Friction (9 page)

Once his mother had obtained a divorce and was free to remarry, she’d retrieved Crawford and taken him to live with her and her new husband in California. He’d resented that he hadn’t gotten a vote in the matter, and it had hurt even more that Conrad hadn’t put up a fight to keep him.

The severance had been permanent, the father-son relationship destroyed. But as he sped away from Conrad’s place, their conversation kept repeating in his mind like an earworm.

And, damn the derelict, he had been right in every respect. Crawford had needed to hear the old man advise him to do what he already knew he had to do, which was why it rankled so badly. The reprobate had taken the moral high ground ahead of him.

Fortunately, he was due to pick up Georgia, who would neutralize his anger. She always put things into perspective. Her giggles could reduce the importance of even the most serious problem.

“It looks like rain,” Grace remarked when she met him at the front door. Crawford agreed, but wasn’t going to let the weather cancel his and Georgia’s outing. Instead, he helped her into her rain gear.

Now, as they walked hand-in-hand toward the swing set, she said, “This is silly, Daddy.”

“I promised you a trip to the park playground, and do I ever break my promises?”

“No.”

“No. So here we are.”

“But it’s raining!”

“Naw, this is barely a sprinkle. Besides, even if you get wet, you’re not going to melt.”

He lifted her onto the seat of the swing and began pushing her. Her squeals and laughter were like music to his ears. Because of the inclement weather, they had the playground to themselves. They moved from one piece of equipment to another, until they’d made three circuits.

As he carried her back to his SUV, she looked down at her bright pink rubber boots. “I got them muddy.”

“They’re made to get muddy.”

“Grandma might get mad.”

“You can blame me.”

“Grandpa says you’re to blame for everything.”

Crawford never criticized Georgia’s grandparents within her hearing because he never wanted to be accused of trying to drive a wedge between them. Nor did he ever try to fish from her what they said about him when he wasn’t around.

Now, however, he was about to make an exception, because Joe had vowed to fight him, and it could be a dirty fight. As he helped Georgia buckle the straps of her car seat, he asked, “When did Grandpa say that?”

“Today while we were eating lunch. He was talking to Grandma.”

“How did he sound?”

“Loud.”

“Loud? Like he was mad?”

“Kinda. Grandma shushed him and said they would talk about it later. What are we going to do now, Daddy?”

Pinching the tip of her nose, he proposed an ice cream treat.

“At McDonald’s? They have a playground inside.”

“Mickey D’s it is.”

While she played, he shot video of her on his cell phone. It pierced his heart every time she called to him, “Daddy, watch me!” before going down the slide or climbing the rungs of the jungle gym.

He had a vague memory of a skinny, gawky, towheaded him standing on the end of a diving board, toes curled over the edge of it, staring down into the deep end of the pool, and hollering, “Dad, watch me!” as he took the leap.

But he wasn’t certain if that blurred image and others like it were actual memories of him and Conrad or childish yearnings that had gone unfulfilled.

He and Georgia played a game of I Spy while they ate their gooey sundaes. He returned her to the Gilroys supercharged on sugar, damp from being rained on, mud-spattered, and tired. But happy.

“Promise to eat your supper even though you had ice cream.”

“I will.”

“And don’t argue with Grandma when she says it’s bedtime.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a good girl. Give me a kiss.”

She hugged his neck especially tight. “I love you, Daddy.”

Clutching her to him, he whispered into her hair. “I love you, too,” and renewed his determination to get her back. No matter what.

At dusk Crawford wheeled into the courthouse parking lot, found a vacant spot, and turned off his motor. Then for the next two hours, he sat there, staring through his rain-streaked windshield at the employee exit while his restless fingers beat out an impatient tattoo on his steering wheel.

His butt had grown numb by the time Holly Spencer emerged from the building. He quickly got out of his SUV and splashed through puddles to intercept her between rows of parked cars.

She was walking head down against the rain, fiddling with her key fob, so she nearly walked into him before she saw him. She drew up short.

He said, “You’ll have to do better than hang up on me. I don’t give up easy.”

