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Hunnicutt said nothing.
“Obviously you admire him, but he’s no hero. Yesterday he made a bunch of calls to area families named Ruiz. I had cops calling those same families, searching for clues into the disappearance of Manuelo Ruiz, who we believe witnessed Foster Speakman’s murder. We compared notes. Same phone number showed up on several caller IDs. We traced that number to a fleabag motel out on 635. I’ve got men staking out the place, waiting for him to slink back to where his stuff’s at.
“And when he does, I’m going to put him through the wringer. Your name’s bound to come up. He’ll give you up, Hunnicutt. Burkett doesn’t have friends, only people he uses then shits on. He has loyalty to no one except himself. You talk to me now or face indictment later.”
Rodarte paused, took a breath. “Now, where is he? If you know, and you don’t tell me, you’re obstructing justice. Where is he?”
Hunnicutt calmly lit a cigarette. “You sure you couldn’t use a Dr Pepper?”
Rodarte banged his fist on Hunnicutt’s desk. “Tell me, goddammit!”
“Detective Rodarte, you’re harassing my client,” McAlister said.
Rodarte stood up and leaned far across Hunnicutt’s desk, thrusting his face close. “I can get your phone records for this place, prove he called here.”
“You’d need a search warrant,” the lawyer said. “I doubt any judge in the county would grant you one for such a flimsy reason, but if one did, and if you found a number belonging to Mr. Burkett on those records, it still wouldn’t prove that he spoke with Mr. Hunnicutt.
“How many calls a day do you estimate come into this busy car dealership? Hundreds, right? My client can’t be responsible for any of them. And if you did manage to prove that my client talked to Mr. Burkett, that doesn’t prove that he provided him a car or assisted him in any way.”
Rodarte, still ignoring the attorney, glared into Hunnicutt’s guileless face.
“I think you’ve run out of ammunition to back up your threats, Mr. Rodarte.” Hunnicutt placed his cigarette in the hollow belly of his armadillo-shaped ashtray and stood up. He moved to his office door and opened it.
Rodarte disregarded the blatant suggestion that he leave. He asked, “How’d Burkett get the key to that car if you didn’t give it to him?”
Hunnicutt yelled through the open doorway, “Sweetheart, come on in here a sec.”
The receptionist who’d ushered Rodarte in reappeared, asking brightly, “Did he change his mind about the coffee?”
“What’s my pet peeve?” Hunnicutt asked her. “What do I get onto the salespeople about more than anything?”
“Letting customers leave without buying a car.”
Hunnicutt boomed a laugh. “Second to that.”
“Leaving the keys under the floor mats.”
“Thank you, honey.”
She left, and Hunnicutt turned back to Rodarte. “Leaving the keys under the floor mats. They do it for convenience’s sake, always meaning to go back later and properly lock the cars they’ve taken out on demonstration drives. They plan to go back when they don’t have customers stacked up. But—thank God, and I ain’t complaining—sometimes they’ve got customers waiting. So they just slide the ignition key under the mat. Then they get distracted or busy and forget.” He shrugged his burly shoulders. “I chew ass about it all the time, but what can you do? They’re selling cars like hotcakes.”
He shared a long look with Rodarte, who glanced over at the unflappable lawyer. McAlister raised his eyebrows eloquently. Rodarte stalked through the office door. When he pushed past Hunnicutt, he said in a malevolent undertone, “You haven’t heard the last of me.”
Hunnicutt said to his lawyer, “Excuse me, Jim. I’m gonna walk him out.”
“Glen—”
“It’s cool.”
He moved quickly for a man his size and caught up with Rodarte as the detective was climbing into his car. Rodarte rounded on him. “I know you provided Burkett that car. You were jailbirds together at Big Spring. Next time, you’ll go to Huntsville, and let me tell you, that ain’t no country-club prison like the one you’re used to. Your big white ass would be a turn-on to lots of queers I’ve put there.” His eyes glinted with malice. “You’ve made an enemy today, Hunnicutt. Nobody makes a fool of me and gets away with it. You wait and see.”
Hunnicutt leaned in. He was a head taller than Rodarte and seventy pounds heavier. “Don’t threaten me. I know about you. You’re a bully. The worst kind. You got a badge to back it up. But if you even think about hurting me or a member of my family, you remember what I told you today.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Hunnicutt leaned down even closer and whispered, “Marcia’s got a lot of friends.” As he straightened up, he had the pleasure of watching Rodarte’s eyes turn wary. Griff had known what he was talking about. The name meant something to Rodarte, and so did the implied threat. It instilled, if not fear, at least reservation.
Hunnicutt held the detective’s stare, then stepped back and flashed a wide smile. “If you’re ever in the market for a used car, come see me.” He walked to the front of the olive green sedan and kicked the tire. “But I’ll tell you right off, I wouldn’t take this for a trade-in.”
