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"Wine-fueled hanky-panky?" Dodge said.
"Something like that." A vertical frown line appeared between her eyebrows. "I wonder if he pawed through the trash to count the beer and wine bottles we'd consumed."
"It was the happy hour that set Mrs. Lofland off," Dodge remarked. Both women looked at him inquisitively. "I talked to her."
"You talked to her?"
"When?"
They asked the questions simultaneously. Dodge explained. "After that ugly scene outside her husband's room. The two of you put your heads together for a private conversation. Nyland got a phone call. I thought I'd find the lady, see what was on her mind. She was in the hospital cafeteria, sitting alone, having a Coke. She was crying. I went up to her, told her I couldn't fail to notice that she was upset, asked if I could be of help."
He recounted to them almost verbatim the conversation he'd had with Ben's wife. It had been explanatory, enlightening, and, largely, troubling.
When he finished relating to them what had been said, neither Caroline nor Berry would look him in the eye. The thin bead chain dangling from the ceiling fan clinked against the metal casing. Dodge's breath soughed in and out of his overtaxed lungs. The cane seat of the rocking chair squeaked again, although he would have sworn he hadn't moved a muscle. Those sounds emphasized the silence of the two women.
Finally Dodge asked bluntly, "Is it true, Berry?"
She nodded.
He frowned and looked across at Caroline, who was staring at her hands, which she was clasping and unclasping where they lay in her lap. He cleared his throat and stood up. "I need to smoke."
He was almost out of the room when Berry, head lowered, said quietly, "When you come back, I'll explain."
"That would be helpful."
"What I don't get--"
"Yeah?"
She raised her head and looked at him. "Had you ever met Amanda Lofland?"
"Never laid eyes on the woman till I heard her telling you to stay away from her husband."
"Yet in half an hour's time she had poured out her heart to you. How did you gain her confidence that quickly?"
Softly Caroline said, "That's his speciality."
CHAPTER
7
Houston, Texas, 1978
THE TASK FORCE WAS A DUD.
At least in Dodge's opinion it was. Serving on it wasn't nearly as challenging as he'd been led to expect, nor as exciting as his fantasies had spun. He was glad to be out of uniform and off the night shift, but so far his task force duties had amounted largely to attending mandatory meetings conducted by egotistical windbags with nothing constructive or informative to say.
The group of elite police officers and FBI agents convened daily in what was called headquarters. Even in euphemistic terms, that lofty name hardly described the space. The unlabeled office was on the ground floor of an obscure office building on the outskirts of downtown. In an area where all the buildings were derelict, this was the worst of the lot. The only thing it had going for it was the cheap rent.
Here they met to review eyewitness accounts of the robberies, to watch the videos of the holdups from the banks' security cameras, to update one another on individual progress in tracking down leads, and to discuss strategy on how to proceed.
The premise that the group was elite was laughable. They'd reviewed the testimonies and watched the videos till they knew the contents by heart. They didn't have any leads, and, as for how to proceed with the investigation, nobody, especially the men in charge, had the least friggin' idea. These so-called high-level meetings usually evolved into swap fests of big fish stories.
Dirty jokes made the rounds. Cars were debated at length. Sporting events were argued over and gambled on. They drank gallons of high-octane coffee and snacked on empty calories. Those who smoked kept the room cloudy. They insulted one another, also one another's clothes, cars, alma maters, wives, mothers, and dogs. They held farting contests. They talked about women endlessly--who they'd laid and who they'd like to.
What they didn't do was capture the bank robber.
By the end of the second month, even the dirty jokes had turned stale, not to mention the snacks. Tempers were getting short, especially those of the higher-ranking HPD officers, who were feeling the heat of criticism from their superiors and the disdain of the feebs.
