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The younger detective nodded. “He didn’t understand what the beef was between you and Rodarte, but everything else he told us matches what you said went down at the old farm.”
“What about Bill Bandy’s murder?” McAlister asked.
“What about it?” asked the older detective.
“For five years suspicion has been cast on my client. He has steadfastly denied any involvement beyond discovering the body.”
The detectives glanced at each other in silent consultation over how much they should tell. Finally the younger detective said, “We’re inclined to believe Mr. Burkett’s allegation against Rodarte. He’s been under investigation by Internal Affairs for a while. Many complaints have been filed against him and some of his pals within the department. Too many to ignore. Serious stuff, like harassment, brutality, corruption. One woman suspect claimed Rodarte fondled her while she was in his custody and then got rough with her when she protested.”
“Sounds like him,” Griff growled. He had hoped to keep Marcia’s encounter with Rodarte out of the fray and was now glad to know she could be left in peace.
The younger detective was saying, “Anyhow, Bandy’s murder case will be reopened and investigated from a different perspective.”
“Am I under arrest?” Griff nodded toward the door of his hospital room, where a uniformed policeman had been posted.
“For the assault on the three police officers in the hotel, as well as for impersonating an officer.”
“There were mitigating circumstances,” McAlister said.
“Save ’em for the judge at his arraignment,” the older officer said. He seemed to hold defense attorneys in no higher esteem than he did the lawbreakers they represented.
“Just be glad you’re not being charged with kidnapping,” the younger detective chimed in. “According to Mrs. Speakman, when you explained to her that Rodarte was impeding justice, she went willingly to help you locate Ruiz.”
Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Griff, waiting to see how he would respond. He said, “Without Mrs. Speakman I would never have found him, and without him I would have been falsely charged with murdering her husband. I’ll never be able to repay her trust in me.” He paused, then asked what was in store for Manuelo Ruiz.
“Soon as we clear things up with him, and he’s well enough to travel, he’ll be sent back to El Salvador. He faces charges there. Killed a guy who’d allegedly raped his sister. We figure, let the authorities down there have him. They’ve got first dibs.”
“I wish him well,” Griff said, almost to himself.
“Generous of you,” the older cop said. “If he hadn’t attacked you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“He also saved my life.” Taking a deep breath, Griff closed his eyes and asked tiredly, “Is that it?”
CHAPTER
39
HIS NEW LAWYER TOOK IT FROM THERE. MCALISTER USHERED the detectives out. He instructed Griff to stay in contact and not to answer any further questions without him present, told him to rest, and then he too left.
Griff closed his eyes, but rest eluded him. Although his body was battered and he was exhausted, his mind wouldn’t shut down. Yesterday, he, along with Manuelo, had been transported by helicopter to the trauma center at Parkland Hospital, where both had undergone surgery.
He had vague recollections of being prepped and a few drug-blurred memories of the recovery room. This morning he had awakened in this private room, a little more than twenty-four hours after he saw Rodarte’s skull split open with the sharp edge of a shovel.
James McAlister, attorney-at-law, had shown up only minutes ahead of the Dallas detectives. He’d barely had time to introduce himself and tell Griff that as soon as Glen Hunnicutt had heard about the events in Itasca, he’d called him on Griff’s behalf.
Now Griff was relieved to have the interrogation behind him. But it had left him more exhausted than before. His body ached from his fight with Rodarte. His shoulder throbbed. But his mind was unsettled over Laura.
As Foster Speakman’s widow, she would once again be in the spotlight while the police and media sorted through the legal detritus left by Burkett, Ruiz, and Rodarte. The speculation that would swirl around her was inevitable. He could only hope fo
r a bigger story to come along that would supplant them as the lead on the nightly news.
But in the meantime, how was she bearing up? Was she well? Beyond the obvious, had she suffered from the miscarriage?
He blamed himself for whatever suffering she had to endure. Things might have turned out differently, her heartbreak might have been avoided entirely, if not for their last afternoon together. If he hadn’t stopped her from leaving, as she’d been about to, could everything that had happened since have been prevented?
But—and now was the time for brutal honesty—if he’d had it to do over, would he have let her leave? Or, acting on her hesitation, would he have reached around her and closed the door as he’d done? Thinking back on it, he wondered, would he have let her go? Even knowing what he did now, would he?
He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to that afternoon, to the sick disappointment he’d felt when she told him she was leaving and never coming back. He hadn’t tried to persuade her otherwise. How could he? He had no rights to her. None.
