Low Pressure

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 ambiguities regarding the Susan Lyston case. Elements of it, that I’d rather not have been reminded of, have resurfaced, and I can’t stop thinking about them. Especially in light of… .” Rupe let that dangle like the carrot it was intended to be.

“In light of what?”

“You’ll know when you see me. Are you free?”

Twenty minutes later the EyeSpy columnist rang his doorbell, and when he saw Rupe, he exclaimed, “Christ on a crutch!”

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 dishonest officers serving it as well?” Van Durbin winked. “Let me guess. Dale Moody.”

“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?”