Free Friction by Sandra Brown Page B

see that it was after ten. “About what?”
    “Were you asleep?”
    “That’s what you called to ask me?”
    “Don’t be a smart-ass.”
    Crawford rolled onto his back and placed his forearm over his eyes. “I had a rough night. That happens after seeing two men gunned down. I’m funny that way.”
    All of yesterday’s events came crashing into his mind. The last in that pileup of disturbing recollections was of him having carnal knowledge of Judge Holly Spencer.
    He pressed his thumb and middle finger into his eye sockets and stifled a groan. Christ.
    Neal asked, “How soon can you be up and dressed?”
    “Depends. Why?”
    “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
    An instant later Crawford was holding a dead phone. Swearing, he struggled to sit up and swung his feet to the floor, propped his elbows on his knees, and held his face in his hands as he prayed that he had only dreamed that erotic interlude with Her Honor. But then memories of it began to crystallize, taking on shape, sound, and substance.
    Her. Him. Ignition. Blast-off.
    His doorbell pealed. He dropped his hands between his knees. “You have got to be kidding me.” The bell rang again. He pulled on his underwear and stamped through his house to the front door, jerked it open, scowled.
    “I was parked at the curb when I called.” Neal hitched his thumb over his shoulder at the unmarked sedan. “May I come in?”
    Crawford turned his back and stalked away, but left the door standing open. Neal asked, “Where are you going?”
    “To pee.”
    Crawford didn’t look back, leaving his unwelcome guest to his own devices. He used the toilet and splashed cold water on his face. He picked up yesterday’s jeans from off the floor beside the bed where he’d shucked them in the wee hours. He was still buttoning up when he reentered the living room.
    Neal had closed the door but had remained standing just in front of it. In stark contrast to Crawford’s rumpled appearance, he was a paragon of neatness—hair carefully parted, clothes wrinkle-free, shoes shined, so closely shaven, his face reflected light.
    Crawford said, “Kitchen’s this way.”
    By the time Neal joined him, he had the coffeemaker’s water tank filled and was scooping grounds into the filter. Rudely, he asked, “What, Neal?”
    “The ME said if we want to view the body before he performs the autopsy, we’d better get over there.”
    Crawford’s hands were momentarily arrested in motion, then he dumped the last scoopful of grounds, clicked the filter basket into place, and punched the start button on the machine. Only then did he turn around. He gave Neal a once over. “Huh.”
    “What?”
    “You don’t look like a man who’s lost his mind. But I think you must have. You spent hours last night doing everything you possibly could to piss me off, then you show up this morning and pretend we’re partners? Get out of my house.”
    Neal’s mouth formed a thin, grim line that barely moved as he said, “It wasn’t my idea to bring you in. The request came from the chief himself.”
    “If he wants a Ranger, have him call the Tyler office, see who’s available. I requested a few days off, and my major said I could take all the time I needed.”
    “I know, but the chief said—”
    “You got the perp. All that’s left to do is ID him, and you don’t need me for that. I’m going back to bed. Or maybe I’ll go for a long run or a swim. I’ll clip my toenails. The one thing I’m not doing is accompanying you to the morgue to look at your dead guy.”
    “I figured you would say that.”
    “You figured right.”
    “Hear me out before you refuse.”
    “I already refused.”
    “The chief thought maybe you’d recognize Rodriguez if you got a better look at him.”
    “He was a total stranger to me until our standoff on the roof. I didn’t recognize him yesterday. I won’t today. Bye.”
    “The chief says it won’t hurt for you to look at him again.”
    “Won’t help,