Friction (29 page)

“Please,” Smitty pleaded. “I need that.”

“I need answers. Why haven’t you called me back?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You don’t get another drink until you tell me something. Why were you hiding in here in the dark, with a loaded pistol, looking scared as a rabbit?”

Nothing.

“Were you hiding from me?”

“No.”

“From who then?”

“Isn’t that your phone ringing?”

“I’ll get it later. You were supposed to be giving me stuff on Otterman.”

“I forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“I’ve had other things to attend to. I don’t drop everything for you, you know. Oh, wait,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I do. I did! Just last night, I dropped everything to let you know that your daddy was—”

“Shooting video.”

“Huh? Video? That’s against club rules.”

“He shot video of a meeting between Chuck Otterman and a cop—now a deceased cop.” He noted that Smitty didn’t register surprise. “Huh. I see you knew that already.”

“So?” He wiggled in his seat, corrected the direction of his comb-over, and looked longingly at the cup of gin. “A cop getting whacked. Can’t remember where I heard about it. There goes your phone again. You’d better get it. Must be important.”

Crawford let it ring. “When I came to pick up Conrad last night, you failed to mention that Otterman had been in Tickled Pink all afternoon meeting with people, one of them the now dead police officer.”

Smitty squirmed in his chair.

“You’ve got five seconds, Smitty.”

“To do what?” he asked, his voice going shrill.

“To tell me what you know about Chuck Otterman.”

“I don’t know nothing!”

“Five.”

“I swear. I…I see him talking to all kinds of people. I told you that already.”

“Four.”

He blubbered, “He’ll kill me.”

“That’s why you were hiding under your desk? You’re on Otterman’s hit list?”

“No! I…I didn’t say that.”

“Why are you afraid of Otterman?”

“When I said he’d kill me, I was joking!”

“Three.”

“I need another hit.”

Crawford passed him the cup. He kept gulping for as long as Crawford allowed before taking it back. “Why were you hiding in fear of Otterman?”

Smitty actually sobbed again. “He asked me about you.”

Crawford kept his expression neutral. “Me?”

“Did I stutter?”

“When did he ask you about me?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

Smitty clammed up and shook his head.

Crawford tabled that question for the time being. “What did you tell him about me?”

“I sorta fudged.”

“You lied.”

Smitty heaved a sigh of confession. “He asked if I knew you. I pretended not to, but then—”

“You spilled your guts, because at heart, you’re a chickenshit. We both know that, so tell me what you told him.”

“Nothing important. I swear. He asked if I had, you know, dealings with you. I told him no. Told him that I hated you. Which is the gospel truth,” he added with a glower.

“What else did he want to know?”

“That was it.”

“Smitty.”

“Crawford, let it go,” he pleaded. “You do not mess with this guy.”

“You don’t mess with me, either. What else did you tell him?”

“Can I have a drink?”

“Depends.”

Smitty hesitated, then said, “He wanted to know what you were doing at the club last night. Who the woman was. Like that.”

“You told him it was Holly Spencer?”

“I was afraid they were going to feed me to the alligators. One piece at a time.”

Crawford thought about that. “Otterman’s supposedly on a fishing weekend. Is he in Louisiana? Is that where your meeting with him took place?”

“Aren’t you listening? If I help you, he’ll kill me!” he screeched. “Five, four, three, two. You can count down from a thousand, I don’t care. I’m not telling you anything else.”

Crawford eased back, shrugged. “Okay. Don’t tell me anything else. I’ll put you away for indecency with a child, compelling prostitution of a child, statutory rape. If it lasted more than thirty days, that’s continual sexual abuse of a child. Let’s see, am I leaving out anything? Oh.” He gestured toward the wall of dirty pictures. “If you took pictures of her, that’s—”

“She was sixteen!”

“A minor. Dancing naked, giving lap dances?” Crawford
tsk
ed. “Bad business, Smitty. A new low for you.”

“She lied at her audition. Soon as I found out her real age, I fired her.”

“How many times did you bang her?”

“I didn’t!”

Crawford just looked at him.

Then with sullen defiance, Smitty grumbled, “You don’t even know for sure there was a girl. It was a lucky guess.”

“An educated guess.”

