“What floor were you on when the shooting took place?”
“Crawford.”
Otterman raised his hand to stave off Neal’s attempt to intercede. “It’s all right, Sergeant Lester.” To Crawford, he said, “I was on the third floor, where the district attorney’s offices are located. By the way, the assistant DA I met with was Alicia Owens.”
He pocketed the coin as he stood. “I think that about covers it.” He smiled at Nugent. “I’m glad I could clear up that discrepancy in the head count.” Then to Neal, “I hope you catch the suspect soon.”
Neal came to his feet. Nugent followed his example. Crawford remained with his behind propped on the corner of the neighboring desk.
Neal said, “Thank you for coming forward, Mr. Otterman,” and reached across his desk to shake hands.
Otterman nodded and turned toward the door.
Crawford said, “I’d like you to take a look at Rodriguez.”
“What?”
“Why?”
Otterman and Neal had spoken at the same time, but Crawford ignored the detective and replied to Otterman. “We haven’t confirmed his identity. We don’t know what he was doing in the courthouse on Monday and—”
“Now you never will.”
The remark was meant to be snide, and, although Crawford knew it was aimed at him, he let it bounce off. “If you took a look at him, maybe you would remember seeing him in the courthouse. It could be the clue we need to tie up those loose ends.” When Otterman failed to respond immediately, he added, “Just a thought. Since you’re so into civic duty, and all.”
He had intentionally created a dilemma for the man. If Otterman agreed, it would be a concession to their authority, and Crawford felt that he didn’t like conceding authority to anyone. If he declined, he would have two strikes against him, because, in spite of Neal’s bowing and scraping, much could be made of the fact that Otterman had left the scene of a capital crime.
“Of course, I’ll take a look,” he said genially. “Unfortunately, it will have to wait until tomorrow. I have a meeting at three thirty this afternoon. A group is flying in from Odessa.”
Neal jumped on that. “Tomorrow is soon enough, Mr. Otterman. What would be a convenient time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“I promise not to keep you any longer than absolutely necessary. Thank you for coming in today. Nugent will walk you out.”
Nugent was twitchier than usual as the two made their way to the door. As soon as they had cleared it, Neal launched into Crawford. “What is the matter with you? Are you determined to self-destruct and take me with you? You just pissed off the man in charge of the largest economic boom this area has seen in generations.”
“What’s the matter with
you
?” Crawford fired back. “You’re a cop. Or you’re supposed to be. You can’t back down from someone because you’re afraid of rubbing him the wrong way. If he’d have been anybody else, you probably would have arrested him for obstruction.”
“But he’s not
anybody else
. You honestly think he’s a suspect? Let’s forget for the moment that he’s got the wrong hair color and a different body type. Does he come across as a man who would dress up like Halloween?
Really
?
” By the time he got to the last word, his voice was practically a screech. “Asking him to look at Rodriguez? What’s that about except a waste of everyone’s time?”
“We don’t know that.”
“If he looks at him and says, ‘Never saw him before,’ what have you gained?”
“Nothing. But we’ll be no worse off, either.”
“Except that we’ll have offended a very influential man.”
Crawford placed his hands flat on Neal’s desk and leaned over it. “He strolled in here like royalty and admitted to leaving a crime scene, like it was no big deal. Chet was dead, and this asshole went on his way because he didn’t have time to hang around and answer a few questions. Fuck if I care we hurt his feelings.”
He straightened and raked his fingers through his hair. “Besides, you’re missing the point of why I asked him to come to the morgue. I don’t expect him to recognize Rodriguez.”
“Then why bother him?”
“I want to watch him when he
denies
recognizing Rodriguez. If he’s lying about it, I’ll know. I don’t think he was the shooter, but… Hell, I don’t know,” he said, irritably rubbing the back of his neck. “Something.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. But put someone on finding out who the cop was that let Otterman leave. Have him suspended for a nice long time. Give him weeks to rethink that decision.
“And assign somebody to start digging into Mr. Chuck Otterman’s life for the past five years or so. Have it mapped good. Work history. Family stuff, too. Divorce. Child custody. Like that.”
“Why me? You’re the expert on all that.”
