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He leaned over her, and she pointed it out on the screen.
“What town is that?” he asked.
“Itasca.”
“Repeat that,” Rodarte said.
“Itasca.”
“Where the hell is that?” He was driving with one hand, holding his cell phone to his ear with the other.
He’d had a desk cop back at the police station searching for the address Griff Burkett had rattled off to him before hanging up. Thanks to a satellite and technology he didn’t understand, Laura Speakman’s cell phone had been tracked to a movie theater. Before he could even get excited about it, they’d found the damn thing lying on the parking lot pavement.
From there the trail had gone cold because Mrs. Speakman’s car had been left at the mansion, they didn’t know what Burkett was driving now, and the moviegoers they’d questioned didn’t know diddly. Rodarte had left Carter there to try to pick up the trail. Actually, Rodarte was glad he could assign his partner another task. From here on, he preferred working alone.
Rodarte became furious thinking about Griff Burkett and his adulterous lover—had she plotted her husband’s murder with him?—laughing up their sleeves at him. The idiots he’d posted to guard her were going to be looking for jobs tomorrow. Then he was going to hurt them. And their wives. And their kids. They would come to regret the day they were born.
And that didn’t begin to cover what he had planned for Griff Burkett and the poor, innocent, grieving widow. He wished he’d fucked her when he had a chance. Who would she have told? The cops? he thought, scoffing. No way. Not when he could turn it around and tell them about her illicit affair with her husband’s killer. Yeah, he should have responded to the impulse he’d had there in her hotel room, bent her over and fucked her. His problem was he was just too nice a guy.
The desk cop was rattling off directions. “From where you’re at, go south on 35 E till you get to I-20 and head west. Then out of Fort Worth, take 35 dubya south. Watch for the exit.”
“So where’s this Lavaca Road or whatever?”
“Runs out the east side of town and turns into farm-to-market 2010. We reckon that’s where the numbers came from. It’s not exactly a street address, but it makes sense.”
“I guess,” Rodarte said, unconvinced. “But stand by in case I need to call you again.”
“I already called the local po-lice down there. Chief’s name is Marion.”
“First?”
“Last. Plus I alerted the Hill County SO. Marion’s sending a squad car to scout out the area, see if his boys can pick up anything. When you get there, you’ll have plenty of backup.”
“Is there still an APB out for Manuelo Ruiz down there?”
“I asked Marion to jog everybody’s memory.”
“And one for Griff Burkett?”
“Considered armed and dangerous. Just like you said, Detective.”
“He’s got a cop’s service weapon.”
“Told Marion that, too. Pissed him off.” After a pause, he added, “And to think we used to cheer the son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, to think.”
The best that could happen would be for Burkett to be spotted and plugged by an underpaid, overanxious Hicksville cop, a Cowboys fan who bore a grudge based on principle.
Someone else killing Burkett would remove any suspicion from him. But there was a distinct downside: it would deprive him of taking down that bastard himself, and that was something he very much looked forward to.
“What’s the number of the police station down there?” Rodarte asked the desk cop. Once he had it, he clicked off and called that number. He identified himself and was soon patched in to Chief Marion. “Rodarte, Dallas PD.”
“Yes, sir,” he said crisply.
“Just calling to follow up. What’s happening down there?”
“There’s nothing on FM 2010 except an old farmhouse. Vacant. Looks like it was abandoned a long time ago. My men said a strong wind would knock it down.”