She tried to sidestep him, but he made a counter move and blocked her path.

“Get away from me.”

“I told you that we need to talk.”

“And I told you that we don’t.”

“Look, it’s got nothing to do with…that.”

He didn’t need to spell out what “that” referred to. She winced before saying, “If it’s about your custody case—”

“It isn’t. It’s about the shooting.”

The gravity of his tone stopped her two-stepping attempts to go around him. Unmindful of the rain, she raised her head and looked into his face.

“It’s serious, and I kid you not, judge. We gotta talk.”

She hesitated, then said, “All right. If it’s that important, call me tomorrow. I’ll be in my office by nine. Tell Mrs. Briggs—”

“Not good enough. We need to talk tonight. Now.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the looming red granite structure of the courthouse, as though wondering who might be watching them from any of the dozens of windows. When she came back around, she said, “Out of the question, Mr. Hunt. We shouldn’t even be seen—”

“I get it, judge. It’s unethical. And after last night, it’s also not easy to look each other in the eye.” He took a step closer and spoke in an undertone. “But what we did on your couch pales in comparison to this.”

He stared into her wide gaze, trying to impress on her how imperative it was that she hear what he had to tell her. He started backing away. “I’m in the black SUV two rows over. Follow me. Okay?”

“I—”

“Follow me.”

His insistent tone coaxed from her a small nod of reluctant acquiescence.

H
e drove to the same park where he and Georgia had played that afternoon. With nightfall and rain combined, he had counted on no one else being there. The parking lot was empty, but a single, pole-mounted vapor light shed a sickly yellow glow over it, so he parked at the edge of the lane beneath the trees where the darkness was deeper. She pulled in behind him.

He got out of his SUV and walked to her car. She unlocked the passenger door and he slid in, rapidly closing the door to keep out the rain. He raked back his wet hair. As he ran his hands up and down his thighs, drying them on his jeans, he caught her watching him with a wariness that was unflattering and irritating as hell.

“I’m not going to jump you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The meager light shone through the rain that trickled down the windshield, casting fluid patterns across her face. Her eyes looked like those of a lost child trying to put up a brave front, a blend of apprehension and defiance.

“What’s so important that we needed to talk tonight, Mr. Hunt?”

“Stop calling me Mr. Hunt. We’re not in court. Besides—” He broke off before saying anything more, but both knew why using last names was now ludicrous. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been tucking himself back into his jeans while she was trying to cover herself with the hem of her t-shirt. Which, he remembered well, proved inadequate.

“I’m waiting,” she said coldly.

“We’ll get to it in a minute.” He gestured toward her forehead. “The swelling’s gone down, but the bruise has spread.”

“It only hurts when I touch it.”

“Any others show up today?”

“A doozy on my shoulder.”

He didn’t apologize a second time for tackling her to the floor. “Otherwise how are you?”

“I’m all right.”

“You don’t look it.”

With exasperation, she said, “I’m as all right as a person could be under the circumstances.”

“Which circumstances? Last night or—”

“Going to the morgue.”

“First time for you?”

“Yes. And I hope my last. I didn’t think it necessary, but Sergeant Lester was insistent.”

“He relayed a message from the chief of police?”

“How’d you know?”

“I got one, too, along with a hand-delivered letter from Chet’s widow.” He gave her the broad-strokes version of the note’s contents, leaving out the accolades to himself. “I wanted to distance myself from the shooting and the resulting investigation. But it was impossible to refuse an emotional appeal from her.”

“I went to see her today. The house was overflowing with her children and grandchildren, friends. She has a staunch group of supporters.”

“But her husband is dead, murdered.”

She nodded, and didn’t speak for several seconds, then returned to talking about the morgue visit. “It was a wasted trip. I didn’t recognize Rodriguez. Sergeant Lester told me that you hadn’t, either.”

Crawford shook his head, but left it at that, not quite ready to address the subject. He needed to win her trust first. Right now, she was backed against the driver’s door, her body language telegraphing that she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

“Look,” he said, “I know I told you that we wouldn’t talk about last night.”