Instead of taking the bait, Crawford said, “Good place to start would be the law firm that Holly left to come here.”
“That’s been done already.”
“Have it done again, this time looking for Otterman.” He turned and stalked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
Over his shoulder, he said, “To lunch.”
M
arilyn was on her third Bloody Mary. Dennis was nursing a glass of iced tea. Their entrees hadn’t yet arrived. Holly couldn’t wait for this lunch to end.
They were seated at a window table in the country club dining room, dubbed by Dennis the only decent restaurant in Prentiss unless you were carbohydrate-loading. It was a pleasant room overlooking the golf course and a pond with a backdrop of solid pine forest.
But Holly was too keyed up to enjoy the room, the view, or the company. Marilyn, who’d insisted on treating them to lunch, had driven her own car from the courthouse so she could smoke, leaving Holly to ride with Dennis, which had afforded them some time to themselves.
At first, their conversation had revolved around the shooting, but once he had been assured that she wasn’t injured beyond a few bruises, and that she was coping as well as she could with the aftermath and everything it entailed, they drifted toward more personal topics.
When she asked if he was seeing someone, he sheepishly admitted that he had a new romantic interest, which didn’t surprise her. Dennis was handsome, successful, charming, and intelligent. Yet she wondered what had ever attracted her to him. He now seemed very…polished.
He rarely got agitated. He never raised his voice. The most heated argument she ever remembered them having was over her decision to relocate to Prentiss, and that had been more of a discussion of the pros and cons rather than a quarrel.
Their reunion had been as civilized and dispassionate as their relationship, including their breakup. No theatrics, no pyrotechnics. When she saw him, the only bump her heart had given was one of anxiety over what Crawford would do, say, and feel about Dennis’s unheralded arrival. Neither his opinion nor his reaction should have mattered, but somehow they did.
She didn’t wish Dennis any ill will, and it was clear that he felt the same toward her, but once they had more or less established that, they had little to talk about. Holly was eager for him to be on his way back home and firmly fixed in her past, so she could get on with her present.
When her cell phone chimed from the pocket of her handbag, she seized on the distraction. Checking the caller ID, she saw that it was her assistant. “Mrs. Briggs would never interrupt our lunch unless it was important.”
She excused herself and left the table in a rush, wanting to catch the call before it went to voice mail. “I’m here,” she said as she moved past the hostess stand into the foyer.
“I apologize for calling during your lunch.”
“No problem. What’s going on?”
“Mr. Joe Gilroy is here. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says it’s important that he speak to you as soon as possible, and he doesn’t want to do it by phone. What shall I tell him?”
She glanced into the dining room, where Marilyn was talking with animation and Dennis was laughing. Holly said, “Please ask him to wait. I’ll be right there.”
The pair of policewomen who’d taken over for the Texas Rangers had been sitting at a table not far from Holly’s party. One had followed her into the foyer. She asked her now if she could please have a lift back to the courthouse in their squad car.
“Of course, Judge Spencer. After lunch?”
“No, right now. Just let me say good-bye to my friends.” Holly reentered the restaurant. As she approached the table, Dennis stood up and pulled out her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t stay.”
“What? Why?” Marilyn’s tone had a demanding edge.
Dennis said, “You haven’t even eaten.”
“Someone’s waiting for me in chambers. I need to get back right away.”
“I’ll drive you.”
She placed her hand on Dennis’s arm. “The policewomen are giving me a ride. Stay and enjoy your lunch.”
“Will I see you later?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what would be the point. Instead, she smiled up at him. “I appreciate your coming all this way to check on me. Truly. It was sweet of you. But, as you can see, I’m fine. You have other things to do, and so do I.”
He caught the underlying message of the statement and smiled back, actually looking a bit relieved.
She kissed him on the cheek, then said to Marilyn, “I’ll see you at my house later.”
“Not too much later. We’ve got a lot of planning still to do.”
Holly shouldered her handbag, smiled at Dennis for what would most likely be the final time, and joined the policewomen who were waiting for her at the hostess stand. She rode in the backseat of their squad car. They saw her into the courthouse and up to the door of her chambers.
