was simply ingrained in his memory.
She was seated at the table, a massive book in front of her. An officer at her side was slowly turning pages.
She shook her head, looking up at the assisting officer.
Haunted eyes, Massey had said.
Good description. Her friend was dead, but there was more than just fear, anger and frustration in her gaze. There was something like desperation. A feeling she undoubtedly loathed, since it was apparent that she'd been blessed with determination and no lack of courage.
Brent gazed down at the desk in front of him. Massey had given him a nice clear shot of Tom Garfield in his last disguise. Garfield had been good at his work. He had infiltrated cartels in South Florida, Texas and California, fingering those who needed to be fingered, then getting away clean. He'd been a good-looking? hardened man in his mid-thirties, and not even the scraggly beard and dirty countenance he'd taken on really hid his inner strength. That would have worked well for him, trying to get close to the big leaguers. He'd had the ability to bluff his way through the toughest situation.
Brent's gaze shifted from the photo before him on the desk back toward the conference room.
"She's looking for people she might have seen the night before her friend's death?"
"She's got a 'hunch,'" Massey said wearily. "She saw some guy when she was with her friend, and says she saw him again last night, out on the street. I tried to tell her that she might see the same tourist types over and over again. Even the same bums. And that it doesn't matter how many times she might have seen the guy—it wouldn't make him guilty of murder. But what the hell, I got nothing else. So she's looking through mug shots."
"For a bum?" Brent said a little sharply.
Massey frowned, looking at him. Not angry, just curious. "Yeah, someone she saw begging at a
café."
"Would you mind?" Brent asked Massey, indicating Garfield's photo.
"You're going to show her a dead guy?" Massey said.
"Hey, you got nothing else, right?"
"She couldn't have seen a dead guy on the street last night," Massey said.
Brent shrugged, smiling dryly. "How many of those books have you got? This could go on a long, long time."
"But that's a dead guy."
"Humor me."
"Hey… go ahead. Knock yourself out."
Â
Nikki was tired. Faces swam before her.
New Orleans had quite a photo gallery of suspicious types. She was glad they hadn't asked her to go through all the mug shots on the computer. She would have an even worse headache by now.
They'd even narrowed down the choices for her, looking specifically for a white guy in his late twenties to early forties.
Scary… to see all the possible perps!
"Nothing?" Julian asked a little tensely.
She shook her head. Julian was growing impatient. He'd gotten her an emergency appointment with his shrink, and he was clearly anxious to get going.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"No one even close, huh?" That question came from Marc Joulette, Owen Massey's younger partner. "People can change, you know. Minus a beard, dyed hair, that kind of thing," he pointed out helpfully. Whereas Massey was a big solid guy with a ruddy complexion, Joulette was taller, leaner, darker. Of mixed race, he was neither white nor black but a striking golden hue. Though he was too striking ever to blend into a crowd, Nikki assumed he must be one hell of a detective, because he had great people skills. His voice was gentle and melodic. Soothing, comforting. His manner was equally gentle. She had a feeling he could garner a confession before the suspect even knew he'd been talking.
Nikki sat back, rubbing her temples, shaking her head again. "I'm sorry. I really want to find this guy. I know you can't arrest people on feelings, but I can't help but believe he's involved somehow. But I can't find him, and I feel like I'm wasting your time," she apologized.
Julian made a grunting sound. She ignored him.
Detective Joulette smiled. "Hey, this job
She was seated at the table, a massive book in front of her. An officer at her side was slowly turning pages.
She shook her head, looking up at the assisting officer.
Haunted eyes, Massey had said.
Good description. Her friend was dead, but there was more than just fear, anger and frustration in her gaze. There was something like desperation. A feeling she undoubtedly loathed, since it was apparent that she'd been blessed with determination and no lack of courage.
Brent gazed down at the desk in front of him. Massey had given him a nice clear shot of Tom Garfield in his last disguise. Garfield had been good at his work. He had infiltrated cartels in South Florida, Texas and California, fingering those who needed to be fingered, then getting away clean. He'd been a good-looking? hardened man in his mid-thirties, and not even the scraggly beard and dirty countenance he'd taken on really hid his inner strength. That would have worked well for him, trying to get close to the big leaguers. He'd had the ability to bluff his way through the toughest situation.
Brent's gaze shifted from the photo before him on the desk back toward the conference room.
"She's looking for people she might have seen the night before her friend's death?"
"She's got a 'hunch,'" Massey said wearily. "She saw some guy when she was with her friend, and says she saw him again last night, out on the street. I tried to tell her that she might see the same tourist types over and over again. Even the same bums. And that it doesn't matter how many times she might have seen the guy—it wouldn't make him guilty of murder. But what the hell, I got nothing else. So she's looking through mug shots."
"For a bum?" Brent said a little sharply.
Massey frowned, looking at him. Not angry, just curious. "Yeah, someone she saw begging at a
café."
"Would you mind?" Brent asked Massey, indicating Garfield's photo.
"You're going to show her a dead guy?" Massey said.
"Hey, you got nothing else, right?"
"She couldn't have seen a dead guy on the street last night," Massey said.
Brent shrugged, smiling dryly. "How many of those books have you got? This could go on a long, long time."
"But that's a dead guy."
"Humor me."
"Hey… go ahead. Knock yourself out."
Â
Nikki was tired. Faces swam before her.
New Orleans had quite a photo gallery of suspicious types. She was glad they hadn't asked her to go through all the mug shots on the computer. She would have an even worse headache by now.
They'd even narrowed down the choices for her, looking specifically for a white guy in his late twenties to early forties.
Scary… to see all the possible perps!
"Nothing?" Julian asked a little tensely.
She shook her head. Julian was growing impatient. He'd gotten her an emergency appointment with his shrink, and he was clearly anxious to get going.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"No one even close, huh?" That question came from Marc Joulette, Owen Massey's younger partner. "People can change, you know. Minus a beard, dyed hair, that kind of thing," he pointed out helpfully. Whereas Massey was a big solid guy with a ruddy complexion, Joulette was taller, leaner, darker. Of mixed race, he was neither white nor black but a striking golden hue. Though he was too striking ever to blend into a crowd, Nikki assumed he must be one hell of a detective, because he had great people skills. His voice was gentle and melodic. Soothing, comforting. His manner was equally gentle. She had a feeling he could garner a confession before the suspect even knew he'd been talking.
Nikki sat back, rubbing her temples, shaking her head again. "I'm sorry. I really want to find this guy. I know you can't arrest people on feelings, but I can't help but believe he's involved somehow. But I can't find him, and I feel like I'm wasting your time," she apologized.
Julian made a grunting sound. She ignored him.
Detective Joulette smiled. "Hey, this job
Similar Books
