Brown, Sandra-Friction

“Why the costume?” Musing out loud, he elaborated. “If escape was all but impossible, if he was
doomed to wind up either in handcuffs or a body bag, why bother with the disguise?”
“For the scare factor?”
“Possibly,” Crawford murmured. “If so, it worked.”
His thoughts shifted back to Judge Spencer’s meltdown. For hours, she had managed to delay her
reaction to the fright she’d experienced in the courtroom. She’d contained it well until his bullying, as
she’d called it, had cracked her restraint. Emotions had burst out of her and the overflow had been
unstoppable.
His attempt to comfort her had been awkward because, up till then, they’d never touched, not even
to shake hands. Then, from that tentative, consoling pat, they had proceeded at warp speed to
desperate, clutching, grinding fucking.
“You with me?”
Crawford cleared his throat and turned back to Neal. “Sorry, what?”
“Are you sleepwalking?”
“No, I was just mulling over what you were saying.”
“Which part?”
Neal posed the question like a snotty know-it-all, which was the way he’d been as a kid, and the
way Crawford continued to regard him. “Look, sergeant, if you don’t like the way I’m conducting the
conversation, feel free to get the hell out of my house.”
Neal stood his ground. “I repeat. None of the government agencies in the courthouse—city, state,
or federal—had an appointment scheduled with a Jorge Rodriguez. He had no outstanding traffic
ticket to pay. No tax bills.”
“Maybe he was there to get married.”
Neal didn’t so much as blink at the quip, much less smile.
“Think before you rule it out, Neal. JP’s office is on the fifth floor. Some men will go to great
lengths to avoid tying the knot.”
Although badgering the detective felt good, Crawford’s heart wasn’t really in it. He was
remembering the purpose with which Rodriguez strode toward the judge’s podium. “He was there to
kill.” He looked at Neal and stated with unqualified conviction, “I don’t know who he was, or why he
went about it so stupidly and suicidally, but he meant to kill.”
The coffeemaker hissed and spat one last time. Crawford filled his mug and leaned against the
counter, sipping thoughtfully. Though he told himself to shut up about the incident and to tell Neal to
go take a flying leap, he heard himself ask, “You get him on security camera coming in?”
“He entered through the main entrance at one forty-one. Here’s something interesting. He wasn’t
carrying anything.”
Dammit, that was interesting. “No gym bag, sack, backpack?”
Neal shook his head. “So either he’d stashed his costume on a previous visit in preparation for
yesterday, or he was wearing the painter’s garb under his street clothes.”
“No way,” Crawford said. “He didn’t have time to switch back into street clothes after leaving the
painter’s stuff in a pile. He would have gone out onto the roof wearing very little or in the buff.”
“Damn. You’re right.” Neal thought it over. “I suppose the cap, gloves, shoe covers, and mask
could’ve been stashed in his pockets when he entered the building.”
“Maybe,” Crawford said, but he wasn’t convinced of that. “Anything else?”