“Where’s your proof?”

“I’ll shut you down while I search for some,” Crawford said. “But I’m busy these days. It might take a good long while to collect evidence, track down the child.”

“Child, my ass.”

“I’ll eventually find her, and, all that time, you’ll be languishing in the Prentiss County jail, shuffling around in house shoes, and trying to stay on the good side of the bubbas. Many of whom have baby sisters.”

Stubbornly Smitty shook his head. “Threaten all you want. I’m not telling you anything more about Otterman, especially not where he’s at.”

Crawford’s phone rang again. This time he answered.

“Where you been?”

It was Harry. “You have something on Otterman?”

“A thing that bothers us.”

“What?”

“He left a lucrative gig in the Panhandle to sign on with the outfit he works for now. Took a big pay cut.”

“When did he make that move?”

“He was back and forth for a few months. Made the transfer permanent about the time Halcon went down. Which makes Sessions and me nervous.”

It made Crawford nervous, too. In fact, it made him queasy. “The outfit is headquartered in Houston, right?”

“Right. Sessions is working a hunch,” Harry said. “What sorta scares us? If this is revenge on you for something relating to Halcon, he’s taken his sweet time. Which tells me, A, he’s a planner. B, he’s patient. And C—”

“He’s ready to end it.”

“In light of this week’s goings-on? Looks like. Have you found out where he is?”

“Putting the squeeze on a weasel. Let me get back to you.”

“Hold on,” Harry said. “There’s more.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I haven’t even got to the good parts. After you stole the judge’s car, she notified Neal Lester.” He let that settle, and when Crawford didn’t respond, he said, “I know because I called her looking for you. Lester and his sidekick were at her house.”

“Was she all right?”

“Shook up. She only ratted ’cause she’s scared you’ll get hurt, or killed, or do something crazy. And the worst of it, Lester’s still gung-ho to pin all this on you.”

“He can’t be that stupid. That video of Connor and Otterman should have changed his mind.”

“Uh, about that. Otterman trumped you.”

Harry recounted the predawn conversation that Neal had had with Otterman. “Admitted to the meeting, played dumb about how Connor died.”

Crawford swore. “Otterman’s playing Neal like a fiddle.”

“And it’s working. He’s issued an APB for you and the judge’s car.”

“Any more good news, Harry?”

“Pretty much it for now.”

“Well, Neal’s preoccupation with me is good for something. It’s keeping a police presence around Holly.”

“I’m glad of that, too. Oh, Sessions just rushed in, looking excited, and I don’t reckon it’s over wallpaper. Carry on with your weasel. I’ll call you back. When I do, answer your damn phone.” Then Harry was gone.

As Crawford clicked off, Smitty asked, “Who was that?”

“Another Texas Ranger. He advised me to stop screwing around, to go ahead and kill you for assaulting me with that pawnshop pistol. Good riddance, he said.”

“I didn’t assault—”

“I don’t want to kill you, Smitty. I’d rather get you sent up for all those first-degree felonies.” Crawford leaned down over him. “But because I’m such a nice guy, maybe I could persuade the DA to go light on you, seeing as how she sought employment and lied at her audition. But I’ll do this only if you tell me where this place is in Louisiana.”

“I never said there was a place in Louisiana.” Smitty reached for the cup of gin.

Crawford backhanded it to the floor. Bending down closer, he said, “You’re actually gonna continue holding out on me when I can set you up on play dates with every perv in Huntsville for the next ninety-nine years?”

Smitty whimpered. “Look, Crawford, swear to God that all I did was pick up cash and drop it off.”

Crawford hadn’t even asked Smitty if he had business with Otterman. The mention of cash was a slip of the tongue that he tucked away for future reference. “Where is he?”

“First, I want to get something in writing about…about the underage girl thing.”

“First, you’ll get my boot up your ass. Where is Otterman? Name the town.”

“There isn’t a town.”

“
Nearest
town.”

“She looked twenty-two. Twenty-five! One look at her, no jury would convict me.”

“Smitty.”

“I need a guarantee.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Not good enough.”

“Scout’s honor that when I
do
find Otterman, which I will eventually, I’ll make sure he knows that you were the one who pointed me in his direction.”