“And we won’t.”

“We—”

“If that’s what you brought me here to discuss, you’ve wasted this cloak-and-dagger setup.” She gestured toward the surroundings beyond the car windows.

“If we don’t clear the air about it, it’s always going to be there.”

“Not if we cancel it.”

He gave her a look. “Sorry, but unless you know a trick I don’t, it’s not something you can take back.”

“We rid our minds of it.”

“Deny it happened.”

“Not deny. Beyond deny. It. Never. Happened. Period. By an act of will, we—”

“Cancel it.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“So you agree?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

But he didn’t believe that was a workable plan, and obviously she didn’t, either. Under his stare, she lowered her head and massaged the space between her eyebrows with the pad of her middle finger.

“What about the whiskey drinker?” he asked.

“He’s not a factor.”

“He’s an ex?”

“Yes.”

“Husband?”

“Significant other.”

“How significant?”

“We were never officially engaged, but we had an understanding.”

“Of?”

“Marriage in the future.”

“So what happened?”

She raised her head, looking piqued. “What difference does it make to you?”

“It makes a difference because I don’t want a jealous ex coming after my ass with criminal intent.”

“He isn’t like that.”

“If he’s got a pair, he is. When it comes to a woman, all men are ‘like that.’”

“Not Dennis.”

“Dennis.” The name left a bad taste in his mouth. “What sets Dennis apart from the rest of us?”

“He’s not a caveman,” she said. “He’s reasonable. Refined.”

“Huh. In other words, right there on the borderline with wimpy.”

Her angry breathing was beginning to fog up the windows. “I’m done talking about this.”

“I’m not. In fact, it’s just now getting interesting.”

“Get out of my car, Mr. Hunt.”

“Is Dennis local?”

“Frisco,” she said tightly. “It’s a community outside—”

“Dallas. I know. Did distance break you up?”

She seemed disinclined to answer, but he waited her out and finally she said, “When I accepted the job with Judge Waters, Dennis and I were aware of the strain the distance might impose on our relationship.”

“Plain English, please. I’m not the law review board.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

He spread his hands apart, inviting her to continue.

“Dennis and I were committed to making it work.”

“Except it didn’t.”

“No, the separation began to widen, and in more ways than geography. We saw less and less of each other. It was a long drive to make just for a weekend.”

“Depends on the weekend.” Catching the innuendo, her eyes snapped to his, but before she could take exception, he pressed on. “Dennis couldn’t have relocated here when you did?”

“He has a senior position with a medical supply company. High-tech surgical equipment. I never would have suggested that he leave it.”

“You never considered passing on the chance of getting the governor’s appointment?”

“Absolutely not.”

Huh. An unequivocal no. She couldn’t have loved Dennis all that much. Which gave Crawford a misplaced feeling of satisfaction. As he’d said, when it came to a woman… Apparently he was of a baser bent than Dennis. “How long ago was the breakup?”

“A few months.”

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.”

“Was the split hostile?”

“No. Very civilized and congenial.”

“Right. Dennis isn’t a caveman.”

She took a deep breath, he believed in order to control her vexation. “As I told you at the start of this inane and totally unnecessary conversation, Dennis is no longer a factor in my life.”

“Okay.” Crawford had heard what he needed to hear and was willing to let the subject drop there.

Then she asked, “What about you?”

“Regarding what?”

“Are you in a relationship?”

“No.”

“Have you been since your wife died?”

“No.”

She held his gaze until he relented with a shrug.

“None that lasted longer than twenty minutes.” He waited a beat before adding, “But until last night, they lasted longer than ninety seconds.”

Angry, possibly embarrassed, she turned her head aside to look through the windshield.

Feeling rather like a heel for having said that, he said, “Since Beth, no involvements. I’ve seized on a few random opportunities. Never when Georgia is around. Never in my house. And never without protection.”

At that last, she turned and gave him a pointed look.

He sighed. “Right.”

“Don’t fret. You’re safe.”

“The pill?”