In the anteroom, Mrs. Briggs was seated behind her desk. Joe Gilroy was sitting in an armchair with a briefcase on his lap. He stood up when she walked in. They shook hands, and he thanked her for seeing him without an appointment. She motioned him to follow her into her private office and closed the door.
Once they were seated and she was facing him across her desk, he opened the briefcase and took out several paper-clipped sheets. “I filed all the necessary documents with the county clerk.”
He slid the documents across the desk toward her. “She informed me that I need your signature. That’s why I asked to meet with you as soon as possible. This needs to be served without delay.”
Holly had recognized the documents immediately. Unfortunately, in a family dispute they were too often necessary to protect one party from another. Which is why she could only gape at Joe Gilroy with incredulity.
He had filed for a temporary restraining order against Crawford Hunt.
Crawford went looking for Smitty and found him in the second topless club he checked. This one was a bit more upscale than the others. Between eleven and three o’clock each weekday, it served free lunch to anyone who bought a minimum of two drinks.
When Crawford asked the bouncer if the boss was in, he demanded to know what business Crawford had with him. With his badge and unflinching stare serving as incentives, the bouncer told him that he would find Smitty in his office at the back of the building.
Crawford entered the club through a maroon velvet curtain and moved along the buffet, noting that the chicken wings looked dry and the pizza slices had begun to curl up at the edges. However, the few patrons sitting at the edge of the stage weren’t there for the food, but rather to ogle the two dancers, whose performance was uninspired at best. One of them even yawned as she swayed.
On the far side of the club, he entered a dimly lit hallway, followed it past the restrooms, and went through a door forbidding entrance to anyone except employees. He passed two storerooms where cases of liquor were stacked chest high. A dressing room door stood open, revealing a woman in a bathrobe, seated in front of a lighted mirror, admiring her image as she talked on her cell phone. Finally Crawford came to a closed door with “Manager” stenciled on it.
Through it he heard Smitty shouting, “Look at you, for crissake! Who wants to pay to see a black eye?”
Then a woman’s voice. “When I’m on stage, you think they’re looking at my
eyes
?”
“Who did it? A customer or a boyfriend?”
“What’s it to you? You don’t own me.”
Crawford knocked once, then pushed the door open. Smitty was standing behind his desk, hands on hips. A young woman was slouched in the chair facing the desk, a landscape of litter.
Smitty groaned when Crawford strolled in. “Oh, perfect. Fucking perfect. Just what I need today.” With disgust, he looked down at the girl and waved her away. “Get out of here. Go buy some makeup that’ll cover that. You can’t control men and their urges, you got no business in this line of work. It happens again, you’re out on your ass.”
“Oh, I’m so sure,” she drawled. “My ass is a crowd pleaser.”
She sauntered toward the door, pausing as she came alongside Crawford. Cheekily she winked the eye that had been blackened. “Who are you, cutie?”
“I’m a bootlegger.”
“Seriously?”
“
Out!
” Smitty bellowed.
She slammed the door behind her. Smitty plopped into his desk chair and smoothed down his greasy comb-over. “Bitch knows I won’t fire her. Her ass
is
a crowd pleaser.”
Crawford took the chair the woman had vacated. “What I saw of it in those jeans, it looked pretty good.”
“She goes on at ten tonight. You can see all of it then. Drink?”
“No thanks.”
Smitty reached for a bottle of gin on his desk and poured some into a cloudy glass. He shot the drink, then snarled, “Well? What brings ya? I don’t recommend the wings.”
“I saw them.”
“So?”
“Chuck Otterman.”
Smitty froze in the act of pouring a second drink, then carefully returned the bottle to his desk.
Crawford said, “Ah. I see you know him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
After leaving the courthouse, Crawford had contacted the DPS office and asked a trooper to get him the nuts-and-bolts on Chuck Otterman. The trooper had called him back less than five minutes later with the particulars—date of birth, Social Security and driver’s license numbers, and so forth. Otterman also had a concealed handgun license. His permanent address was in Houston, his temporary address a PO box in Prentiss.
“Email me all that.”
“Already have.”
