Crawford 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.”
During the ensuing silence, Holly held her breath. Finally, he said, “Be careful how you phrase it.”
The TV crew arrived within forty-five minutes of Mrs. Briggs’s call, and twenty minutes after that, the reporter had his exclusive. Ten minutes after the crew had gathered up their gear and left her chambers, Neal Lester barged into her inner office, looking ready to explode.
“I’m sorry, judge. He—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Briggs.”
Her assistant backed out, but left the door open.
Neal said, “You could have given me fair warning. A news team arrived downstairs asking me for a follow-up sound bite to your interview.”
“That sounds only fair. Why are you upset?”
“Why’d you offer them an interview in the first place?”
“Because Greg Sanders has been suggesting that ‘in light of a chain of tragic events all relating to me,’ I should do the public a favor, withdraw my name from the ballot, and give him a free pass to the bench. I wanted people to know that I have no intention of doing that.”
“I don’t care about you and your election. What did you say about Chuck Otterman?”
“The reporter asked if I thought he had anything to do with the courtroom shooting death of Chet Barker. I told him that since it was an active investigation, I couldn’t comment, then referred him to you for statements regarding Monday’s tragedy as well as last night’s murder of Officer Connor.”
“Effectively linking the two incidents, and linking both to Otterman.” His shout rattled the chandelier.
She didn’t offer a comeback.
“Did the reporter ask you why your boyfriend skipped out before he could be questioned about Connor’s murder?”
It was a struggle, but she kept her temper under control. “He asked if Crawford Hunt was a person of interest in Connor’s murder. I said that I hadn’t heard that term applied to him. Which I haven’t.”
“Not yet. But it’s a fact that he eluded the authorities with your help. It stretches credulity that he overpowered you and stole your car.”
“That’s what happened.”
“Tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I’m beginning to doubt your intelligence, detective.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
Suddenly behind him, the two familiar Texas Rangers appeared. Harry Longbow politely excused himself to Mrs. Briggs. “We need a word with the judge.”
He and Sessions edged past Neal into her inner office. Harry then shoved the detective back through the door and slammed it in his face. She knew from their grave expressions that something was terribly wrong. Weakly, she said, “Crawford?”
“What you just said, is it true? You don’t know where he is?”
“I swear I don’t.”
“You haven’t heard from him all day?”
“Not since dawn. I’m desperate to talk to him.”
“Yeah, us too.”
“You told me he gave you a new phone number.”
“We’ve been calling it for hours. Keep getting nothing. Tried to locate it using triangulation. Either he’s not close enough to a cell tower for that to work, or he’s taken the battery out, or both. Anyhow, we decided to drive on up here, thinking maybe he’s in trouble and needs our help.”
“Judge,” Sessions said, speaking for the first time. “Look, we figure y’all got a thing going, and, far as we’re concerned, that’s good. But you’re not doing Crawford any favors by keeping what you know to yourself. So, if you know where he was headed this morning, you need to tell us.”
“All I know is where he left my car.”
“Where was that?”
She told them about Smitty.
“That must be Crawford’s weasel.” Harry hitched his head toward the outer office. “Guess he’s gotta be in on this.” Sessions opened the door and signaled for Neal to join them. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Harry said, “Tell us about this Smitty character.”
Neal gave them Smitty’s basic bio. With obvious resentment, he added, “He’s been thoroughly interrogated but refuses to disclose anything. He says Crawford will kill him, if Otterman doesn’t kill him first.”
“Well, he might be right,” Harry said. “About Otterman anyway.”
Sessions said, “Let us have a crack at him.”
“That won’t do any good,” Neal said. “You won’t get anywhere.”
“Well, we gotta try,” Harry said.
His somber tone made Holly’s heart clutch.
“We discovered why Otterman’s holding a grudge against Crawford,” the Texas Ranger said. “The boy’s walking into way more than he’s bargained for.”