“For all I care he can refer to me as Jack the Ripper. It doesn’t change the truth, which I told you yesterday. The only skin off my nose is that reporters are calling me for comment when I’ve got a tight schedule, a busted piece of equipment, and a crew standing around scratching their balls while I’m down here with you.” He checked his wristwatch. “Can we get on with this so I can get back to work?”
Crawford was standing near the large red button next to the double doors. He pressed it and they were buzzed in. He stood aside and let the other two go in ahead of him, Otterman looking straight ahead, continuing to pretend that he didn’t exist.
Neal had notified the staff that they were coming and asked them to be ready. Dr. Anderson was otherwise occupied, but one of his assistants was there beside the table. Once they were in place, he respectfully folded back the sheet.
Crawford kept his eyes on Otterman, who, in spite of his repeated denials of knowing Jorge Rodriguez, instantly gave himself away. Crawford saw the man’s gut quicken with a sharp indrawn breath. He blinked several times, then hastily looked away.
“Mr. Otterman?”
He recovered himself so rapidly and so well that if Crawford hadn’t been watching for signs, he would have missed them. When Otterman replied to Neal’s discreet prompting, it was as though he had dropped a welder’s mask over his face. His transformation was that sudden. His expression was closed, unforgiving, unrevealing.
He said, “I don’t know him.”
Chapter 20
Crawford drove straight from the morgue to the courthouse. Neal had arrived moments ahead of him. When Crawford walked into the CAP unit, the detective was smoothing down his necktie as he lowered himself into his desk chair. His maddening calmness infuriated Crawford.
He strode over to the desk. “He was lying.”
“I would have laid odds you’d say that.”
“I saw it, Neal.”
“You saw what you wanted to see.”
“The signs were there. Plain as day. He recognized Rodriguez immediately, dammit. Even you couldn’t have missed his reaction.”
Neal shot him a fulminating look, but Crawford sensed he wasn’t quite as indifferent to Otterman as he pretended. “You did notice, didn’t you?”
“A flicker,” Neal admitted. “Nothing to get you this excited. Maybe he and Rodriguez had been at side-by-side urinals.”
“And maybe Rodriguez was part of a plot.”
“Plot? We haven’t established a plot. Suddenly this is a conspiracy, and Chuck Otterman is behind it?” He laughed shortly, then his eyes narrowed on Crawford. “Why are you so keen on him?”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because there’s no evidence that points to him,” Neal said, raising his voice. “No motive. Nitpicky things like that which are essential to upholding our system of justice. Even if they’re no big deal to you, they are to the DA.”
He was right, and Crawford had nothing to counter with, but he wasn’t throwing in the towel, either. “I still say he’s playing us. He made a preemptive strike by coming in here and staging the honest citizen, mea culpa scene. Smart move. By telling us himself that he was there, rather than letting us find out on our own, we’re less likely to suspect him.”
“I don’t suspect him. We dug and found nothing remotely connecting him to Judge Spencer except a donation to her campaign.”
“Maybe we dug in the wrong place.”
“On that point, I couldn’t agree with you more. We’re digging in the wrong place.” Neal’s cell phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He answered and listened for a moment, then said, “Hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece. “My wife. Our youngest is throwing up.” He swiveled his desk chair around to face the window, giving Crawford his back.
Crawford walked over to the makeshift coffee bar, which amounted to a Nixon-era machine and fixings. He poured tepid sludge into a Styrofoam cup, then used his burner phone to speed-dial Smitty.
The club owner answered with a grumbled, “Who’s this?”
“Just checking to see if my phone is broken or something.”
Recognizing his voice, Smitty swore. “You said to call if I had something. Have I called? No.”
“There’s a guy I know at the IRS—”
“I swear!”
“—who actually gets off doing audits.”
“Honest to God, the object of your affection hasn’t even been to the club—”
“Tickled Pink?”
“None of them. Not since you were here. Proving what I’ve said all along. You’re a jinx.”
“Have you talked to anybody about him?”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re scum. Have you?”
“I’ve put out some feelers, okay? Nothing’s come back.”
Just then Matt Nugent entered the room, bringing with him several files. He looked excited. Crawford glanced over at Neal, whose back was still to the room.
“Do better, Smitty, or I’m gonna have to alert the vice squad to that underage girl you’ve got dancing.”
“Shit! How’d you know about her?”
“I didn’t.”
Crawford clicked off, pitched his cup of coffee into the trash can, and deftly intercepted Nugent. “Morning, Matt. Neal’s on the phone. Whacha got there?”