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It must be true. If Ruiz had witnessed Burkett murdering Speakman, Burkett would be racing down to Itasca to silence the man, not calling Rodarte and telling him where to find him.
Conclusion: Manuelo Ruiz was no longer a footnote in the case. He’d been bumped up to a principal player. His new status called for action.
Rodarte used the redial button on his cell phone. It rang only once before being answered. “Itasca PD.”
“This is Rodarte again. Put Chief Marion on.”
A few clicks, then, “Detective Rodarte?”
“Anything?”
“Nothing. I got two men still watching the house, though.”
“Call them back and cancel the APB on Manuelo Ruiz.”
Rodarte sensed Marion’s surprise. “Why’s that?”
“Somebody screwed up,” Rodarte said, faking exasperation. “Dumb computer geeks. Looking for a house address and came up with a route number instead. Got y’all hyped up for nothing. I hope to God they never issue those guys guns.”
The other cop chuckled. “Thanks for the call, Detective. I’ll pull everybody in, including the sheriff’s office. My officers will be disappointed. They thought they were going to get in on something big.”
“Not tonight.”
“What about Burkett?”
“Still at large.”
“Big guy like him, you’d think he’d be easy to spot.”
“You’d think.”
“Well, we’ll keep an eye out.”
Rodarte apologized again for the mix-up, said he hoped he hadn’t kept Marion and his officers up too late, and told him good-bye. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, then, smiling, pulled his car onto the interstate and headed toward Itasca.
When he saw the Millers, Griff thought, The surprises just keep on coming.
Both had on sandals, shorts, and florid Hawaiian-print shirts. Ellie was wearing a straw hat. A wilted lei drooped from her neck. She looked flummoxed. Coach, in spite of his ridiculous attire, was seething.
Hoping to defuse the impending explosion, Griff said, “Coach, Ellie, this is Laura Speakman.”
Coach nudged Ellie aside and bore down on Griff. “The widow? Yeah, we know who she is. We read about Foster Speakman’s murder in The Wall Street Journal while we were in Hawaii.” He shot Laura a look, then his hard gaze swung back to Griff. “Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from a Dallas detective, apologizing for bothering me while I was on vacation, but it was important, he said.”
“Rodarte?”
“That’s right. Stanley Rodarte. He asked if we knew where you were. Had we had any contact with you? Would we know where he should start looking for you? Why? I asked. Did this have to do with Bill Bandy? Oh no, he said. That’s old news. He’s looking for you in connection with the Speakman murder. Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”
“Joe, your blood pressure,” Ellie said quietly.
“I told him I didn’t know anything about you, what you were doing, where you were, and I didn’t want to know. Now I come home and find you all cozy in bed with the late millionaire’s wife. And it doesn’t look to me like she’s in mourning.”
“Well, you’re wrong!” Griff shouted, going toe-to-toe with Coach’s anger. “She’s mourning the loss of her baby. My baby,” he said, thumping his chest. “She miscarried it tonight there in your bathroom.”
Ellie made a sorrowful, wounded sound.
“Laura was pregnant by me, but I didn’t kill her husband.” Griff looked beyond Coach at Ellie. “You’ve got to believe that.” To Coach he said, “It’s up to Laura how much she confides in you, but she can tell you that I did not commit murder. I’m on my way now to find the only man who knows that for certain and can keep Rodarte from putting me on death row.”
Griff moved toward the door, but Coach planted his hands firmly on Griff’s chest, stopping him. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m turning you in.”
