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Dodge forced himself to smile. "Me? Hell no. I gotta make detective. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my shot at that."
Half an hour later, he reported for work at the tire plant. During his lunch break, he saw Crystal in the commissary and made a point of smiling at her. She smiled back, then shyly averted her head and didn't look at him again.
When his shift ended, he clocked out, then went looking for Roger Campton, and, when he found him, he beat the shit out of him. At least he tried his best.
It was after dark, but Dodge would have done the same thing in broad daylight. He caught up with Campton in the parking lot of the exclusive health club where he was a member. His hair was damp from his recent shower, and he smelled of Irish Spring. Dodge came up behind him, caught him in a headlock, and punched him in the right kidney.
Campton dropped his gym bag. Because of the pressure Dodge's forearm was applying to his larynx, the only sounds he made were guttural and unintelligible. After Dodge delivered several more hard blows, Campton's knees gave out beneath him. Dodge spun him around, hit him in the face with the heel of his hand, and felt his nose collapse with a crunching noise and a gush of blood and mucus.
He backed Campton into his Mercedes and bent him backward over the shiny hood. Shoving his hand beneath Campton's chin in order to keep him upright, he repeatedly drove his fist into the millionaire's belly and ribs with the impetus of a pile driver.
When he finally let him go and stepped back, Campton slid down the side of his sleek car and crumpled like a pile of dirty laundry onto the pavement. Dodge kicked him in the ribs and, out of sheer spite, in the testicles. The man screamed, then passed out.
Dodge went down on one knee and grabbed a handful of his hair. He slapped his bloody face until he came to. "Can you hear me?"
"Don't kill me," Campton whimpered. Because of his smashed nose, his mewling sounded almost comical.
"Not tonight. But I want you to listen to me, you motherfucking turd. Because of your daddy's money, you might think you can do anything you damn well please and get away with it. So far you have. But I'm telling you now that if you hurt Caroline King again, even a little, you die. Do you understand me?"
He relaxed his grip on Campton's hair to allow his head to wobble a nod of comprehension.
"You're not gonna forget what I'm telling you, are you, Roger?"
Campton shook his head.
"Because if you do, if you raise a hand to her tomorrow, or next week, or ten years from now, I'll kill you. You got it?"
Roger Campton had passed out again, and this time when Dodge released him, he left him where he lay, deeply regretting that he couldn't quite justify killing the son of a bitch right then and there.
* * *
It was twilight, and the air was muggy. Sunset had done little to relieve Houston of the steamy heat. Dodge was seated on a shaded concrete bench in the outdoor courtyard of an office park formed by four square, glass buildings, each six stories tall. He was waiting as requested, nervous as a whore in church, wondering why she'd asked for this meeting, hoping like hell it meant something good for him.
She came through the revolving door of Building Two five minutes after the appointed time. By then the back of his shirt was stuck to his skin, and streams of sweat were trickling down his ribs. As she approached, he stood up, praying his deodorant wouldn't fail him and wishing he'd chewed one extra breath mint.
She was dressed in black slacks and a sleeveless top the color of cream. The rosy hues of dusk made her hair look like molten copper. Her arms were impossibly slender, and her flat-heeled sandals added no height.
But her petiteness was incongruous with her combatant stride, and when she got close enough for him to read her expression, his hopes for this meeting turning out to be good for him were instantly dashed.
Every red hair on her head was bristling when, without preamble, she demanded to know, "Did you do it?"
Dodge didn't even pretend ignorance of what she was talking about, but he wasn't about to admit to an assault and battery, either. He motioned her toward the bench.
"No, thank you," she said stiffly. "I prefer to stand. And I insist on knowing if it was you who beat Roger to within an inch of his life. He'll be in the hospital for at least a week. He could have died."
"So I heard from Jimmy Gonzales."
His former partner had called his pager number the evening before, but Dodge hadn't been able to call him back until this morning. Gonzales had told him that Roger Campton had been hospitalized with serious injuries suffered in an attack by an unidentified assailant.
A long silence had followed.
Finally Dodge had asked if it had been a mugging, and Gonzales had told him that Campton's wallet was still on him when he was found, credit cards and several hundred dollars intact.
Gonzales hadn't asked if Dodge was responsible, because he didn't want his suspicion confirmed. Gonzales was as honest a cop as they came. Dodge could tell the guy was anguishing over his own complicity, which amounted only to his informing Dodge of the latest police summons to an address on Shadydale. But that would have been enough to eat at a man with Gonzales's integrity.
Dodge hated having put his partner and friend in such a compromising position, because he was also certain that Gonzales would never rat him out for anything short of cold-blooded murder.
Then Gonzales had dropped a bombshell. "She wants to see you." He'd told Dodge where to be and what time to be there.
