Friction (27 page)

W
hen you told him to get out of your car, he didn’t put up an argument?”

“At first,” Holly admitted in reply to Neal’s question. “But I told him I would take him absolutely no farther. He got out. I drove home.”

When she’d arrived, Neal Lester and Matt Nugent were sitting in an unmarked sedan at the end of her driveway. She drove around back and entered her house through the kitchen door, then met them at the front.

As she ushered them inside, she said, “I spoke to Marilyn. She told me to expect you.”

She’d offered to make coffee, which they declined. They’d taken seats in the living room and for the past twenty minutes she had been recounting everything that had happened since getting the call from Crawford.

“He didn’t tell you what he was going to do?”

“‘Stay alive.’ Those were his words. For his daughter’s sake, he wants very much to live. Having seen her safely away, he was much calmer than he’d been an hour earlier. When he called and asked for my help, he sounded desperate.”

Neal said, “He was. He had just escaped from police custody.”

“He told me that he drove himself to the courthouse and was willing to cooperate. He hadn’t been handcuffed. He hadn’t been arrested or read his rights.” She paused and looked at the detectives expectantly. “Unless he was lying to me.”

“He wasn’t. We didn’t do any of that,” Nugent supplied and, when Neal shot him a withering look, he added, “Which is why I figured he could be left alone to talk to his lawyer.”

Neal said, “If all he wanted to do was get his daughter out of harm’s way, why did he fool Nugent and abandon his car? Why didn’t he tell me about this phone call that caused him to take such drastic measures?”

“He was afraid you wouldn’t believe him. I think he was probably right.” She paused to let that sink in. “He was afraid that every minute spent on sorting things out was another minute that his daughter’s life was in danger.”

Defensively, Neal said, “Nobody else heard this mysterious phone call, did they?”

“I was with him when it came in,” Nugent said.

“But he told you it was the lawyer.”

“Have you spoken with the attorney?” Holly asked.

Ready with the answer, Nugent said, “Crawford had asked for a referral. Ben Knotts called him and got his voice mail. That call came in minutes after the one from the unknown.”

She looked at Neal. “He asked for an attorney. Doesn’t that indicate that he had every intention of going through the questioning process, and would have if not for that threatening call from Chuck Otterman?”

“No one has ascertained that it was Otterman,” Neal argued. “The call from the unknown could have been a solicitation. He used it to trick Nugent.”

Holly said, “If the call was a trick and the threat a fabrication, why would he have implored his in-laws to immediately leave town with his daughter? They will corroborate that’s what happened.”

“Mr. Gilroy already has.”

Nugent’s statement left Neal no choice except to elaborate, although he did so grudgingly. “After dispatching a patrol car to their house and having it reported that nobody was at home, I called Joe Gilroy’s cell number. I had it from interviewing him after the shooting.”

“He confirmed what I’ve told you?”

“To the letter. There’s still no love lost between him and Crawford, but Crawford convinced him that the girl needed to be moved without delay.”

“I was similarly convinced,” she said. “Unlike you, I believe Mr. Otterman is culpable.”

“That video seals it,” Nugent agreed.

“Shut up, Matt,” Neal snapped. “It doesn’t seal anything.”

Holly didn’t reveal that she knew the origin and content of the video to which Nugent had referred, but she looked at Neal and raised her eyebrows inquisitively. Stiff-lipped with resignation, he said, “Crawford has a video of Pat Connor in conversation with Chuck Otterman. He claims it was shot at a local bar early this evening.”

“That’s why Crawford left his cell phone behind,” Nugent said. “So we’d have that video.”

“He left his cell phone so we couldn’t use it to track him,” Neal said with asperity.

Holly asked, “Does Mr. Otterman have an explanation for this conversation with the murder victim?”

“He’s out of town. We’re trying to locate him.”

She looked around her living room. “Forgive me, but you seem much more preoccupied with locating Ranger Hunt.”

“Because he skipped out on a homicide investigation. And even if he’s cleared, he’s dangerous and irresponsible. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. You’ve seen him in action.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him in action saving lives and protecting others. Are you sure that your disapproval of his methods, compounded by your personal dislike, hasn’t clouded your judgment?”

“Are you sure hormones haven’t clouded yours?”

Nugent made a choking sound.

