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Using his newfound cash, he had abandoned the roach-infested place and moved into a duplex. Living strictly on a cash basis presented the expected problems. Eyebrows were raised when he signed his lease, but the management of the complex took the cash without asking too many questions. His new place wasn’t in the ritziest of neighborhoods, which would have required letters of recommendation and closer scrutiny, but it was worlds above where he’d been.
The complex had a security gate, well-kept grounds, a gym, and a pool—which accounted for his tan. After moving in his new furniture and setting up a sound system and plasma-screen, high-definition TV (the best invention ever), he didn’t have much else to do except work out—it had been during a moment of pique that he had considered getting fat—and lounge by the pool.
He also went to the hospital nearly every day to visit Marcia, and he always took something with him. He’d taken flowers until the nursing staff complained that the room was becoming a greenhouse. Dwight, who’d proved to be a steadfast and attentive friend to her, chided Griff for not being more creative. So one day he took her a teddy bear. The next day he carried in a goofy hat. “To wear until you can get out of here and have your hair done,” he told her as he gently placed it on her head.
She still couldn’t speak, but she communicated her gratitude for his visits with her expressive eyes. By now she could take short strolls down the corridor. Dwight had referred a plastic surgeon who, according to Dwight’s affluent and well-preserved clientele, was a genius. After examining Marcia, the surgeon promised to do great things but said he couldn’t even begin until she had completely healed.
She still sipped her meals through a straw, and every time Griff witnessed that, his fury resurfaced. What he conjectured was that Rodarte had gone up to Marcia’s penthouse immediately after their encounter in the garage. Expecting her client, she’d opened the door to him. He’d pumped her for information about Griff, and when she didn’t—actually couldn’t—divulge any, he’d tried beating it out of her.
From Rodarte’s standpoint, it was a failed mission only insofar as he still didn’t know what Griff’s future plans were. But he’d had the satisfaction of terrorizing and disfiguring a beautiful woman who was an acquaintance of Griff’s. Knowing he could get away with it because of her profession was a bonus. Rodarte was a lowlife, a bully who would enjoy inflicting pain just for the hell of it. Gratifying his mean streak was really all the motivation he needed.
Griff couldn’t think about it without becoming enraged. On one of his visits to the hospital, he again broached the subject of reporting Rodarte to the police, but the fear and anguish that filled Marcia’s eyes dissuaded him.
“He won’t get away with it,” he told her. “I promise you.”
There had been no sign of Rodarte since the assault. Griff knew where to find him, but he didn’t dare go looking. Rodarte would love for him to come crashing down doors threatening bloodshed. No doubt that was the kind of reckless reaction he had hoped to provoke.
Griff wouldn’t give Rodarte the satisfaction of getting his butt thrown in jail again, nor did he wish to make matters worse for his suffering friend. So for the time being, he honored Marcia’s silent pleas and didn’t seek retribution.
Today thoughts of Rodarte were obscured by Laura Speakman’s call. Having had two weeks to prepare for it mentally, he was surprised by how nervous he was. To distract himself until the appointed time, he went for a five-mile run, then worked out with weights in the gym. His goal wasn’t to build himself back up to his football playing size but to maintain the lean, strong form he had now.
He followed the weights session with laps in the pool. But when it occurred to him that too much exertion might be detrimental to his sexual performance, he immediately got out.
He flossed before he brushed. He clipped his fingernails. He put on his new Armani sports jacket. He left his apartment at twelve-thirty. He arrived at the address at twelve thirty-seven. He had twenty-three minutes to kill.
The house was in an established area that had a Neighborhood Crime Watch, where residents were on the alert for people who lurked about and looked suspicious. He decided it would be better not to wait parked on the tree-lined street where he would fit that description to a tee.
Instead, he pulled into the narrow driveway and followed it around to the rear of the house, where there was a sheltered parking area and a neat backyard, made shady by two venerable sycamore trees. A privacy fence separated the property from the houses on either side.
In this older neighborhood, people were buying the houses and either razing them to rebuild on the coveted wooded lots or completely renovating. Griff guessed this was one of the latter, because it appeared as though what had once been the garage had been converted into a room. But it had been done well, and the house had retained its character and charm.
He’d bought the red Honda from Wyatt Turner. It wasn’t what he wanted to drive, but it ran okay and he figured that paying cash for a flashy new car—soon after shelling out a deposit on the
duplex—would send up all kinds of red flags to his probation officer, the IRS, the FBI. Even his lawyer eyed him suspiciously when Griff asked how much he wanted for the car and then counted out hundred-dollar bills to pay for it. Turner didn’t ask how he’d come by the cash. Griff didn’t volunteer the information.
Now he kept the Honda’s motor running so he could leave the air conditioner on. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and hummed accompaniment to the country song playing on the radio. The artist had sung the national anthem to open one of the Cowboys’ home games, then, at the invitation of the owner, had watched all four quarters from the sideline.
After an easy win against Tampa Bay, he’d asked Griff for his autograph. This guy was a hot new star. He’d won several Grammy Awards, but he’d hem-hawed and stammered, tongue-tied and starstruck, as he extended Griff his program and a Bic pen.
Today that singer wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.
He heard her car over the radio and his own humming. He shut down the Honda, took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out.
He followed the driveway along the west side of the house and came up behind her on the small porch as she was unlocking the front door. Sensing him there, she turned, startled. “Oh.”
“Hi.”
“I didn’t realize you were already here.”
“I parked around back.”
“Oh,” she said again, then hurriedly unlocked the door and went in ahead of him. She closed the door as soon as he’d cleared the threshold. A short entry hall opened into a living area. Louvered shutters were closed over the wide windows, so the room was dim. It was basically square, with a small fireplace in the center of one wall, a hardwood floor, standard pieces of furniture.
She lowered the strap of her handbag from her shoulder but clutched the bag against her chest, as if she was afraid he might grab it from her. “I thought I’d got here ahead of you.”
“I don’t live far.”
“I see.”
