cocaine in his system, and the GSR test was negative.”
If the gunshot residue test was negative, Celio hadn’t fired a gun recently. “Thanks.” I smiled my appreciation for his information. “You know there won’t be anyone here yet, don’t you?” I said, leading the way into the mall. “The stores don’t open until eleven on Sundays.”
“That’ll give us time to look at the camera footage before starting our interviews.”
I felt an involuntary hiccup of pleasure at his use of “us” and “our.” Suppressing it—the man had undoubtedly taken many interrogation classes where instructors taught you how to bond with suspects—I told him I’d already reviewed the camera data. “There’s nothing much there,” I said. “He spent the bulk of the day in his office and talked to only a couple of people. I’ve already spoken with them,” I added, forestalling the comment on the tip of his tongue. “He didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary.”
“Quite a display of initiative,” Helland said, looking down his aquiline nose at me. His tone was not appreciative.
I pushed through the office doors and said over my shoulder, “At the time, you were totally uninterested in Woskowicz’s disappearance.”
A brief head tilt acknowledged my point, and I concentrated on not feeling smug. Edgar rose as we entered, and I introduced the two men. Edgar’s softball-mitt-sized hand swallowed Helland’s when they shook.
“So,” Edgar said, rubbing the top of his head, “Woskowicz, huh? Dead. That’s something.”
“Indeed. When did you last see him?” Helland asked. “Did he say or do anything unusual?”
Edgar shook his head slowly. “Tuesday night.”
“That’s the night Arriaga got shot!” I said.
“Was Woskowicz in the habit of coming by at night?” Helland asked.
Edgar snorted. “Not.”
“So what did he want?”
“Said he’d forgotten to put together a report Mr. Quigley’s office wanted. He had me pulling data off the computer for an hour or so. Put me behind on my patrols.” Edgar’s tone made it clear he thought keeping to his schedule was more important than helping Woskowicz do paperwork.
“When did he leave?” I asked. Helland frowned at me but let the question stand.
“Tennish? Ten thirty?” Edgar shrugged, shoulder muscles looking like tumbling boulders.
“Maybe he ran into Arriaga on the way out and confronted him about something. Drugs?” I suggested. “Vandalism?”
“You’re suggesting your director of security shot a gangbanger in the parking lot and dumped his body on the mall’s doorstep?” Helland asked, his tone politely disbelieving.
I’d forgotten he didn’t know yet about the gun in Woskowicz’s file cabinet. “It’s possible,” I said lamely.
Helland turned back to Edgar. “So Woskowicz wasn’t in the habit of coming by during the night shift? Before Tuesday night, when’s the last time he showed up during your shift?”
“A couple months back, at least. He brought a date, and they spent some time in his office.” Edgar waggled his brows suggestively.
I tried to block the image of Woskowicz and some redhead going at it on his desk, but my expression must have revealed my distaste because Edgar grinned.
When Helland continued to stare at him, Edgar added, “He wasn’t the kind to show up just to shoot the shit with the troops, you know?” Edgar’s grin stretched at the idea, displaying a gold canine tooth.
“What type was he?” Helland asked.
Edgar gave it some thought while he gathered his lunch box and crossword puzzle book. “An operator,” he said finally. “Yeah, the dude was an operator. Always had something going.”
“Really?” I was surprised. I hadn’t seen Woskowicz as much of a player. Disgruntled, womanizing, tough-guy wannabe, but not an operator.
Edgar shrugged massive shoulders. “He let me know, subtlelike, that he could hook me up with a bookie, if I wanted, and I’m pretty sure he and
If the gunshot residue test was negative, Celio hadn’t fired a gun recently. “Thanks.” I smiled my appreciation for his information. “You know there won’t be anyone here yet, don’t you?” I said, leading the way into the mall. “The stores don’t open until eleven on Sundays.”
“That’ll give us time to look at the camera footage before starting our interviews.”
I felt an involuntary hiccup of pleasure at his use of “us” and “our.” Suppressing it—the man had undoubtedly taken many interrogation classes where instructors taught you how to bond with suspects—I told him I’d already reviewed the camera data. “There’s nothing much there,” I said. “He spent the bulk of the day in his office and talked to only a couple of people. I’ve already spoken with them,” I added, forestalling the comment on the tip of his tongue. “He didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary.”
“Quite a display of initiative,” Helland said, looking down his aquiline nose at me. His tone was not appreciative.
I pushed through the office doors and said over my shoulder, “At the time, you were totally uninterested in Woskowicz’s disappearance.”
A brief head tilt acknowledged my point, and I concentrated on not feeling smug. Edgar rose as we entered, and I introduced the two men. Edgar’s softball-mitt-sized hand swallowed Helland’s when they shook.
“So,” Edgar said, rubbing the top of his head, “Woskowicz, huh? Dead. That’s something.”
“Indeed. When did you last see him?” Helland asked. “Did he say or do anything unusual?”
Edgar shook his head slowly. “Tuesday night.”
“That’s the night Arriaga got shot!” I said.
“Was Woskowicz in the habit of coming by at night?” Helland asked.
Edgar snorted. “Not.”
“So what did he want?”
“Said he’d forgotten to put together a report Mr. Quigley’s office wanted. He had me pulling data off the computer for an hour or so. Put me behind on my patrols.” Edgar’s tone made it clear he thought keeping to his schedule was more important than helping Woskowicz do paperwork.
“When did he leave?” I asked. Helland frowned at me but let the question stand.
“Tennish? Ten thirty?” Edgar shrugged, shoulder muscles looking like tumbling boulders.
“Maybe he ran into Arriaga on the way out and confronted him about something. Drugs?” I suggested. “Vandalism?”
“You’re suggesting your director of security shot a gangbanger in the parking lot and dumped his body on the mall’s doorstep?” Helland asked, his tone politely disbelieving.
I’d forgotten he didn’t know yet about the gun in Woskowicz’s file cabinet. “It’s possible,” I said lamely.
Helland turned back to Edgar. “So Woskowicz wasn’t in the habit of coming by during the night shift? Before Tuesday night, when’s the last time he showed up during your shift?”
“A couple months back, at least. He brought a date, and they spent some time in his office.” Edgar waggled his brows suggestively.
I tried to block the image of Woskowicz and some redhead going at it on his desk, but my expression must have revealed my distaste because Edgar grinned.
When Helland continued to stare at him, Edgar added, “He wasn’t the kind to show up just to shoot the shit with the troops, you know?” Edgar’s grin stretched at the idea, displaying a gold canine tooth.
“What type was he?” Helland asked.
Edgar gave it some thought while he gathered his lunch box and crossword puzzle book. “An operator,” he said finally. “Yeah, the dude was an operator. Always had something going.”
“Really?” I was surprised. I hadn’t seen Woskowicz as much of a player. Disgruntled, womanizing, tough-guy wannabe, but not an operator.
Edgar shrugged massive shoulders. “He let me know, subtlelike, that he could hook me up with a bookie, if I wanted, and I’m pretty sure he and
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