Neal’s glare stayed fixed on her. “I think you keep defending him because you’re just a little attracted to him, Judge Spencer.”

“Well, you’re wrong, Sergeant Lester. I defend him because I believe he’s right. And I’m not just a little attracted to him, I’m
very
attracted to him. The attraction is inconvenient. Until I recused myself from his custody case, it was unethical. It has the potential of causing me embarrassment and possibly costing me my job, making Crawford Hunt an unexpected complication in my life. But it does not make him a murderer. It does, however, make you a fool for pursuing him instead of the culprit.” She stood up. “Is there anything else?”

Neal was still seething as she saw them out. She watched until they drove away. Only then did she close the front door and go around the room turning off lamps. After making sure the house was secure, she went into her bedroom and, as she closed the door, leaned weakly into it and pressed her forehead against the cool wood.

From behind her, one strong arm encircled her waist and firmly positioned her backside against an unquestionably aroused man. He gathered her hair in his fist and moved it aside so he could plant a hot kiss beneath her ear, whispering, “Well, Your Honor, guess you told him.”

C
rawford slid his hands beneath her top and unhooked her bra. Reaching around to her front and up into the cups, he took her breasts into his palms. His fingertips played over her nipples. Holly’s whimper of pleasure melded with a whine asking for more.

He turned her to face him, rid her of top and bra by pulling them over her head together, and before her hair had settled back onto her shoulders, his mouth was fastened to her breast. She clasped his head between her hands as he drew on her with such fervor, the sensations were like sparks of electrical shock.

She didn’t want him to stop, but his wet clothing was an aggravation to both of them. He broke away from her to shed his windbreaker. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, and then, because that was costing precious time, he pulled it over his head.

She didn’t dare turn on a light and risk him being seen by her guards, but she wanted to know him. Placing her hands on his chest, she felt a dusting of hair and nuzzled it. His nipples were hard. She swept her tongue across one, causing him to hiss a swear word as he worked open the buttons of his fly.

She reached into that widening wedge, feathered her fingers through the coarse hair, then closed her hand around him. His head dropped heavily onto her shoulder.

As she explored, his panting breaths fell hot and moist on her skin.

He was incredibly hard, the skin stretched tight along the shaft, the tip smooth and full to bursting. The pad of her thumb collected a drop of semen, spread it in deft circles until he puffed a profanity and moved her hand away.

Crossing his arms beneath her bottom, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. When she was lying on her back, he worked her jeans and underwear down her legs. Once they were off and out of his way, he got onto the bed, standing on his knees between her thighs, which he pushed back toward her chest.

Then they both went completely still. For several moments, their heavy, irregular breathing was the only sound in the room, in the world. She sensed his movement before she felt his hands on the backs of her calves. He squeezed them, familiarizing himself with their shape. He caressed them up to the backs of her knees where he outlined her kneecaps with his thumbs before covering them with his palms.

Her breath hitched when his hands moved again, this time sliding up the insides of her thighs, slowly but purposefully opening them, opening her, for his descending shoulders, head, mouth.

The heat of his mouth encompassed her. For precious moments, he did nothing else. Just that. Just there. A gentle suction held her with motionless and incredible intimacy. Until gradually he began to make love.

Each brush of his lips, every whisk of his tongue elicited a quickening of her entire body. Whenever his mouth withdrew to take a love bite from her inner thigh or to plant a kiss on her mound, her back bowed, her hips thrust upward in a restless, desperate yearning for him to find the one spot he had kissed around but had yet to touch.

It wasn’t until she groaned his name that he obliged her, but tantalizingly, applying his tongue so softly, so exquisitely that her breaths evolved into moans, and her body drew up tight. Attuned to her, he centered the caresses, concentrated them into ever-shrinking spirals, until the sensations painted onto her coalesced into a burst of pleasure so intense, she couldn’t contain it.

He levered himself up and, with one strong thrust, he was inside her, appeasing her craving to be stretched, filled. He trapped her orgasmic cries inside a kiss and then let her drift down and rest while he sipped at her earlobes, her eyelids, her lips.

Her mouth opened beneath his, and the sweet kiss turned evocative. His tongue coupled with her mouth as his hips engaged in an erotic rhythm. He moved in and out of her in breath-stealing juts and glides.

