“That’s what it boiled down to.”
“If you were in this chair, wouldn’t you entertain some suspicions? Of everybody in the judges’ court records and case files, here and in Dallas—and detectives both places have gone through them twice—guess who stands out as the most resentful of court-ordered mandates? Right. Crawford Hunt. And it’s your claim alone that the shooter’s ear was pierced.”
“Wasn’t pierced.”
“Whatever. Nor did Judge Spencer recall you kicking the gunman. So, based on things attested to only by you, I’ve got a hell of a mess going on here.”
“Gee, Neal, I hate messing up your tidy career. I’m sure Judge Spencer regrets it, too. After all, it’s only her life that’s at stake. Which is why I was reading her the riot act about calling that press conference. She was giving it back to me. That’s what you caught us doing in that out-of-the-way place.”
Neal said nothing, merely glowered as he rocked back and forth in his chair and used his tongue to dab at the split on his swollen lower lip.
Crawford was willing to let it rest for a while. Grudgingly he asked, “Anything else on Dennis White?”
“He claims their breakup was amicable. At the time of the shooting, he was conducting a sales meeting. Thirty people present. Which I would call a solid alibi. Although they’re no longer a couple, he thinks the world of her. To his knowledge she doesn’t have any enemies. Uh…”
He consulted his notes again. “It’s incomprehensible that anyone would want to harm her. It made him ill to think of the trauma she suffered. He’s been trying to shake loose from his schedule to get down here and see for himself that she was all right.”
“It took him three days to shake loose from his schedule? Doesn’t sound ‘wild with worry’ to me.”
“Busy man.”
Lousy boyfriend, Crawford thought. Even for an ex.
“Greg Sanders?” he asked.
“Cleared.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. I had two different detectives question him.”
“What did he think of that?”
“They said he was cooperative, that he understood why he might have fallen under suspicion. Anyway, having left the courthouse shortly before two o’clock, which he says Judge Spencer herself can verify, he joined his wife at Golden Corral for a late lunch. Restaurant employees and Mrs. Sanders corroborate.”
Neal had recited all that tongue-in-cheek. Crawford said, “I don’t think he was the shooter, Neal, but he and Holly Spencer are rivals in a grudge match. He’s a defense attorney. Rubs elbows with criminals on a daily basis.”
“I’ve got somebody looking into all that. Have to tell you, though, it doesn’t feel like him.”
It didn’t feel like him to Crawford, either. As Holly had said, it wasn’t the blowhard’s style. Crawford was brooding over that when his attention was drawn to the door, where a man had appeared accompanied by a uniformed officer.
The civilian was around fifty years old, although his severe buzz cut was almost solid gray. Deep squint lines showed up white against an otherwise ruddy, wind-scoured complexion. Whoever he was, he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was dressed in a golf shirt and sport jacket over khaki pants.
The policeman pointed them out to him. He thanked the cop, then started walking toward them, every footfall evincing self-assurance.
“Who’s this guy?” Crawford asked.
Neal turned his head and, upon seeing the man, shot to his feet, sending his desk chair rolling backward.
The man stopped in front of Neal’s desk. “Sergeant Lester?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chuck Otterman.”
The two shook hands across Neal’s desk, then Neal introduced Nugent and lastly Crawford. Otterman’s handshake reminded him unpleasantly of his father-in-law’s. Less a social courtesy than an arm-wrestling match.
Neal ordered Nugent to fetch the man a chair, but Crawford stood up. “He can have this one.”
Otterman thanked him, rounded the desk, and took a seat.
Crawford backed up onto the corner of a nearby desk where he could take the measure of the man without being too obvious about it. Otterman was a stranger to him, but as soon as Neal saw him, he’d reacted with immediate recognition and surprise.
Now the detective gave a nervous little laugh. “We don’t typically see VIPs in this division, Mr. Otterman.”
“I’d hardly call myself a VIP.”
Turning to Crawford, Neal explained. “Mr. Otterman is overseer of the gas drilling company.” Going back to the man, he said, “I attended a luncheon where you spoke. You were very persuasive as to why natural gas is the answer to our energy crisis. You changed a lot of minds that day.”