tilted my head to brace the receiver against my shoulder as I reached for a pen and paper with both hands.
“Miss Clarke, this is Don Simmons at the Richmond PD.” A smooth, deep voice came through the line and my pulse quickened.
“Captain! I won’t take up too much of your time today,” I said. “I’m working on a story about the missing evidence from the Southside dealer murders.”
“So you said in your message,” Simmons said. “Do you mind if I ask you how you know about that?”
“I do, actually.” So that’s why he’d returned my call. “I can’t reveal my source on this story. But I am wondering if you have any comment on your investigation.”
“The situation is being investigated by internal affairs for possible officer involvement, but we don’t know anything definitive yet,” he said a little stiffly.
Strike one.
“Captain, I know you’re frustrated. I can imagine your job is pretty stressful, and I’m really not trying to make it worse.” If the sympathy plea had worked on Agent Starnes, it could work on anyone. “I’m just trying to do mine, that’s all.”
Silence. I held my tongue, knowing this game well: he who speaks first loses.
Simmons hauled in a deep breath. “I can appreciate that, ma’am, but I need you to understand this is a very sensitive matter.”
Strike two. I had one tactic left.
“Yes, but the taxpayers who pay your salary have a right to know what’s going on. I’m not the only person in town who thinks so, or I wouldn’t know about it in the first place.”
More crickets. Another long breath.
“Look, lady,” he said. “This has everybody upstairs convinced the four horsemen are on their way or some shit, pardon my French. I’m sorry—no comment.”
A swing and a miss, and the two most dreaded words in the English language for the out. I thanked Simmons for his time and hung up, tapping the nail of my index finger on the handset. He confirmed the theft, but I wanted more than that. Though given his position, I supposed I should be thankful he’d even called back.
I glanced at the file Mike gave me. Gavin Neal. The attorney who’d been in the evidence room on Sunday. Assuming he wasn’t busy stashing four hundred thousand dollars in drug money, maybe he’d talk to me. Lawyers were generally easier to pump for quotes than cops.
I dialed the CA’s office and found Neal in the robot-voiced directory. And got his voicemail. Reeling off my name and phone number, I wondered if my aversion to checking messages stemmed from having to leave so many of them.
I cradled the phone and stared at the log from the evidence locker. The longer I stared, the fuzzier the lines became, until something finally jumped out at me. Neal’s signature was scribbled hastily. So hastily, someone went back and printed his name next to the scrawl. If I were planning to make off with half a million dollars, I’d be in a hurry, too.
I wondered if my friend DonnaJo, who was also a prosecutor, might be able to help me track down Neal before deadline. I called her cell and dispensed with the pleasantries quickly, asking if she knew him.
“He’s one of our best attorneys, Nichelle,” she said. “A great guy, and a damn smart lawyer. Very charismatic—juries love him. I just cannot believe this rumor that he’s a crook. Anyone who knows this man knows he’s not a thief.”
My eyebrows went up.
“Jump to conclusions much, counselor?” Not that I hadn’t, but she seemed pretty defensive. “I think they just wanted to question him.”
“Which would be no big deal, if he were around to question. The grapevine has it the cops went to pick him up and his wife reported him missing. He never went home after he went to the PD yesterday. I hear she’s pretty freaked. Their kid has some sort of medical condition, so Gavin never misses her calls.”
My thoughts careened in several directions at once. Part of what I loved about covering crime were the puzzles
“Miss Clarke, this is Don Simmons at the Richmond PD.” A smooth, deep voice came through the line and my pulse quickened.
“Captain! I won’t take up too much of your time today,” I said. “I’m working on a story about the missing evidence from the Southside dealer murders.”
“So you said in your message,” Simmons said. “Do you mind if I ask you how you know about that?”
“I do, actually.” So that’s why he’d returned my call. “I can’t reveal my source on this story. But I am wondering if you have any comment on your investigation.”
“The situation is being investigated by internal affairs for possible officer involvement, but we don’t know anything definitive yet,” he said a little stiffly.
Strike one.
“Captain, I know you’re frustrated. I can imagine your job is pretty stressful, and I’m really not trying to make it worse.” If the sympathy plea had worked on Agent Starnes, it could work on anyone. “I’m just trying to do mine, that’s all.”
Silence. I held my tongue, knowing this game well: he who speaks first loses.
Simmons hauled in a deep breath. “I can appreciate that, ma’am, but I need you to understand this is a very sensitive matter.”
Strike two. I had one tactic left.
“Yes, but the taxpayers who pay your salary have a right to know what’s going on. I’m not the only person in town who thinks so, or I wouldn’t know about it in the first place.”
More crickets. Another long breath.
“Look, lady,” he said. “This has everybody upstairs convinced the four horsemen are on their way or some shit, pardon my French. I’m sorry—no comment.”
A swing and a miss, and the two most dreaded words in the English language for the out. I thanked Simmons for his time and hung up, tapping the nail of my index finger on the handset. He confirmed the theft, but I wanted more than that. Though given his position, I supposed I should be thankful he’d even called back.
I glanced at the file Mike gave me. Gavin Neal. The attorney who’d been in the evidence room on Sunday. Assuming he wasn’t busy stashing four hundred thousand dollars in drug money, maybe he’d talk to me. Lawyers were generally easier to pump for quotes than cops.
I dialed the CA’s office and found Neal in the robot-voiced directory. And got his voicemail. Reeling off my name and phone number, I wondered if my aversion to checking messages stemmed from having to leave so many of them.
I cradled the phone and stared at the log from the evidence locker. The longer I stared, the fuzzier the lines became, until something finally jumped out at me. Neal’s signature was scribbled hastily. So hastily, someone went back and printed his name next to the scrawl. If I were planning to make off with half a million dollars, I’d be in a hurry, too.
I wondered if my friend DonnaJo, who was also a prosecutor, might be able to help me track down Neal before deadline. I called her cell and dispensed with the pleasantries quickly, asking if she knew him.
“He’s one of our best attorneys, Nichelle,” she said. “A great guy, and a damn smart lawyer. Very charismatic—juries love him. I just cannot believe this rumor that he’s a crook. Anyone who knows this man knows he’s not a thief.”
My eyebrows went up.
“Jump to conclusions much, counselor?” Not that I hadn’t, but she seemed pretty defensive. “I think they just wanted to question him.”
“Which would be no big deal, if he were around to question. The grapevine has it the cops went to pick him up and his wife reported him missing. He never went home after he went to the PD yesterday. I hear she’s pretty freaked. Their kid has some sort of medical condition, so Gavin never misses her calls.”
My thoughts careened in several directions at once. Part of what I loved about covering crime were the puzzles
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