right there in the front row. “How about if we go sit in my car, then?” I suggested. “Let’s at least get in out of the cold.”
I clicked open the door to let her in, and as soon as we settled inside, I knew that was a tactical blunder on my part.
“Since when does an employee of the state go cruising around in a Mercedes-Benz?”
When he started S.H.I.T., Ross Connors had made an executive decision that the organization would dispense with company cars. Having lived through Seattle PD’s brief and poorly thought-out romance with K-cars back in the eighties, I was more than happy to be able to use my own wheels. Keeping dutiful track of the mileage and turning in the resulting expense reports on time canbe a pain, but it certainly beats the alternative. I’ll choose riding in my used Mercedes over being stuck in a brand-new Crown Victoria any day of the week.
“Forget about the car,” I said. “Let’s talk about cases.”
“Yes, let’s,” she said. “Which cases?”
And so I told her. Most of it, anyway, but not all the telling details. I didn’t know this woman and I didn’t really trust her to keep things quiet. What if she went running off at the mouth to some local newspaper reporter, or, even worse, to some visiting newsie from Seattle? So I made no mention of the victims’ missing teeth in the five previous cases. That was an official holdback in our investigation and I decided to keep it that way. I settled, instead, for focusing on the tarps that had been used to wrap the various bodies and on the fact that the manufacturer tags on those had all been systematically removed in what appeared to be a very similar fashion.
Despite Detective Caldwell’s previous display of attitude, she now appeared to be paying close attention. “I was there when our CSI tech found that piece of tarp,” she said. “And I was there when he put it into the evidence log. We both noticed that missing tag. What I want to know is how you found out about it.”
I didn’t know for sure how that had happened, but I had my suspicions.
“Ross Connors is a very smart man,” I said. “I would imagine that a discreet inquiry has gone out to CSI units all over Washington State and beyond asking for information on any incidents in which blue construction tarps or parts thereof were found at crime scenes.”
That statement was followed by a brief silence. I figured Detective Caldwell was about to give me another blast of temper. Instead she issued a resigned sigh. “All right, then,” she said, reachingfor the door handle. “I’ve still got what’s left of the watch. I need to get it into the evidence log along with the engagement ring and the toe ring.”
“What toe ring?” I asked.
“It was in the boot,” she said. “A snakeskin cowboy boot that didn’t quite burn.”
“One boot but not two?”
“Only one,” Detective Caldwell said. “Let’s go. How about if you follow me back to the department. I’ll give you a look at what else we have. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come up with an idea or two.”
Her grudging acceptance wasn’t exactly a heartfelt apology, but it was as close to one as I was going to get.
“Great,” I said, turning on the ignition. “Lead the way.”
As far as Joanna was concerned, sending Margie Savage to rescue Guy Machett from the sand was well worth the price of admission. He had been ripped before. He arrived at the crime scene in a state of high dudgeon and without Margie Savage, who had pulled him out and then gone on her way. Considering the M.E.’s state of mind, that was probably a good thing.
“That woman’s a nutcase,” he complained as he opened the cargo door and hauled out a bag of equipment. “She absolutely floored it. She yanked me out of the sand like it was some kind of grudge match. It’s a wonder I don’t have whiplash, and look at what she did to my bumper.”
Machett was right. The minivan’s front bumper had been mangled beyond all
I clicked open the door to let her in, and as soon as we settled inside, I knew that was a tactical blunder on my part.
“Since when does an employee of the state go cruising around in a Mercedes-Benz?”
When he started S.H.I.T., Ross Connors had made an executive decision that the organization would dispense with company cars. Having lived through Seattle PD’s brief and poorly thought-out romance with K-cars back in the eighties, I was more than happy to be able to use my own wheels. Keeping dutiful track of the mileage and turning in the resulting expense reports on time canbe a pain, but it certainly beats the alternative. I’ll choose riding in my used Mercedes over being stuck in a brand-new Crown Victoria any day of the week.
“Forget about the car,” I said. “Let’s talk about cases.”
“Yes, let’s,” she said. “Which cases?”
And so I told her. Most of it, anyway, but not all the telling details. I didn’t know this woman and I didn’t really trust her to keep things quiet. What if she went running off at the mouth to some local newspaper reporter, or, even worse, to some visiting newsie from Seattle? So I made no mention of the victims’ missing teeth in the five previous cases. That was an official holdback in our investigation and I decided to keep it that way. I settled, instead, for focusing on the tarps that had been used to wrap the various bodies and on the fact that the manufacturer tags on those had all been systematically removed in what appeared to be a very similar fashion.
Despite Detective Caldwell’s previous display of attitude, she now appeared to be paying close attention. “I was there when our CSI tech found that piece of tarp,” she said. “And I was there when he put it into the evidence log. We both noticed that missing tag. What I want to know is how you found out about it.”
I didn’t know for sure how that had happened, but I had my suspicions.
“Ross Connors is a very smart man,” I said. “I would imagine that a discreet inquiry has gone out to CSI units all over Washington State and beyond asking for information on any incidents in which blue construction tarps or parts thereof were found at crime scenes.”
That statement was followed by a brief silence. I figured Detective Caldwell was about to give me another blast of temper. Instead she issued a resigned sigh. “All right, then,” she said, reachingfor the door handle. “I’ve still got what’s left of the watch. I need to get it into the evidence log along with the engagement ring and the toe ring.”
“What toe ring?” I asked.
“It was in the boot,” she said. “A snakeskin cowboy boot that didn’t quite burn.”
“One boot but not two?”
“Only one,” Detective Caldwell said. “Let’s go. How about if you follow me back to the department. I’ll give you a look at what else we have. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come up with an idea or two.”
Her grudging acceptance wasn’t exactly a heartfelt apology, but it was as close to one as I was going to get.
“Great,” I said, turning on the ignition. “Lead the way.”
As far as Joanna was concerned, sending Margie Savage to rescue Guy Machett from the sand was well worth the price of admission. He had been ripped before. He arrived at the crime scene in a state of high dudgeon and without Margie Savage, who had pulled him out and then gone on her way. Considering the M.E.’s state of mind, that was probably a good thing.
“That woman’s a nutcase,” he complained as he opened the cargo door and hauled out a bag of equipment. “She absolutely floored it. She yanked me out of the sand like it was some kind of grudge match. It’s a wonder I don’t have whiplash, and look at what she did to my bumper.”
Machett was right. The minivan’s front bumper had been mangled beyond all
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