Low Pressure

He walked past them and motioned that they follow. The hallway was wide and long and dotted with area rugs of marginal quality. From the vaulted ceiling hung three massive chandeliers better suited to a Spanish castle. The rooms they walked past were ostentatiously decorated.

Finally they arrived at a den that was more tastefully furnished and actually looked like it was lived in rather than there just for show. It had a wall of windows overlooking a limestone terrace and a sparkling swimming pool with a fountain in its center.

Rupe motioned them toward a sofa. “Have a seat.”

They sat down side by side. On the coffee table in front of them lay today’s issue of EyeSpy. The picture of them taken on the apartment-building balcony comprised one-third of the front page.

“Worth a thousand words. At least,” Rupe said.

Bellamy tried to appear unaffected by both the photo and his remark, which was difficult to do when he was wearing a hyena’s grin and bobbing his eyebrows suggestively.

“My wife is out of town, and I gave the housekeeper time off, so I can’t offer you anything except a cold drink.”

“No, thank you.”

Dent, whose jaw looked carved of granite, shook his head.

Rupe sat in an easy chair adjacent to the sofa. He said to Bellamy, “Congratulations on your best seller.”

“I doubt that you’re that happy about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She stared him down, saying nothing.

Eventually his smile turned sheepish. “Okay, I was a little put off that you didn’t portray the ADA as a more dashing figure, especially since I’d granted you an interview while you were writing the book. The prosecutor should’ve been the hero. He brought the criminal to justice.”

Speaking for the first time, Dent said, “Did he?”

Rupe’s sly gaze slid over to him. “I thought I did.” He leaned forward slightly. “Or are you ready to confess? Did you come here today to bring me Susan’s panties?” Dent was off the sofa like a shot, but Bellamy grabbed a handful of his shirttail and pulled him back down.

The car dealer laughed. “I see you’re still a hothead with a short fuse. Not that I’m surprised. Leopards don’t change their spots. What’d you do, lose your temper in the cockpit? Is that why you almost crashed that airliner?”

Bellamy jumped in before Dent could respond. “That you even asked Dent if he wants to confess is an indication that you weren’t convinced of Allen Strickland’s guilt.”

Rupe leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on the padded armrests, as relaxed and confident as a potentate on his throne. “Sure I was.”

“Was Detective Moody?”

Rupe snuffled with disgust. “He might’ve been if he’d been thinking with a clear head.” Looking at Dent, he said, “You should know better than me what a drunken brute he was. The screwdriver? He told me about that. And not with remorse.” Shaking his head sadly, he said, “The man was a blight on our fine police force.”

“Which makes one wonder why he was assigned to be the lead investigator of my sister’s case.”

“I wondered that myself. Because, from the beginning, Moody botched the investigation. Several times I requested that he be replaced by someone more competent. Sober, at least. My requests were denied.”

“Were you given a reason?”

“Bureaucratic politics. That’s what I was told, anyway.”

Bellamy knew with certainty that he was lying. He wasn’t as good at it as he probably thought himself to be. She didn’t counter any of his statements, figuring that if she gave him enough rope he would hang himself. On the other hand, they could dance this dance all night. His smugness was beginning to grate.

“Dent and I met with Dale Moody yesterday.”

He blinked several times but quickly recovered. “Here in Austin?”

Ignoring the question, she said, “He’s a troubled man.”

“Shocker.”