Friction

Father and son held each another’s gaze for several beats, then Crawford reached for Holly’s hand. “Let’s go.”

 

 

With her in tow, he walked hurriedly to his SUV. As he steered it down the potholed drive toward the main road, he told her that he had put things into motion. “We’ll have Connor in custody within the hour. I predict he’ll give up Otterman as leverage for a life sentence, because he faces the death penalty if convicted of killing Chet.”

 

“You still believe Otterman was behind it?”

 

“Someone was. Pat Connor doesn’t have the imagination or initiative to pull off something like Monday’s attack.”

 

“Assuming it’s Otterman, how did he get Connor to agree to do it?”

 

“Otterman’s got to be holding something bad over Pat’s head. He knows where the body’s buried. A gambling debt. Something. We need to find out what it is, so we’ll have our own bargaining chip.”

 

With that in mind, he reached for his phone and called Harry Longbow. Crawford told him that he had identified the courthouse shooter and gave him Connor’s full name.

 

“Prentiss PD officer. A long-timer with low rank. Not even a beat cop any more. He provides security at the courthouse. Damn! I just remembered. He was one of the cops guarding Holly at the press conference the other day. Neal told me that all those officers had been cleared.”

 

“Another confidence-booster,” Harry drawled. “What’s this Connor’s beef with you?”

 

“I don’t think he has one. Or with Judge Spencer. He’s somebody’s puppet.”

 

“Otterman?”

 

“Top of my list. They had a one-on-one this afternoon in a strip joint.” Crawford described the meeting. “I have the photo, which proves an alliance of some sort. I’m guessing it’s unholy.”

 

“You want me to research that?”

 

“Hate to dump it in your lap, Harry.”

 

“You’ve got your hands full. Sessions is still working it, too. Hasn’t come up for air in hours.”

 

“Thanks. Start with recent deposits to Pat Connor’s bank account that don’t look like cop pay. The mother lode would be if you could trace funds of unknown origin to Otterman.”

 

“I’m getting hard already.”

 

“Rein it in. I doubt it’ll be that easy.”

 

“Me, too, but, you know, we can hope. Anything else?”

 

“Yeah. How was breakfast?”

 

It took Harry a moment to piece it together, then he sighed. “She told you?”

 

“Call me the second you have something.” Crawford disconnected and glanced over at Holly. “What did you and Conrad talk about?”

 

“How much he cares for you.”

 

He made a scoffing sound. “That’s a laugh.”

 

“He didn’t profess it in so many words, but the message came through loud and clear.”

 

“Funny, I never got that message.”

 

“Maybe you weren’t listening.”

 

He shot her an angry look. “And maybe he saw a gullible audience for his sob stories. Did he tell you he wasn’t invited to my wedding?”

 

“No.”

 

“Huh. That’s one of his favorites. Beth urged me to include him. I refused. I told her that if he was sent an invitation, the groom would be a no-show.”

 

Seeing the reproach in Holly’s expression, he said sourly, “Before you go tearing up for poor Conrad, you should know why I was so dead set against having him as a wedding guest.

 

“See, over my objections, my aunt asked him to go with her to my high school graduation. He came, but he didn’t see me walk across the stage and get my diploma. Before they got to the H’s, he puked his guts up in the aisle of the auditorium. He was ejected by men he was cursing at the top of his lungs and trying to fight off. He created the biggest spectacle in commencement history, and that dubious record still stands.”

 

“I’m sorry, Crawford.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” His flippancy only underscored that it did matter—a lot. She probably picked up on that. Feeling defensive, he said, “I’m telling you this crap for just one reason, and that’s so you won’t be taken in by Conrad’s charm. Believe me, it never lasts long.”

 

Since leaving Conrad’s house, he’d had the mag-mount on the roof of his SUV and lights flashing behind the grille. But once he left the highway and neared her neighborhood, he turned them off. “No one needs to know where you’ve been tonight. Can you sneak back in?”

 

“I sneaked out. Drop me on the street to the south of the main house.”

 

Taking the last corner with his headlights off, he rolled to a stop at the side of the narrow lane. Through the trees, he could barely make out the roofline of her cottage. He disliked the darkness and all the good hiding places in the surrounding shrubbery. “I should see you in, check your house.”

 

“There’s no need. There never was. I wasn’t the one in danger.”

 

“We could be wrong.”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Neither do I, but I won’t breathe easy until Pat Connor and Otterman are in custody.”

 

She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. “Be careful.”

 

“I always am.”

 

Sandra Brown's books