Holly continued to stare at nothing out the window. “Until I know better, I’ll continue wondering if I was responsible for it. If I learn I was, it will haunt me forever.”
“Despite what you say, you’re not fine. Please go home. Pull the covers up over your head and—” Mrs. Briggs was interrupted by the telephone on Holly’s desk. She answered on the second ring. “Judge Spencer’s office. Yes, she’s right here.” Extending the receiver toward Holly, she said, “Sergeant Lester.”
Holly returned to her desk and took the receiver. Mrs. Briggs left, pulling the door closed behind her. Holly said, “Hello, Sergeant Lester.”
“I told her it was him so you’d take the call.”
Her stomach dropped. She closed her eyes. But the image persisted of him looking down at her while standing beside the sofa, hastily buttoning up his fly. He’d walked out before taking time even to tuck in his shirttail or buckle his belt. Neither of them had spoken a word.
“I’m hanging up,” she said.
“Wait. Don’t.”
“Never pull another trick like this.”
“Listen to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Little you know, judge. There’s a lot to say.”
“Good-bye.”
“We’ve got to talk.”
“No, we don’t. We definitely do not. Don’t call me again.”
She hung up before he could say anything else. With a cold and clammy hand, she replaced the receiver on the phone. Then, folding her arms on her desktop, she laid her head on them and tried to control her breathing, which was as difficult to do as it was to block the memory of her and Crawford Hunt tugging at their clothing, clumsily adjusting limbs as they sought purchase on the narrow sofa, of her groaning with frustration, of him swearing with impatience until he was moving deep inside her, when the tenor of their groans and swearing had changed entirely.
After one solid rap on the office door, Mrs. Briggs pushed it open. Holly sprang upright. From the threshold, her assistant looked at her with a mix of puzzlement and concern. But Holly’s expression must have looked like a silent order for her not to pry, not even to inquire what was the matter.
Mrs. Briggs cleared her throat. “I hate to disturb you, Judge Spencer, but you asked for a half hour’s notice before you were due at the morgue.”
Chapter 8
Crawford kicked aside an empty paint can as he made his way up the weed-choked path, wondering what had happened to the paint that belonged to the can. It hadn’t been applied to the house, which looked more ramshackle than it had the last time he was here.
As he stepped onto the porch, the rotting planks bowed beneath his weight. Through the screen door, he saw Conrad waving for him to come inside.
“Make sure to pull that screen closed all the way so flies don’t get in.”
Crawford went in. “Sure wouldn’t want flies spoiling this place.”
The older man cocked his head to one side. “Was that intentionally snide?”
“Nothing gets past you.” Crawford motioned behind him. “Why are you leaving the door open? Is your AC busted?”
An oscillating fan was circulating moisture-laden air through the cluttered living room. The man in the recliner had stripped down to dingy white briefs and a wife-beater with stained armholes. His feet were bare.
“The compressor started making a funny racket yesterday, so I cut it off.”
“Did you call a repairman?”
“Thursday’s the soonest he can come.”
“It’s stifling in here.”
“Well, nobody invited you or is insisting that you stay.” Conrad aimed the remote control toward the TV and ramped up the volume.
Crawford took the remote from him and punched the off button.
“Hey, I was watching that.”
“How many times have you seen it?”
Conrad was fond of World War II movies, especially the ones filmed in black-and-white where granite-jawed GIs smoked Lucky Strikes and referred to the enemies as Krauts and Japs.
Crawford tossed the remote onto a stack of old suitcases that passed for a coffee table. “The ending never changes. Our side wins.”
“Now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”
As Crawford pulled a chair from beneath the dining table and dragged it closer to the recliner, he discreetly looked around for empty liquor bottles or other signs of bingeing. But he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d remarked that nothing got past the old man.
“Sixty-two days and counting,” Conrad boasted. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
Crawford sat down and tilted his chair back until it was supported by only two legs. He stacked his hands on top of his head. “Too many times to count, you’ve climbed on the wagon only to fall off again. So if I’m skeptical, tough.”
“I’m staying sober this time.”
Crawford made a scoffing sound. “Did you find Jesus?”
“Snide, skeptical, and blasphemous. You’re on a roll.”
“Conrad, you wouldn’t know how to function sober.”
“I’m sober now, and I’m functioning passably well.”