Once in his SUV, Nugent riding shotgun, Crawford called William Moore. “Did I wake you up?”
“It’s okay,” the attorney replied with customary terseness. “I’ll charge you my after-hours rate.”
“Can you meet me at police headquarters in fifteen minutes?”
“What happened?”
“A Prentiss cop took two bullets in the back of his head. That’s all I’ll say now. I’m not alone.”
“You’re under arrest?”
“Not quite. Can you be there?”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer, Crawford, and that’s what you need. I recommend Ben Knotts.”
“That guy? Hell, no. I’ve seen him in action. I brought a case to trial, and Knotts defended the sleazebag who popped his girlfriend for horning in on his dog-fighting operation.”
“Was the sleazebag acquitted?”
Crawford sighed and said grudgingly, “Have Ben Knotts call me ASAP.”
He disconnected. Nugent, who hadn’t spoken up till then said, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you…I mean, I guess it should come from Neal.”
“What?”
“Somebody IDed Rodriguez this afternoon.” At a sharp look from Crawford, he rushed on. “Guy who owns a landscaping company in Lufkin had to fire him a few weeks ago, on account of—well, lots of DMV red tape after Rodriguez got a routine traffic ticket. That’s when they discovered Rodriguez’s documents were fake. Landscaper liked him, hated to let him go ’cause he’d worked for him for several years, dependable, all that. But he has a policy against hiring undocumented—”
“Why’s he just now coming forward?”
“He’s been on vacation in Colorado. Got back last night. Caught up on local news this morning. He emailed us a copy of the phony green card. Name on it is Jorge Rodriguez. Still not sure that was his real name. The picture, though…it’s him.”
“Did he have a family?”
“He lived with a woman. Two kids. Landscape guy doesn’t know if they were married, but probably not. He’s gonna pay for his burial. Said it was a shame.”
It was a fucking shame that filled Crawford with incredible sadness. “I appreciate you telling me, Matt. Thanks.”
Nugent tore at a loose cuticle with his teeth. “Why would you call about Connor, tell Neal to meet you at his house, if you knew what he’d find when he got there?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Unless it’s true what they say?”
“Who’s they?”
“Everybody.”
“What do they say?”
“That he’s not seeing straight.”
Crawford declined to comment as he pulled into a parking space at the courthouse. His phone jangled. “Must be the lawyer.” He answered and told the caller to hold on, then said to Nugent, “Can you give me a minute?”
“I’ll be right over there. And, uh, I’d better take your key.”
Crawford pulled it from the ignition and handed it to Nugent, who got out and went to huddle beneath a shallow overhang above the building’s side entrance. It had started to drizzle.
Crawford answered his phone. “Crawford Hunt.”
“How does it feel?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your world has come crashing down around you, hasn’t it?”
The hushed voice was full of menace, and Crawford recognized it immediately. “You son of a bitch.”
The laugh that filled his ear was nasty with delight. “So many bad things happening to you. And guess what? There’s even worse on the way.”
The caller disconnected.
Crawford quickly checked the call log, but, as expected, it said only “Unknown” where a name and number should have been.
He sat there, wavering between rage and fear. From the day of the custody hearing, there had been a purposefully orchestrated dismantling of his life. Being suspected of Pat Connor’s murder was just the most recent catastrophe in a carefully planned, destructive sequence.
There’s even worse on the way.
Crawford knew down to his marrow that it wasn’t an empty threat.
He stared through his rain-pebbled windshield at the looming structure of the courthouse. The upper floors were dark, but all the windows were alight on the ground floor where police headquarters were.
He looked at Nugent, shoulders hunched against the increasing rainfall, hands in his pockets, jiggling change like a man waiting for a bus.
Crawford’s cell phone dinged. He checked the caller ID and saw the name Ben Knotts, the recommended criminal attorney. He let the call go to voice mail.
After a few more seconds of consideration, realizing what he had to do, he banged his fist hard against the ceiling of his SUV.
Neal pulled his car into an empty parking space, got out, walked briskly to the side entrance reserved for police personnel, and was surprised to find Nugent loitering just outside it.
“What are you doing out here? Where’s Crawford?”
Nugent indicated the familiar SUV parked in the second row of the lot. “Talking to a lawyer. He put in a call on the way here.”
“That was fifteen minutes ago.”