Smitty groaned and clutched his crotch like he had to pee. “Prentiss.”

“What?”

“Prentiss. That’s the nearest town.”

“He’s not in Louisiana?”

Miserably, Smitty shook his head. “It’s this side of the state line. Just barely.”

“But in Texas?”

Smitty wiped his runny nose on his sleeve as he nodded.

Crawford grinned. “Perfect.”

C
rawford wanted to talk to Holly, but he called Neal instead, who answered with a rude “Who’s this?”

“You need to get an arrest warrant for Chuck Otterman, and I don’t care who you have to blow to get it.”

“For what?”

“Start with conspiracy to murder, then fill in the blank. Pat Connor would be the most expeditious. I’ve got someone who’ll turn state’s witness against Otterman if we strike the right deal.”

“Del Ray Smith?” Neal asked, scoffing. “Way ahead of you, Crawford.”

Shit!

“Sheriff’s deputies found him duct-taped to a chair in the office of one of his clubs. He accused you of police brutality and stealing his car, which appears to be the truth, since Judge Spencer’s had been dumped there, and his was gone. They’ve been grilling him good, but he refuses to tell the deputies why you strong-armed him and where you went when you left.”

Smitty would give it up. He always did. Crawford’s time just got shorter to find Otterman before the cavalry was dispatched.

He said, “Stop screwing around with Smitty. You’ve got the video of Otterman and Connor.”

“Which is evidence of nothing except a conversation, and no ADA is going to hang their ambition on that.”

“It’s a start. It’s enough to bring him in, put him on the spot, make him explain that meeting.”

“He already has. I questioned him about it early this morning.”

“Oh, I heard all about your little chat. Civic duty Chuck came clean before you even asked. Didn’t that smack of manipulation, Neal?”

“This call smacks of manipulation.”

Mentally cursing, Crawford tried to think of a way to shake him. Then he remembered Smitty’s admission of being a cash courier. “Otterman’s dirty. Into more than drilling for gas.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Neal gave a skeptical grunt. “Try harder, Crawford.”

“What’s that mean?”

“According to Judge Spencer, your buddies in Houston are close to linking Otterman to Halcon. Maybe it’s not Otterman who’s dirty. Maybe it’s you.”

“Otterman might think so.”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Or you’re not telling me.”

Crawford came back angrily, “I’ll tell you this much. From the courtroom shooting forward, this has been about me. Otterman and me. But it started with him, because I’d never laid eyes on the man until he sauntered in that day. He sought me out, not the other way around. And even though you poo-poo it because you don’t want to believe it, I think there’s a lot more to him than his hale-fellow-well-met bullshit act.

“And if you hadn’t wasted so much goddamn time wanting to believe that I was the perp, we’d know what he’s about, we’d know what he had on Pat Connor that cost him his life, and we’d have this son of a bitch behind bars.

“Your past mistakes are history, Neal, but what holds for your
future
is that if any harm comes to my little girl or to Holly Spencer, I’ll ruin your lofty career plans by telling everybody how bad you fucked up because of the juvenile grudge you bear me. Then I’ll rip your head off your shoulders. If I’m dead, ‘my buddies in Houston’ will likely do it for me.”

Neal didn’t say anything, but Crawford sensed him fuming.

He pressed on. “Georgia’s out of Otterman’s reach, but keep people on Holly. In
sight
of her at all times. And just so everything’s neat and tidy when I catch up to Otterman, get that goddamn warrant.”

“While you’re doing what?”

“While I go fishing.”

He clicked off and tossed the cell phone into the passenger seat of Smitty’s car, in which also lay Smitty’s nine-millimeter. Crawford was grateful for the additional handgun, but it and Joe’s revolver were all he had. Depending on what he found when he reached his destination, that might prove to be insufficient firepower. Otterman had at least two of his heavies with him.
I was afraid they were going to feed me to the alligators
, Smitty had said. They. Probably Frick and Frack.

Fortified with a couple more shots of gin, and threatened with being taped to a chair, Smitty had drawn Crawford a crude map. “After three or four miles on that state road, you’ll come to a sign advertising taxidermy. It’s got an armadillo on it. Hook a left. If you miss that sign, you’re good and screwed, because you’ll never see the turnoff without it. Past that point, if the roads have names or numbers, I don’t know them.”

