number.”
She smiles, just a bit, and I go find Lightner. He’s talking to a guy who works for the state police, but he’s more than ready to head out.
“Did you find her?” he asks me.
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
Lightner hits my arm. “Have it your way, Riley. Can we get that steak now?”
13
DETECTIVE MICHAEL McDERMOTT navigates the Chevy onto Carnival Drive, where an entire neighborhood has turned out on this mild evening, mingling in groups outside their homes. A blue truck is parked in the driveway, with COUNTY ATTORNEY TECHNICAL UNIT stenciled on the side.
The call came in at two minutes to five—two minutes before McDermott and his partner, Stoletti, were off for the night. Carnival Drive is on the near north side, close to the neighboring suburbs, and, more important, only one block within the jurisdiction of his squad.
Two minutes, one block, and McDermott would be home by now, eating dinner with his daughter, Grace. Life is a game of inches.
“I’m getting nostalgic over here.” Detective Ricki Stoletti bends a stick of gum in her mouth as they pull up. Stoletti has been his partner over three years now, since her transfer from the Major Crimes Unit, a multijurisdictional squad in the northern suburbs.
She could have griped at the last-minute call, could have begged off the assignment. Grabbing a homicide costs at least three hours, up front. Mr. Frederick Ciancio has just ruined both of their evenings.
A uniform, a beefy Irish guy named Brady, breaks away from a neighbor interview and approaches. “Hey, Chief. Hey, Ricki.”
McDermott stifles his preferred response, raises his eyebrows.
“Frederick Ciancio,” Brady says, flipping a notepad. “Sixty-two. Retired from a security gig, Bristol Security. Worked as a guard at Ensign Correctional before that.”
“Ensign. Huh.” Stoletti chews her gum with enthusiasm. Ensign Correctional is a max security prison on the west side of the county. “When did that end?”
Brady holds a look on Stoletti. A lot of men don’t like women who are taller than they are, and Stoletti, five-ten and physically fit, carries quite the profile. Major point in her favor, that she can handle herself physically. She brushes her bangs off her face. Another major score, she doesn’t color her hair, light brown, but with healthy streaks of gray.
“Neighbors tell me it was late seventies,” says Brady. “Said he worked security like twenty-five years after that.”
McDermott stores away that information. Prison guards are known to make both enemies and friends with the inmates. But twenty-five years off the job is a long time. “Multiple stab wounds?” he asks.
“Multiple is an understatement. My guess for a weapon is a Phillips screwdriver.” Brady nods to the crowd. “A neighbor stopped by when Ciancio was late for poker. His car was still in the garage, so he used the spare key he has to go in and look around. Found him in the bedroom.”
McDermott lets his eyes run over the neighborhood, still bathed in light at nearly six o‘clock on a June evening. There are cops who live up here, people who are required to stay within the municipal boundaries but want something as suburban—read low crime—as possible. The street is humble, mostly bungalows with quarter-acre lots and single-car garages, but it could be plucked out of any number of suburbs. A nice, quiet place.
“Is the M.E. here?” Stoletti asks.
Brady shakes his head no. “But it looks like he died last night. Less than twenty-four hours, I’d say.”
McDermott glances at Brady but lets it go. The uniforms are always looking to impress.
“Good job, Brady,” he says. He ducks under the crime-scene tape, Stoletti following, and enters the home.
There is a burglar alarm pad on the ground floor, which makes sense for a former security guard. “Need to see if the alarm company got called,” he says to Stoletti. Occasionally, intruders will come in on an alarmed house and force
She smiles, just a bit, and I go find Lightner. He’s talking to a guy who works for the state police, but he’s more than ready to head out.
“Did you find her?” he asks me.
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
Lightner hits my arm. “Have it your way, Riley. Can we get that steak now?”
13
DETECTIVE MICHAEL McDERMOTT navigates the Chevy onto Carnival Drive, where an entire neighborhood has turned out on this mild evening, mingling in groups outside their homes. A blue truck is parked in the driveway, with COUNTY ATTORNEY TECHNICAL UNIT stenciled on the side.
The call came in at two minutes to five—two minutes before McDermott and his partner, Stoletti, were off for the night. Carnival Drive is on the near north side, close to the neighboring suburbs, and, more important, only one block within the jurisdiction of his squad.
Two minutes, one block, and McDermott would be home by now, eating dinner with his daughter, Grace. Life is a game of inches.
“I’m getting nostalgic over here.” Detective Ricki Stoletti bends a stick of gum in her mouth as they pull up. Stoletti has been his partner over three years now, since her transfer from the Major Crimes Unit, a multijurisdictional squad in the northern suburbs.
She could have griped at the last-minute call, could have begged off the assignment. Grabbing a homicide costs at least three hours, up front. Mr. Frederick Ciancio has just ruined both of their evenings.
A uniform, a beefy Irish guy named Brady, breaks away from a neighbor interview and approaches. “Hey, Chief. Hey, Ricki.”
McDermott stifles his preferred response, raises his eyebrows.
“Frederick Ciancio,” Brady says, flipping a notepad. “Sixty-two. Retired from a security gig, Bristol Security. Worked as a guard at Ensign Correctional before that.”
“Ensign. Huh.” Stoletti chews her gum with enthusiasm. Ensign Correctional is a max security prison on the west side of the county. “When did that end?”
Brady holds a look on Stoletti. A lot of men don’t like women who are taller than they are, and Stoletti, five-ten and physically fit, carries quite the profile. Major point in her favor, that she can handle herself physically. She brushes her bangs off her face. Another major score, she doesn’t color her hair, light brown, but with healthy streaks of gray.
“Neighbors tell me it was late seventies,” says Brady. “Said he worked security like twenty-five years after that.”
McDermott stores away that information. Prison guards are known to make both enemies and friends with the inmates. But twenty-five years off the job is a long time. “Multiple stab wounds?” he asks.
“Multiple is an understatement. My guess for a weapon is a Phillips screwdriver.” Brady nods to the crowd. “A neighbor stopped by when Ciancio was late for poker. His car was still in the garage, so he used the spare key he has to go in and look around. Found him in the bedroom.”
McDermott lets his eyes run over the neighborhood, still bathed in light at nearly six o‘clock on a June evening. There are cops who live up here, people who are required to stay within the municipal boundaries but want something as suburban—read low crime—as possible. The street is humble, mostly bungalows with quarter-acre lots and single-car garages, but it could be plucked out of any number of suburbs. A nice, quiet place.
“Is the M.E. here?” Stoletti asks.
Brady shakes his head no. “But it looks like he died last night. Less than twenty-four hours, I’d say.”
McDermott glances at Brady but lets it go. The uniforms are always looking to impress.
“Good job, Brady,” he says. He ducks under the crime-scene tape, Stoletti following, and enters the home.
There is a burglar alarm pad on the ground floor, which makes sense for a former security guard. “Need to see if the alarm company got called,” he says to Stoletti. Occasionally, intruders will come in on an alarmed house and force
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