A small nod, then she looked forward again. Possibly a whole minute passed before she spoke. “Sergeant Lester told me that you had loved your wife very much.”

That goosed him. “You and Neal talked about Beth and me?”

“In passing.”

“When?”

“Today at the morgue while we were waiting for the ME to conclude a call.”

Crawford hated the thought of Neal and her talking behind his back, analyzing that dark period of his life, and forming unenlightened opinions. “What was the context of this little chat? Did it make for stimulating conversation?”

“Not in the way you’re implying. Sergeant Lester didn’t disclose anything I didn’t already know. I’m aware of how deeply you were affected by your wife’s death.”

“Of course you are. You’ve got a whole file on my bereavement. Beth died, and I became drunk and disorderly.”
Just like my old man did when my mom left.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to add that. Fortunately, he caught it just in time and, in fact, decided he would be better off closing the subject.

He tapped down his anger and turned his head to look out the passenger window. In the rainy darkness, he could barely make out the shapes of the playground equipment. “Wettest day in recent history, and I’ve come to the park twice.”

“Twice?”

“Earlier today I brought Georgia here to play.”

“In the rain?”

He turned back to her and gestured that it hadn’t mattered. “We had fun anyway. She has this little rain outfit. Pink, of course. She likes all things pink. Anyhow, she fretted about getting the boots muddy.”

“That’s what they’re for.”

“That’s what I told her.”

They exchanged a private smile, which put him right back in her kitchen, when his arms were around her and he could feel her against him from knees to collarbone, feel her unbound breasts against his chest, and that perfect fit at the notch of her thighs that had stopped their breathing but sparked white-hot sex.

Her thoughts must have revisited that moment, too, because there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere inside the car. The air became denser. Every raindrop striking the windshield sounded extraordinarily loud and emphasized the awkward silence that descended over them.

Finally she said, “If that’s all…”

“It’s not.”

“Then what?”

“Your visit to the morgue.” He paused. “You took a good look at the body?”

Grimacing, she nodded.

“And?”

“And nothing. I didn’t recognize his face any more than I did the name Jorge Rodriguez.”

He watched her closely for several seconds, then said, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Within reason.”

“Close your eyes and describe the shooter to me.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear your description, in your own words, in detail. Every single thing you remember about him.” When she hesitated, he said, “I know it’s a bitch of a favor to ask.”

“Last night you were urging me to put him out of my mind.”

“If this wasn’t vitally important, I’d still be urging you to do that. But it is important.”

She regarded him with puzzlement, but he must have conveyed the seriousness of the request. She closed her eyes and took her time to conjure up the image. “When he barged through the door, the first question that flashed through my mind was, ‘Why is that person dressed like that?’ But then he fired the pistol and it registered with me what was happening.”

“Which hand was the pistol in?”

“His right.”

“Hair color?”

“Dark. But only a mashed-down fringe of it showed beneath the cap.”

“Straight hair? Curly?”

“Straight.”

“What kind of shoes was he wearing?”

“There were disposable covers over them.”

“Good so far. What else stands out in your memory?”

“Such as?”

“Any detail.”

She gestured with frustration. “There weren’t any details to be seen. He was completely covered.”

“Was he wearing a wristwatch?”

“I don’t know. The gloves extended up beneath his sleeves. His facial features were indiscernible because of that horrible mask. Nose, lips, everything was pressed flat.”

“What about his neck?”

She thought on that. “Only an inch or so of skin was exposed between the high collar of the coveralls and the cap. The cap was pulled so low it covered the tops of his ears.”

“But the lobes were visible.”

“Yes.”

“The right one was pierced.”

She frowned and opened her eyes. “Was it? I didn’t notice that.”

Crawford’s heart skipped. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

With quiet emphasis, he said, “You didn’t notice because his ear wasn’t pierced. But the man in the morgue, his was.”

Her lips separated on a soft gasp. “It was. It
was
. Oh my God.” She raised her fingertips her lips. “But that would mean…”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “The man killed on the roof wasn’t the shooter.”