Once he got the map, he’d taped Smitty to the chair anyway, knowing that sooner or later someone would come looking to question him about Pat Connor’s being in Tinkled Pink hours before he was murdered.

Crawford was lucky to have gotten away before they’d arrived, and wished it had taken a little longer for Smitty to be found. The best he could hope for now was that Smitty would hold out on the deputies who were questioning him. This time, his whining and bargaining could buy Crawford valuable time.

Smitty had warned that he was sending him into the boondocks, and at least about that he wasn’t lying. Crawford had gone five miles on the state road before he spotted the landmark taxidermy sign marking the turnoff. It led to seemingly nowhere.

A swampy wilderness stretched endlessly from both sides of the narrow road. The terrain was waterlogged, overgrown with vines, forested by trees struggling against suffocation from the Spanish moss that hung from their branches in large clumps. Cypresses were rooted into the marsh by knobby knees that poked up out of the viscous surface.

The winding road barely qualified as such, and intersected with dozens of others that looked similarly difficult to drive on. Without the map, Crawford could have driven for days, going in circles, having to backtrack. Either Smitty deserved credit for his powers of recall, or he deserved to die for sending Crawford on a wild goose chase.

He’d soon know which.

Calculating that he was about a mile away from the spot marked with a large dot on Smitty’s map, he pulled the car off the road, far enough for the wild shrubbery to provide some concealment, but not so far that it would get stuck in the spongy ground. He might have to leave in a hurry.

He put Smitty’s pistol in the holster at his back but kept Joe’s in hand as he set out on foot.

Smitty had said the place was inside the state line. Crawford hadn’t seen any indication that he’d crossed over into the neighboring state. If this ended with an exchange of gunfire, it would be a lot more convenient if his badge made him official.

But, as this point, even an important detail like jurisdiction wasn’t going to stop him. He was determined to reach his self-proclaimed enemy ahead of everyone else because this was a personal fight, instigated by Otterman. Crawford feared learning what had inspired the man’s hatred, but he had to be the first to know.

Even if it killed him, he had to know.

The road was an ochre-colored mire. Crawford stayed off it to avoid exposure and imprints of his boots, but slogging through the bog and underbrush was a workout that soon had his clothes drenched with sweat. It had stopped raining, but the low ceiling of gray clouds threatened to unleash a downpour into air already saturated with moisture. Beyond an occasional splash, a rustle, a desultory birdcall, the swamp was noiseless and oppressive. Yet it teemed with unseen and menacing life forms.

He had about reached the conclusion that he would have to go back and kill Smitty after all, when a rusty tin roof came into view. He crouched and waited, fearing that his progress might have been noticed and monitored, but after five minutes, he continued on, moving closer to get a better look.

Smitty had described the place as “nearly falling down.” Indeed the weather-beaten frame structure looked on the verge of toppling off its rotting pilings into the sluggish creek.

If it had collapsed, it would have taken Chuck Otterman with it.

He was sitting in a ladder-back chair on the porch beneath a deep overhang. The railing on which he’d propped his feet was listing, and only about half its spindles were upright, but he looked as arrogant as a king on a gilded throne, angled back, puffing smoke rings that held their perfect shape until they were absorbed by the thick air.

Crawford was close enough to smell the cigar.

The two men he recognized from Conrad’s video were occupying opposite corners of the dwelling. One was keeping an eye on the creek side as he pared his fingernails with a knife. The other was doing nothing except leaning against the exterior wall, idly picking at his sideburn while watching the road. Within his reach was a shotgun propped up against the wall.

Otterman finished his cigar, then lowered his feet from the railing and stood up. He stretched and spoke to the man watching the creek, although Crawford was too far away to catch what he said. He did hear the squeak of the screen door hinges when Otterman pulled it open and disappeared inside. It slapped closed behind him. His sentinels remained in place.

Crawford backed away, careful not to create any more of a stir than necessary.

He didn’t breathe easily until he’d covered at least a hundred yards. By the time he got back to Smitty’s car, he was dripping sweat.

