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“What money?”
“Come on, Griff,” he said in a singsongy, wheedling tone. “The money you stole from Bandy.”
“There was no money.”
“Maybe not cash. A safe-deposit box key, maybe? Foreign bank account numbers? The combination to a safe. Stamp collection.”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!” Rodarte stabbed Griff in the chest with his finger once again, harder, angrier.
Griff saw red, but despite his wish to break bones, he couldn’t touch the man. One touch would be all the provocation Rodarte needed to engage him in a fight. If he got into a fight with Rodarte, even if he won, he’d spend the night in the Dallas County Detention Center. Bad as his new apartment was, he preferred it over a jail cell.
“Hear me, Rodarte. If Bandy had any money squirreled away, the secret died with him. I sure as hell didn’t get it.”
“Pull my other leg.” Rodarte slammed him back against the wall and moved in close, baring his teeth. “A hot hustler like you would have made sure he didn’t come away empty-handed. You’ve got expensive tastes. Cars. Clothes. Pussy. If you didn’t tuck away some of Bandy’s money, how are you going to finance all those luxuries?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Rodarte. I’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
Griff didn’t reply.
Rodarte said, “I’ll find out, you know.”
“Good luck. Now get the fuck out of my way.”
They shared a long, hostile stare. It took every ounce of willpower Griff had not to knee the guy in the balls and throw him off. But he stood his ground and his gaze didn’t flinch. Eventually Rodarte dropped his hands from Griff’s shoulders and took a step back. But he wasn’t admitting defeat.
“Okay, Number Ten,” he said softly. “You want to make this hard on yourself, fine by me. In fact, I prefer that you do.” He whispered as though making a malevolent promise.
Griff went past him and had made it to the corner of the garage when Rodarte called him back. “Hey, answer me one question.”
“Yes, I think you’re ugly.”
Rodarte laughed. “Good one. But, seriously, when you snapped Bandy’s neck, did you come? I know that happens sometimes.”
“What do you think?”
Laura didn’t have to ask About what? She and Foster hadn’t talked about Griff Burkett yet, but he might just as well have been the centerpiece on the dining table. His presence between them seemed almost that tangible.
She set down her fork and reached for her wineglass. Cradling the bowl of it between her hands, she thoughtfully stared at the ruby-colored contents. “My first impression is that he’s angry.”
“At?”
“Life.”
The formal dining room, which accommodated thirty or more, was used only for entertaining. The first twelve months of their marriage, they’d hosted numerous dinner parties. In the past two years, there had been only one—at Christmas for SunSouth’s board of directors and their spouses.
This evening, as on most evenings, they were having their dinner in the family dining room. Much cozier, it was separated from the commercial-size kitchen by a single door. The housekeeper-cook got off at six o’clock each day. Her last duty was to leave dinner in a warming tray. Since Laura had assumed much of Foster’s workload, she usually stayed at the corporate offices until seven-thirty or eight, making their dinner hour late. Foster refused to eat before she got home.
Tonight their dinner had been delayed by the interview with Griff Burkett. Laura had lost her appetite, but Foster seemed to be enjoying the beef Wellington. He cut off a bite and chewed it exactly twelve times, four series of three, swallowed, took a sip of his wine, blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Spending five years in prison would put any man in a bad humor.”
“I think Mr. Burkett would be angry under any circumstances.”