“What’s he been doing the past thirty years or so?”
“Completed two years of junior college but left without a degree. Seems to have worked every day of his adult life in oil and gas,” the trooper reported. “Probably doesn’t have a carpeted office because he likes the on-site work. Moved around, never staying with one outfit for more than a coupla years.”
“Anything to indicate why?”
“Nothing on the surface.”
That was a curiosity Crawford would check out.
However, Otterman appeared blemish-free. He’d been married once in his twenties, divorced less than two years later, no fuss or muss, no children. He paid his alimony on time, he was current with the IRS. No major debts or liens against him. No arrests.
Crawford asked the trooper a few more questions. Although the answers didn’t raise suspicions, he still smelled a rat. Which is why he’d tracked down Smitty, who was a source of information, the kind that couldn’t be found using computers and search engines.
“Chuck Otterman. What do you know, Smitty?”
“I know that you should do yourself a favor. For
once
. I’ve seen the news. Yesterday, a hero. Today?” He made a face and waggled his hand. “Not so much. Except for the judge. Now she—”
“Otterman.”
“Crawford, how long have we been friends?”
“We’ve never been friends. Occasionally I pay you for information. I always take a long, hot shower after.”
The club owner slapped the area of his heart. “That hurts, that really does.”
Crawford propped one ankle on his opposite knee and rested his linked fingers on his midriff, settling in. “That young lady with the good ass didn’t seem all that surprised that you had a bootlegger calling on you in the middle of the afternoon. Five minutes, you’re shut down while me and some boys with badges do a thorough investigation of the revenue you bring in off alcohol. Nobody goes on at ten o’clock tonight.”
It was a valid threat. Del Ray Smith’s business wasn’t entirely legit, or even mostly legit. Crawford figured that he kept at least two sets of books, and knew for a fact that Smitty conducted a brisk trade with bootleggers, bookmakers, and pimps.
He had started out in his teens as a petty crook and had progressed to grand larceny before he dropped out of eleventh grade. After being released from his second stint in Huntsville, he’d decided he needed to improve his act.
He scraped up enough money for a down payment on a ratty beer joint on the Prentiss County line. From that he’d grown his business until it now encompassed five nightclubs with dancers that he proudly advertised as “Totally Nude.” Apparently the redundancy escaped him.
Crawford’s threat caused Smitty to pat down his comb-over again. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“True. Your corruption is transparent.”
All innocence, he said, “Corruption?”
“You’re a tax dodger, a facile liar, a moral cesspool. You know, and I know, that you’ll eventually sell out. So let’s cut to the chase, okay? Tell me what you know about Otterman.”
“Better idea. Why don’t you let me treat you to a lap dance, then you go home, go fishing, to the movies, go see your kid. Something. Anything. You don’t want to tangle with Otterman.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll throw in a happy ending to that lap dance. This girl—”
“I’m losing my patience. What do you know about Otterman?”
Smitty raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out. “Nothing.”
“Smitty.”
“Swear to God. His roughnecks are good for my business.
Real
good for my business. I don’t want you and your nosing around to scare them off.”
“Is Otterman himself a customer?”
“No.”
Crawford looked at him, said nothing.
“Okay, occasionally.”
Crawford didn’t blink.
“Jesus,” Smitty said under his breath. “He’s a
good
customer, all right?”
“Does he favor one club over another?”
“Tickled Pink.”
“How often is he there?”
“Three, four nights a week.”
“Does he go to see a particular girl?”
“No. Swear,” he added, when Crawford registered doubt. “He rarely even watches the show. He sits in one of the big booths and just meets with people.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know. People.” He shot Crawford a querulous look as he decided on that second gin after all and sloshed some into the glass.
“What kind of people? Young, old, men, women? Down-and-outs? Well-heeled?”
Smitty chugged the gin and belched noxious fumes. “Men. All kinds.”
“What do all these kinds of men talk to Otterman about?”
“How the hell should I know? The weather.” Under Crawford’s baleful stare, he squirmed in his squeaky chair. “Look, I don’t meddle, okay? Or eavesdrop. Otterman buys name-brand booze and lots of it. My interest in him stops there.”