“I’m a big boy, Holly. I do my job. I don’t care about the slant of some reporter trying to earn his spurs.”
“Well, you should. The fact that you had saved my life was little more than a footnote. The chip on your shoulder might prevent you from being bothered by that—”
“I don’t have a chip.”
“Only the size of Rushmore. Your bravery deserved to be commended, not questioned.”
“Thanks, but you can keep your commendations. I hate the attention. Regardless of that, calling a press conference in a place where it was damn near impossible to guard you—”
“I was guarded.”
“Not enough.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Not this time. What about the next?”
“There’ll probably never be a next.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “You’ve decided that?”
“Well, I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me. Marilyn says it was more than likely an isolated incident, unrelated to me.”
“Oh, Marilyn says. Marilyn says? You’re willing to gamble your life on what Marilyn says? Is she worried about you, or losing to Sanders?”
“It’s a valid concern. But even if it weren’t for the upcoming election that will determine my professional future, I can’t remain in hiding forever.”
“Who said anything about forever? Just till we catch him.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“We will.”
“If you don’t?” she pressed. “Who will determine when it’s safe for me to resume my work, the campaign?”
“I can’t give you a date.”
“Exactly! How long am I to keep my life on hold?”
“You won’t have a life if—”
“Stop yelling at me!”
“Crawford!”
“What?”
He and Holly sprang apart and turned toward the lobby end of the corridor, where Neal Lester, full of self-importance, was striding past the policeman Connor. With Neal was a man wearing a Euro-looking suit and a worried frown.
Holly made a startled sound. “Dennis?”
Lithe and long-legged, he outdistanced Neal in order to reach her and draw her into an embrace. Speaking into her hair as he hugged her close, he said, “God, I’ve been wild with worry about you.”
Chapter 16
A half hour later when Crawford walked into the Crimes Against Persons unit, Neal was seated at his desk talking on his cell phone. Nugent was pecking on a computer keyboard, but he paused long enough to point Crawford toward a vacant chair.
He slumped in it, crossed his ankles, and gazed out the window while waiting for Neal to finish. When he disconnected, he said to Crawford, “My wife.”
Crawford hitched his chin in acknowledgment, but he was thinking Pity the woman and couldn’t help but wonder if Neal had ever made love to her with the lights on.
“Where have you been?”
“Seeing Harry and Sessions off. These policewomen you put on the judge—”
“Solid. We know the shooter wasn’t female.”
“Okay. Then I called Georgia. I hadn’t had a chance to before now.” Leveling a stare on Neal, he added, “It’s been that kind of morning.”
“Did she see you on TV?”
“No. Grace had the presence of mind to shoo her out of the room while the press conference was on. Thank God.”
“Why would you object to her seeing you? You’re the Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“Didn’t ask to be.”
“Didn’t you? Going after the bad guy in such a courageous fashion, earning accolades from Judge Spencer.”
“You got a bee up your butt, Neal? If so, let’s talk about it.”
The detective held Crawford’s challenging stare for several seconds, then opened the case file on his desk. “The ex-fiancé’s full name is Dennis White.”
“They were never officially engaged.”
Neal gave him a quick look, then referred again to the file, moving his pen down the bullet point list of facts. “Master’s degree in business from SMU. President of the alumni association. Runs the United Way campaign for the international pharmaceutical company where he’s regional director of sales.”
“Overachiever.”
“Makes six figures annually before bonuses.”
“You’d think he could afford socks.”
Neal raised his head. “What?”
“He wasn’t wearing socks.”
“I didn’t notice.”
Crawford merely shrugged.
“Anyway, he checks out,” Neal said.
“You’ve already concluded that?”
“Well, I had ample time to interview him while we were searching the building high and low for you and Judge Spencer. Your private conversations in out-of-the-way places are becoming a regular thing.”
“You should make up your mind, Neal.”
“How’s that?”
“Which is it I’m trying to do? Get under her skirt or kill her?”
Neal tossed down his pen. “Bill Moore told you.”
“It was a chickenshit implication.”
“Was it?”
“You think I contracted Rodriguez to kill the judge, and then set him up to get shot?”
“I didn’t say that.”