I’ll have a lawyer with me.”

“Good idea. Turn around.”

Understanding his intention, Crawford turned and raised his hands in the air. Neal pulled his pistol from the holster at the small of his back. “One sniff, you’ll know it hasn’t been recently fired.”

“You wouldn’t be that stupid. I know it’s not the murder weapon.”

“You’re just being careful.”

“That’s right.”

“Can I drive myself to the courthouse?”

“Sure,” Neal said. Then to Nugent, “Go with him. Soon as CSU gets here, I’ll be along.”

Crawford gave the grisly sight on the floor one last glance, then left through the living room, Nugent on his heels. The patrolman at the front door said, “Everything okay?”

Crawford didn’t bother answering.

Once in his SUV, Nugent riding shotgun, Crawford called William Moore. “Did I wake you up?”

“It’s okay,” the attorney replied with customary terseness. “I’ll charge you my after-hours rate.”

“Can you meet me at police headquarters in fifteen minutes?”

“What happened?”

“A Prentiss cop took two bullets in the back of his head. That’s all I’ll say now. I’m not alone.”

“You’re under arrest?”

“Not quite. Can you be there?”

“I’m not a criminal lawyer, Crawford, and that’s what you need. I recommend Ben Knotts.”

“That guy? Hell, no. I’ve seen him in action. I brought a case to trial, and Knotts defended the sleazebag who popped his girlfriend for horning in on his dog-fighting operation.”

“Was the sleazebag acquitted?”

Crawford sighed and said grudgingly, “Have Ben Knotts call me ASAP.”

He disconnected. Nugent, who hadn’t spoken up till then said, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you…I mean, I guess it should come from Neal.”

“What?”

“Somebody IDed Rodriguez this afternoon.” At a sharp look from Crawford, he rushed on. “Guy who owns a landscaping company in Lufkin had to fire him a few weeks ago, on account of—well, lots of DMV red tape after Rodriguez got a routine traffic ticket. That’s when they discovered Rodriguez’s documents were fake. Landscaper liked him, hated to let him go ’cause he’d worked for him for several years, dependable, all that. But he has a policy against hiring undocumented—”

“Why’s he just now coming forward?”

“He’s been on vacation in Colorado. Got back last night. Caught up on local news this morning. He emailed us a copy of the phony green card. Name on it is Jorge Rodriguez. Still not sure that was his real name. The picture, though…it’s him.”

“Did he have a family?”

“He lived with a woman. Two kids. Landscape guy doesn’t know if they were married, but probably not. He’s gonna pay for his burial. Said it was a shame.”

It was a fucking shame that filled Crawford with incredible sadness. “I appreciate you telling me, Matt. Thanks.”

Nugent tore at a loose cuticle with his teeth. “Why would you call about Connor, tell Neal to meet you at his house, if you knew what he’d find when he got there?”

“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“Unless it’s true what they say?”

“Who’s they?”

“Everybody.”

“What do they say?”

“That he’s not seeing straight.”

Crawford declined to comment as he pulled into a parking space at the courthouse. His phone jangled. “Must be the lawyer.” He answered and told the caller to hold on, then said to Nugent, “Can you give me a minute?”

“I’ll be right over there. And, uh, I’d better take your key.”

Crawford pulled it from the ignition and handed it to Nugent, who got out and went to huddle beneath a shallow overhang above the building’s side entrance. It had started to drizzle.

Crawford answered his phone. “Crawford Hunt.”

“How does it feel?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your world has come crashing down around you, hasn’t it?”

The hushed voice was full of menace, and Crawford recognized it immediately. “You son of a bitch.”

The laugh that filled his ear was nasty with delight. “So many bad things happening to you. And guess what? There’s even worse on the way.”

The caller disconnected.

Crawford quickly checked the call log, but, as expected, it said only “Unknown” where a name and number should have been.

He sat there, wavering between rage and fear. From the day of the custody hearing, there had been a purposefully orchestrated dismantling of his life. Being suspected of Pat Connor’s murder was just the most recent catastrophe in a carefully planned, destructive sequence.

There’s even worse on the way.

Crawford knew down to his marrow that it wasn’t an empty threat.

He stared through his rain-pebbled windshield at the looming structure of the courthouse. The upper floors were dark, but all the windows were alight on the ground floor where police headquarters were.

He looked at Nugent, shoulders hunched against the increasing rainfall, hands in his pockets, jiggling change like a man waiting for a bus.

Crawford’s cell phone dinged. He checked the caller ID and saw the name Ben Knotts, the recommended criminal attorney. He let the call go to voice mail.

After a few more seconds of consideration, realizing what he had to do, he banged his fist hard against the ceiling of his SUV.

Neal pulled his car into an empty parking space, got out, walked briskly to the side entrance reserved for police personnel, and was surprised to find Nugent loitering just outside it.

“What are you doing out here? Where’s Crawford?”

Nugent indicated the familiar SUV parked in the second row of the lot. “Talking to a lawyer. He put in a call on the way here.”

“That was fifteen minutes ago.”

Nugent checked his wristwatch. “Closer to twenty.”

Neal looked at the SUV, seeing nothing in the darkly tinted windows except a watery reflection of the courthouse. “Goddammit!” He struck off running toward it.