Murdoch. But”—he sighed—“Mom was right. They were exceptions.”
Trying not to appear overanxious, Rupe said, “How can I help you, Mr. Van Durbin?”
Van Durbin’s attention had already been snagged by the copy of
Van Durbin moseyed over to it now and picked it up, then made a production of fanning through the four- hundred-and-something pages. “Now this local gal has done all right in the writing game, hasn’t she? She’s making a killing off this book.”
Rupe was a natural showman, and he had used those innate showmanship skills to full advantage his entire life. He hoped they didn’t fail him now. He moved around the corner of his desk and sat down in his cowhide chair, motioning for Van Durbin to sit in the chair facing him.
“I have a hunch that you didn’t come all the way from New York to talk cars. That book brought you here. I’ll take it a step further and venture that you know I prosecuted the murder case of Susan Lyston, and that’s what you want to talk to me about.”
Van Durbin spread his arms away from his sides. “You caught me red-handed. Can I ask you some questions about your case against Allen Strickland? I’m addressing that aspect of the story in my column tomorrow.”
Bile filled the back of Rupe’s throat, but he tried to appear unflappable. “It was a long time ago. I’ll stretch my memory as best I can.”
“Thanks, Rupe.” Van Durbin produced a small spiral notebook and a yellow pencil dimpled with a disgusting number of teeth marks. “Don’t mind this. I have to write things down or I forget.”
Rupe doubted that. He doubted the bastard ever forgot anything. He was sly, and he was dangerous. Rupe considered calling the dealership’s security guard and having Van Durbin removed from the premises. But then it would appear that he had something to hide. He would also lose all control over what Van Durbin wrote about him.
No, better to stick to the playacting, cooperate, and give the writer something, in the hope that Rupert Collier would be depicted favorably in his column. He began by telling Van Durbin what a fan he was of the media. “You could call me a news junkie. So I’m happy to answer any questions I can. Fire away.”
“Good, good. Let’s start with why you left the DA’s office.”
“That one’s easy. Selling cars pays better. A hell of a lot better. I wouldn’t have an office near this
Van Durbin chuckled. “You decided that you’d just as well reap the benefits of your daddy’s labor.”
Rupe recognized that for the well-placed dig it was, but he gave a good-natured thumbs-up. “Daddy didn’t raise no stupid children.”
“Right. You would have been a sap to stay in public service.”
That was one of those trick questions, which wasn’t really a question but a statement. Rupe was savvy enough to see the trap. “I serve my community in other ways now.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Van Durbin flashed him an obnoxious grin. “But back then, you were committed to ‘sweeping Travis County’s streets free of the criminal element.’ I cheated. I read that quote somewhere.”
“I performed my job to the best of my ability.”
Van Durbin flipped back several pages of his notepad and read some of the scribbles. “Uh, I jotted down just a coupla things I wanted to ask you about. Oh, here. Was Ms. Price’s book accurate? Strickland was convicted of manslaughter? Not murder?”
“That’s right.”
“Why not murder?”
“I determined that his crime wasn’t premeditated.”
“In other words, he didn’t plan on killing her. She did something that set him off and wound up dying over it.”
Another carefully laid booby trap. “Mr. Van Durbin, surely you’re not suggesting that she ‘asked for it.’”
“No, no, I’d never even imply that.” But his wicked grin belied the denial. “Strickland flew off the handle, killed her in a fit of passion, something like that?”
“If you want a clarification of the difference between the charges of murder and manslaughter, you can go online and access the Texas penal code.”
“Thanks, I might do that. Just so I’m clear in my own mind.” He tapped his temple with the eraser of his pencil. “You and that homicide detective… what was his name?”
“Gosh… who worked that case?” Rupe screwed up his face as though searching his memory. “I can’t remember offhand. I was an ADA, working my patooty off, seventy, eighty hours a week. I was getting thrown cases right and left. A lot of felony cases. Worked with a number of cops, a slew of detectives.”
Van Durbin snapped his fingers. “Moody. Dale Moody.”
What Rupe was thinking was
“It was. My research assistant verified it and has been trying to run him down. She’s checked with the Austin PD, but he’s retired and they wouldn’t give her any information on him. He doesn’t have an Austin address. His name’s not on the county tax rolls. You wouldn’t by any chance know where I could find him, would you?”
“Until a few seconds ago, I couldn’t even recall his name.”
“That’s a no, then?”
“That’s a ‘Sorry I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’”
Van Durbin scratched something in his notepad. “So I guess if I wanted to ask him about his investigation and Strickland’s trial, I’d be out of luck.”
“I guess you would.”
Van Durbin propped his ankle on his opposite knee and jiggled his foot. “Unless you wanted to open up to me about it. Talk me through it yourself.”
Rupe gestured down at the book. “Ms. Price thoroughly covered it.”
Van Durbin frowned. “But did it seem to you…? This just might be me, understand. But it seemed to me that she left the ending open to interpretation. Did it seem that way to you?”
Rupe forced his expression to turn thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I can’t say that it did.”
“Hmm.” Van Durbin skimmed over everything he’d written down before flipping the notepad closed. He replaced it along with the pencil in his shirt pocket and stood up. “Well, I guess that’s everything. I can’t thank you enough for giving me a few minutes of your valuable time.”
“You’re welcome. Although I don’t feel like I contributed much.” Smile in place, Rupe went to the door and pulled it open.
Van Durbin was almost across the threshold when he stopped, turned, and tapped Rupe’s silk necktie with his index finger. “If I were you, Rupe, you know what would eat at me?”
It took all Rupe’s self-control not to brush away that finger, with its loose cuticle and the fingernail chewed down to the quick. “What’s that?”
“It would eat at me that the murder weapon never turned up. You and Moody determined that she was choked to death with her underwear, right?”
Rupe gave a noncommital nod.
“But the panties never turned up, did they? And you looked every-damn-where for them.”
“Obviously the jury didn’t think having them in evidence was necessary to convict.”
“Obviously,” Van Durbin said, frowning. “But I hate loose ends like that, don’t you, Rupe?”
The topic of Susan’s underpants seemed to have raised the temperature in Bellamy’s kitchen. Introducing that vital element into their discussion of the crime had been inevitable, but now Dent wished he’d let Bellamy bring it up first.
Too ill at ease to sit any longer in a tense silence, he got up from the table and took another aimless tour of the kitchen until his attention was drawn to a ceramic jug on the counter that contained a variety of stainless-steel doodads.
Pulling one out, he held it up and twirled it between his fingers. “What does this do?”
“It cores apples.”
