“Nothing.”
But Crawford could tell by Nugent’s bobbing Adam’s apple that it was something. Giving the young detective no time to protest, he forced him to execute an about-face and steered him back into the corridor. He moved them out of earshot of other police personnel and, before Nugent could stop him, plucked one of the files from his collection.
“You’re not s-supposed to see those,” he sputtered as Crawford opened the file.
No, he was quite certain Neal hadn’t wanted him to see these. The photographs were grainy, blurred, apparently taken with a telephone lens of a moving object: himself. They documented his comings and goings over the past twenty-four hours. On foot. In his truck. Arriving at the courthouse. Leaving it. Sitting at the bar where he’d nursed a bourbon. Being served a TRO beneath the beam of his front porch light.
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t picked up the tail, but he hadn’t been expecting one, hadn’t been looking for one. Chalk up a point for Neal.
As he flipped through the eight-by-ten printouts a second time, he asked, “The photographer didn’t happen to catch the son of a bitch who tore my little girl’s room all to hell, did he?”
Crawford’s tongue-in-cheek inflection escaped Nugent, who answered seriously. “Neal already asked. No.”
Although Crawford was seeing things through a red mist of outrage, he knew that his reaction would be reported to Neal. Exercising control and care, he lined up the edges of the printouts, replaced them in the file, and returned it to Nugent. “Whoever the guy is, he does good work.”
Nugent said miserably, “Neal’s gonna have my head.”
“Don’t worry about it. If it comes to that, I’ll tell him I bullied you into showing me. He’ll believe that.”
“Thanks.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t get why he had you tailed, anyway.”
“I don’t get it, either, Matt.”
They reentered the CAP unit. Neal was still talking on his phone, so he didn’t notice Nugent’s nervousness as he sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. Crawford was trying to process what the surveillance signified and how to confront Neal with it, when the office line on Neal’s desk rang. Automatically Crawford answered.
“Crawford Hunt.”
A perky feminine voice said, “Oh, hi. This is Carrie Lester.”
Crawford’s eyes cut to Neal. “I’m sorry, who?”
“I’m Neal’s wife. We haven’t met, but of course I know who you are.”
Crawford stared at the back of Neal’s head while his wife inadvertently trapped him in a lie. “I hate to bother you,” she said, “but I’ve been trying to reach Neal, and his cell phone is going straight to voice mail. I wonder, is he around?”
When Crawford walked in, Holly’s assistant looked up from behind her desk, registering surprise. “Mr. Hunt?”
“Is the judge here?”
“She came in about ten minutes ago.”
“Would you please tell her I’m here? There’s been a development in the case I need to discuss with her.”
She used a desk phone to communicate with Holly, and a few seconds later, she opened the door to her private office and looked at him expectantly. “Good morning.”
“Hi. I apologize for not calling ahead.”
“You need to see me?”
“Right away.”
She stood aside and motioned him into her office. “Mrs. Briggs, hold all my calls, please.” She closed the door and turned to him.
Today her business suit consisted of black pants and a black-and-cream striped jacket. The top underneath matched the light stripes and had a row of tiny pearl buttons down the center of it. As enticing as that view was, he kept his gaze above her neckline.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night, that I’d have Georgia if it wasn’t for you.”
“Sadly, it’s the truth, though.”
“Maybe. If you split hairs. But I was mad over something else and shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Anyhow…” He left it at that and so did she.
“Were you served?” she asked.
“Within minutes of getting home. I had an eventful night.”
And he knew he looked it. It had been well into the wee hours before the patrolmen wrapped up their investigation of the vandalized room and the perimeter of his house. After they left, he’d lain awake, mulling over the destruction, wondering who had done it and, much more worrisome, why.
Having gotten only a couple hours of sleep, there were dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t bothered to shave and had only towel-dried his hair. His shirt and jeans were clean, but he was wearing yesterday’s wrinkled sport jacket, which he’d lifted off the back of the dining chair as he passed through the kitchen on his way out.
“Did something else happen last night?” she asked.
“I’ll get to that. First, I gotta ruin your day.”
“A development in the case? That wasn’t just something you told Mrs. Briggs so you could apologize?”