as two months.
Or he could milk this for all it was worth.
Which, after a day of self-imposed solitude, was an option Rupe found much more appealing.
He looked like a monster, but that was why the drastic change in his appearance would be so effective. Customers and TV viewers who were used to seeing him immaculately dressed and groomed would be outraged over what he’d suffered. Victims of violent crime won sympathy, right? They deserved and often got a soapbox, and when they spoke, people listened. Rather than hide his disfigurement, he would grandstand it. He would make his brutalized face a
Excited by the prospects, he fed the remainder of his breakfast to the garbage disposal and went in search of a business card he had planned to throw away, if not shred. Fortunately, he’d done neither. He found it in the satin- lined pocket of his suit jacket. He called the cell-phone number, and it was answered on the second ring.
“Talk to me.”
“Mr. Van Durbin? Rupe Collier.”
The columnist’s disgruntled tone changed, becoming instantly chipper. “I’m still not in the market to buy a car.”
“I could make you a good deal on one, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”
“Is that so?”
“Our chat called to mind some
“In light of what?”
“You’ll know when you see me. Are you free?”
Twenty minutes later the
It was the astonished reaction Rupe had hoped for. If he got that kind of response from a jaded writer for a sleazy tabloid, think how an average decent person—and potential customer of Collier Motors—would react.
He ushered Van Durbin and his photographer inside, promising the latter that he could take pictures of him after he’d had his talk with Van Durbin. He left the scruffy young man in the den with a cold can of Coke and ESPN on the flat screen, then led Van Durbin into his home study, which was furnished even more lavishly in Texas chic than his office at the dealership.
The writer picked up a silver frame that held a place of honor on the corner of Rupe’s desk. “Your wife?”
“A former Miss Texas.”
Van Durbin gave an appreciative whistle and returned the frame to its spot as he sat down in a chair facing the desk. He removed his pencil and notepad from the breast pocket of his jacket and quipped, “So, how does the other guy look?”
Rupe formed a reasonable facsimile of a smile, wondering if it looked as distorted as it felt, and figuring that if it did, all the better. “I didn’t land a single punch.”
“You sold the guy a lemon?”
He and the ER doctor must have attended the same school of comedy. Rupe formed the expected grin, then turned serious. “I wish that was all it amounted to.” Leaning back in his chair, he made a steeple of his fingertips and studied his manicure. “I wasn’t quite truthful with you before, Mr. Van Durbin.”
“Your wife was only first runner-up?”
If Rupe’s gums weren’t already throbbing, he would have been grinding his teeth. He wanted to squash Van Durbin beneath his boot heel like a cockroach. It was taking a huge amount of self-control to appear contrite.
“When we spoke a few days ago, I was trying to protect the integrity of the Austin Police Department and the honest officers who serve this community.”
“Implying that there are some
“As you are already aware, he and I worked closely together to indict and convict Allen Strickland. However —”
“I thrive on howevers.”
“—there were some… tactics… used during that police investigation which I found off-putting. I turned a blind eye to them. I’m not proud of it, but I was young and ambitious, and I was assured that these, uh…”
“Tactics?”
“Yes. I was assured that they were commonplace and accepted as a part of police work. An unpleasant aspect of the job, perhaps, but excusable because, after all, officers deal with lawless individuals. Often, violence is the only language that violent offenders understand. I was told—”
“By Moody? He’s the one telling you all this?”
“That’s right. Anytime I asked Dale how he had come by a piece of information during an interrogation, or how he’d obtained an article of evidence, he would dismiss my concerns. The more outspoken I became about his methods, the more truculent he got.
“So,” Rupe said, raising his hands in the sign of surrender, “I took the high road. I backed off. I let him conduct his investigation as he saw fit. I concentrated on what I could control, which was preparing the case for trial and representing the state in the courtroom.”
Van Durbin squinted at him. “Having second thoughts about Strickland’s conviction?”
“Not at all. I did my job. His fate was up to the twelve jurors, not me.”
“Then what’s this little mea culpa chat about, Rupe?”
“I believe Bellamy Price shares the misgivings I had about Dale Moody’s investigation. In her book, the detective’s competence and integrity are brought into question.”
“So are the prosecutor’s.”
“She did that for dramatic effect, to create tension and conflict between those two characters. I didn’t take it personally. But apparently Dale Moody took offense at the way his character was portrayed, because since you and I spoke the other day, he’s come out of hiding.”
Van Durbin swiftly added two and two together. “Holy shit! Dale Moody did that to you?”
“Night before last. He jumped me and attacked so viciously I was powerless to defend myself.”
“You didn’t write
“Your column. He saw me quoted in it.”
“You didn’t say anything derogatory about him.”
“No, but—”
“He knows you could have.”
Rupe didn’t respond but made a face that strongly hinted that the writer had guessed correctly. He reached up and touched his bandaged nose. “I think this demonstrates how afraid Moody is that you’ll turn up something that could prove to be embarrassing. Possibly criminal,” he added in an undertone.
Van Durbin gnawed on the eraser of his pencil as though weighing a decision, then hiked up his hip and withdrew a sheet of paper from his rear pants pocket. He unfolded the square and pushed it across the desk toward Rupe. “Recognize them?”
It was a grainy black-and-white photograph of Bellamy Price leaning over a balcony railing, looking terribly distressed. Behind her was a bare-chested Denton Carter. “Where was this taken? When?”
“Outside Carter’s apartment, night before last.”
“What was going on between them?”
“Don’t I wish I knew,” Van Durbin said, bobbing his eyebrows. “But that looks like a bandage around his waist to me. And get a load of his face. Doesn’t look as bad as yours, but he’d taken a pounding, too.”
When Rupe raised his eyebrow quizzically, Van Durbin shrugged.
“I don’t know who, what, when, where, or why.” He frowned with malice. “Never got a chance to ask him, either. He sicced the police on me and my photographer.”
He relayed what had happened and Rupe laughed in spite of the pain it caused.
Van Durbin scowled. “Funny now. Wasn’t then. Took me hours to get my editor on the phone so he could tell