Each stroke brought her closer to another orgasm, and when she was once again on the brink, he slid one hand under her bottom to hold her in place as he targeted several rapid thrusts that sent her over. Then he buried himself deep.

His climax was shattering, long, intense.

Eventually they recovered, but when he would have left her, she murmured a wordless complaint and he resettled heavily atop her.

Speaking low against her neck, he said, “Where’d you learn to fuck like that? Law school?”

“No, here. Tonight.”

She felt his smile against neck. Levering himself up, he looked into her face. “That night, after the shooting, and we were talking there in the hallway of police headquarters?”

She nodded.

“This is what I was thinking about,” he said, and made a nudging motion.

“You weren’t!”

He gave a purely masculine and unrepentant shrug. “You were so buttoned up in your dark suit and blue shirt. Held together so tight. All the time I was trying to make conversation, I was wondering, ‘Just how tight she is.’ Thinking about it was driving me crazy.”

“You hated me.”

“I did. Didn’t stop me from wanting to fuck you.” He rubbed his lips across hers, which had parted in shock. “I also thought it would never happen. Not in a million years.”

“A million years or a few hours. I was easy.”

He left her and, falling onto his back, he said, “In no way has this been easy, Holly.” Raising his head, he looked down the length of his body. “I can’t even get naked first.”

He remedied that by tugging off his boots and socks, then working off his wet jeans. Before tossing them to the floor, he removed a pistol from the holster clipped to the waistband.

“You told me you weren’t armed.”

“When I told you that I wasn’t. I borrowed this from Joe.” He sat the pistol on the nightstand.

“Borrowed?”

“If he misses it, I’ll beg forgiveness.” He lay down and drew her to him. Now skin to skin for the first time, he passed his hand over her bottom and gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Better.”

“Much.” She plucked a few strands of his chest hair. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“Do you mind it?”

In answer she rubbed her cheek against it, then pressed a kiss on the warm skin underneath. “How long had you been inside the house?”

“When Neal and Nugent left? About ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes!”

He fondled her breast, asking thoughtfully, “Am I ever going to see these in the light? They feel great. What do they look like?”

“The plan was for you to wait until they’d gone before you came in.”

“I was getting soaked. Besides, I wanted to hear what they had to say.”

He’d been surprised when she’d stopped the car and abruptly told him to get out. Then she’d outlined her plan, and, as she’d told the detectives, he had initially resisted the idea of her sheltering him overnight. But she had finally made him see reason. Every other place he could go would be watched—he couldn’t just wander the streets in the rain, and he needed rest and refueling.

The agreement had been reached about a mile away from her house. He’d had to go that distance on foot while she returned home and confronted the detectives.

“I stopped on the way to make a couple of calls,” he told her now, “but got here and let myself in—”

“Remind me to relock that window.”

“I got here in time to hear that you’re
very
attracted to me.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to the police.”

“So it’s true then?”

“True.” She could tell by his grin that he liked hearing that. “It was Marilyn who put me into mind of hiding in plain sight.”

“Please,” he groaned. “Don’t mention her. I don’t want to lose what I’ve got going here.” He captured her hand, sucked her thumb into his mouth, making it good and wet, then dragged it down and pressed it against the crown of his penis. “Work that wicked magic again.” He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply as she began a gentle, rotating massage.

In a whisper, she asked, “Who did you call?”

“Hmm?” His hand closed around her breast, but in a comfort-seeking way.

“You said you stopped and made a couple of calls.”

“Harry,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“What did he say?”

“That feels so good. Don’t stop.”

She smiled. “I doubt Harry said that. Who was the second call to?”

“Smitty. I’ve gotta find him and kill him tomorrow.”

“Don’t. You’d go to prison. They wouldn’t let you wear your boots in prison, and I like your boots. They have character. They’re well worn, not new and shiny. And you’d probably be made to wear your hair short in prison. It would be a shame to waste all this unruliness.” She ran her fingers through the thick strands. “The truth is—and I’m very into telling the truth, you know—there’s nothing I dislike about you.”

He responded with a soft snore.

Chuck Otterman rarely stayed in the fishing shack overnight. It boasted even fewer creature comforts than his trailer at the man camp, although there was a double bed behind a plywood wall, where he occasionally caught a few winks. He never slept more than four or five hours a night, anyway.