But rather than feeling depleted, he was energized. Adrenaline was like rocket fuel pumping through him. The hell of it was, he had to keep that rush under control until dark. It was said that he was impulsive and reckless. That could be justifiably argued. But he wasn’t suicidal.

He thought about summoning Harry and Sessions. He knew they’d waste no time joining him, but he didn’t want to drag them into a showdown where jurisdiction was uncertain. He also wanted to know if the hunch that Sessions had been following had panned out, but if he called about that, they would pressure him to tell them where he was and what he planned.

Then, too, he dreaded hearing where Sessions’s hunch might have led.

He considered calling Neal to ask about the arrest warrant, but he was going to make his move on Otterman with or without it. If later he had to defend his actions, he could say truthfully that he’d acted on the assumption that a warrant had been issued, based on his last conversation with the lead investigator.

He considered changing his mind about speaking to Georgia. He longed to hear her voice. She would tell him she loved him, and he would know that she spoke the unqualified truth. There were no filters on or conditions to her love. He would like to hear the words from her again. But if he called, she might ask him for promises. He wouldn’t make promises to her he might be unable to keep.

He wished he could roll back the clock and relive those first few minutes when he woke up feeling Holly’s breath on his face, her body warm and soft against his. He would welcome a do-over of those brief moments of contentment.
I wish I still had it to look forward to,
she had said of their quickie couch sex. He wondered if she felt that way now.

God knew she shouldn’t. There were so many things to apologize for, he wouldn’t know where to start. If not for him, the shooting would never have happened. Her life would never have been endangered, her career would be on solid footing. Did the minutes of bliss they’d shared make up for the crap he’d left her to deal with? Only she could answer that, and he couldn’t possibly blame her if the answer was
no
.

Deciding against making any of those calls, he removed the battery from the burner phone and settled in to wait for darkness.

After the two detectives left Holly’s house, she fretfully wandered from room to room as though looking for direction or insight into what she should do. Her car was found and returned to her, but her feelings of uselessness and fear for Crawford’s safety increased the longer he remained unaccounted for.

At noon, she switched on her television, wondering what was being reported on the news. The lead story was Pat Connor’s murder. Video shot outside his residence showed CSU personnel carrying out labeled bags.

“This is the second Prentiss law officer to be killed this week,” the reporter said solemnly. “Although the two crimes are unrelated, the grieving among—”

“Unrelated?” Her angry shout echoed through the cottage.

She hurriedly dressed for the office and drove to the courthouse, her escorts following closely in their squad car. She eschewed the slow elevator and took the atrium stairs, the officers tripping along behind her.

Mrs. Briggs was startled by her sudden entrance and even more startled by her request. “Call the TV station in Tyler. Ask to speak to the reporter who broke the story about Chuck Otterman, and when you get him, tell him that if he’d like an exclusive interview with me to be here in an hour.” She paused, then said, “And see if I can possibly speak to the governor.”

“When?”

“Now.”

She went into her private office and paced until her desk phone rang. “Governor Hutchins is on the line,” Mrs. Briggs told her.

Holly took a deep breath and pressed the lighted button. “Governor Hutchins, I know you’ve just returned from the conference. Thank you for taking my call.”

He conveyed his sadness over the terrible event that had taken place in her court and asked after her well-being. When she had assured him that she was fine, he reluctantly mentioned the “unpleasant aftermath.”

“That’s why I’m calling, governor. I’m about to grant a TV interview, which no doubt will have a ripple effect that could reach as far as your desk. I wanted you to know about it in advance.”

She talked for five minutes without interruption. When she finished, he said, “Essentially, what you’re saying is that the investigators are barking up the wrong tree.”

“Yes, sir. When this interview airs, my judgment will be brought into question. I’ve already been accused of being too personally involved with Ranger Hunt.”

“Is that the case?”

“There is a strong emotional pull, yes.” She gave him time to process that and make of it what he would. “But it hasn’t blinded me, sir. What’s become perfectly clear is that an equally powerful prejudice
against
Ranger Hunt is hampering the investigation. I fear this personality clash is preventing justice from being done for the murder of Chet Barker and now Officer Connor. No matter what the repercussions might be to me and my career, I’m compelled to speak up about it.”