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“You sure? Our coffee’s as good as our auto-mo-biles.”
“No thanks.”
“Maybe a nice, cold Dr Pepper?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Rodarte said, showing his impatience.
“You shopping cars this morning, Detective?”
“No.” Rodarte nodded toward the other man in the room, who was seated across from Hunnicutt’s desk. “Could we have a minute alone? This is a police matter.”
“Meet James McAlister. Jim’s my lawyer, so I have no secrets from him.” The look on Rodarte’s face was priceless. It was all Hunnicutt could do not to chuckle. The detective hadn’t expected a lawyer to be present.
Hunnicutt had arrived at the dealership shortly after daybreak so he could replace the security chain before his employees began reporting for work. He’d been at his desk catching up on paperwork when Griff’s warning call came through the main phone line. Fortunately, he’d answered.
Upon hearing his voice, Griff said, “It’s hit the fan. I’m sorry. You’ll be hearing from a cop named Rodarte. Stanley Rodarte. He gives you grief, you say this to him. You listening?”
“I’m listening.”
Griff had left Hunnicutt with the message, then hung up.
Addressing Rodarte now, Hunnicutt said, “Jim’s here to buy a car for his daughter who’s turning sixteen next week. He expects a discount from me. Like hell, I said. He never gave me a discount on legal fees. I told him—”
“We found a car belonging to you,” Rodarte said, brusquely cutting in. “It was found abandoned on a neighborhood street a few miles from here.”
Hunnicutt looked at McAlister, registering surprise. “You found it? Already?” He whistled. “I’m impressed. We only reported it stolen, when, Jim? Eight, nine this morning? You guys in the DPD are good!”
Rodarte had received his second blow. “You reported the car stolen?”
McAlister
snapped open the briefcase resting on his lap and took a form from it. It had been filled out by the policeman who’d responded to Hunnicutt’s call, reporting that a car was missing from his inventory. Rodarte yanked the form from McAlister, glanced at it, and verified its accuracy, down to the car’s make and model, license plate, and VIN. Hunnicutt got the impression Rodarte was about to wad up the form and hurl it to the floor. McAlister rescued it just in time and replaced it in his briefcase.
“When was it stolen?” the detective asked tightly.
“Don’t know. I didn’t notice it missing until this morning. Cars get shifted around all day, every day. It could have been missing a couple weeks, a couple days, or a couple hours. No way of telling.”
“Griff Burkett’s prints are all over that car,” Rodarte growled, looking like a man barely in control of his temper.
“Griff Burkett? The Griff Burkett? No shit! You sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”
“Well, I’ll be. Imagine that. Hmm. Wonders never cease.”
Rodarte’s glower turned darker. “He left it parked two streets from his lawyer’s house, where he went last night asking for information that would help him elude arrest for the murder of Foster Speakman. Turner called us instead.”
Hunnicutt looked over at McAlister. “Lucky I’ve got you.”
“Burkett managed to get away on foot,” Rodarte said.
“The boy has talent,” Hunnicutt said. “Fastest quarterback I’ve ever seen. That fancy footwork of his was something to watch, wasn’t it?”
Rodarte looked ready to explode. “You gave that car to him, which amounts to aiding and abetting a murder suspect.”
“That’s an awfully ugly allegation,” McAlister said calmly. “I’m hereby instructing my client not to answer any further questions, Detective.”
Ignoring the lawyer, Rodarte kept his eyes on Hunnicutt. “When did Burkett call you? Yesterday? Last night?”