After dealing with the nightclub owner, he’d dozed, but had gotten up before dawn. While making coffee, he received a text notifying him that Neal Lester had called the office at the man camp and had impressed on the overseer left in charge that it was urgent he speak to him.

Staring out into the heavy rain as he sipped his coffee, he thought that perhaps he should assuage the detective’s anxiety. He used an untraceable cell phone to place the call.

“Hello?”

“Sergeant Lester? Chuck Otterman. Is it too early to call? I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”

“Where are you, Mr. Otterman?”

“Hell if I know.” He lowered his voice as though he didn’t want to be overheard. “Some colleagues over here in Louisiana invited me for a fishing weekend. I met up with them in Lake Charles, then we drove for hours. Far as I can tell, we’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s still dark, and they’re already on the water. Thank you for giving me an excuse to beg off.”

“What time did you meet them in Lake Charles yesterday?”

“I’m sorry?”

Lester repeated the question.

“Late. After dinnertime. Why?”

“A Prentiss police officer named Pat Connor was killed last night.”

He was quiet for a moment, as though taking that in. Then he breathed a sigh. “I understand now why you’ve been trying to reach me. I met with the man right before I left town.”

“At a gentleman’s club called Tickled Pink.”

“Oh, so you already knew. You must’ve questioned the owner. Smitty something? He’s a cockroach. He scuttled over while I was there to ask if everything was to my liking.”

“We want to question him, but so far we’ve been unable to find him.”

Otterman chuckled. “That could be a problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because from what I understand, he tries to stay under the law’s radar. He’s probably as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

“What were you doing in his club with Pat Connor?”

“I often meet with people there.”

Lester cleared his throat. “That doesn’t seem like your kind of meeting place, Mr. Otterman.”

“The oil and gas industry has its opponents, from powerful politicians to crackpots. A goodly number of local businessmen and government officials support our exploration, but they don’t want to advertise the fact. They refuse to meet with me in my office at the camp, they certainly don’t invite me to theirs, so we meet at that seedy club.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.”

“It ensures discretion. Anyone in that place can’t tell who he’s seen there without giving himself away, can he?”

The detective seemed to ponder that. It was a time before he said, “Pat Connor was a cop, not a businessman.”

“He had heard—through the police grapevine, I suppose—about me seeing Crawford Hunt with that man Rodriguez.”

“How did that relate to Pat Connor?”

“I don’t know. He asked to speak with me privately. The only reason I agreed to the meeting was because he told me he’d been on duty in the courthouse on Monday. I thought maybe he had something to contribute or to ask me about that. But when I arrived at the club, he was in no condition to talk about anything. He was already drunk. He rambled. He sweated.”

“Sweated?”

“He wasn’t in uniform. He was wearing a cowboy hat and kept taking it off to blot his forehead. He was anxious. Paranoid, actually. After about ten minutes, I’d had it. He was wasting my time. I told him to get to the point or get lost. He got lost.”

“He left?”

“I thought he was too drunk to drive, and offered to let one of my assistants take him home. He said no thanks. In hindsight, I should have insisted. He shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Was anybody else hurt?”

“He didn’t crash his car, Mr. Otterman. He was murdered at home.”

“Jesus! When you said he’d been killed, I assumed… Jesus.”

“During his paranoid rambling, did he mention having any enemies?”

“No, but apparently he had at least one.” He let that resonate before continuing. “Did he have family?”

“He was a bachelor. Lived alone.”

Otterman didn’t remark on that. He didn’t ask if there had been any witnesses or if any evidence had been found at the scene because he wasn’t troubled about the crime being traced back to him. Men he used for jobs like this didn’t make mistakes. If they did, it was their last one. Case in point: Pat Connor.

After another stretch of silence, Lester said, “I understand you’ll be back on Monday.”

“Around noon.”

“You were one of the last known persons to talk to Connor. Would you come to headquarters so we can get an official statement?”

“Of course.” Then, “Forgive me, Sergeant Lester, before you go, I must ask.” He rolled the coin across the backs of his fingers. “Do you have any reason to believe that this officer was another casualty of the courthouse incident? I mean, is it possible that he was silenced for something he knew or saw?”

Stiffly Lester replied, “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“Right. Of course.”

“I’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Otterman. Until then, what’s a good number for me to call if I need to contact you?”