Hate Crime by William Bernhardt

But I performed the tests, just the same. And the time of death was well after 9:30—more like 11:00, 11:15.”
    Christina shook her head. “I don’t know. My client is pretty convincing.”
    “Christina, if the beating took place in a vacant lot, don’t you think the police would’ve found traces?”
    “The boys didn’t remember where it was. They said they were drunk and drove and drove—and stopped at a deserted place chosen at random. Of course, the cops never looked too hard, since they think Tony was killed in the frat house. And even if the vacant lot were found, it could’ve been cleaned up.”
    Wilson dropped the file back in its drawer. “Christina, I realize you don’t know me, but I’m a straight shooter. If the DA’s case sucks, I’ll say so. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Absolutely. Scout’s honor. Girl-to-girl. Your client killed the poor kid. There’s simply no other possible explanation.”
     
    “Hello, handsome.”
    Mike sighed, eyes still glued to his desk. “Look, Baxter, if this is—”
    He stopped short. Wrong voice.
    “Special Agent Swift! What the hell are you doing here?”
    Mike rose to his feet and crossed his office to greet her. Just like the last time he’d seen her, she was wearing a black turtleneck. And looking fine in it, too.
    “I’m on special assignment. How ya been, you big teddy bear, you?”
    “Oh, all right. Nothing to—”
    “Don’t just stand there. Give me a hug.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. And did not let go.
    “Hey, Morelli, shouldn’t we be leaving to—”
    They both turned to see Sergeant Baxter standing in the doorway.
    “Oh, excuse me,” Baxter said. “I didn’t know you had . . . company. I’ll come back later.”
    “No, no,” Mike said, “come on in. We’re just . . .” What the hell were they doing, anyway? “Baxter, this is Special Agent Swift. With the FBI. I told you about her. We worked on the Metzger kidnap case together. Before your time.”
    Baxter looked at the other woman levelly. “Right.”
    Mike turned back to Agent Swift. “And this is Sergeant Baxter. She’s my partner. For the time being.”
    Swift extended her hand. “Glad to meet you, Baxter. Got a first name?”
    “Yeah. But I think Morelli is afraid of them.”
    “I noticed that. I’m Danny. Short for Danielle.”
    “Kate.” They shook hands, but Mike noticed that Baxter seemed very tentative. “What brings a Chicago white shirt out to our lowly cop shop?”
    “Special assignment,” she explained.
    “Anything I’d know about?”
    “Well, yes, actually. The drill bit boy.”
    “That’s a homicide. What’s the FBI interest?”
    “Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”
    “You’re going to be working with us. But you can’t say why?”
    “For the moment.” She leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. “Don’t sweat it, Kate. I’ll spill something as soon as I can. I’m not much for the rule book—ask Mike. I just like to get the job done. And the best way to accomplish that is for us all to get along.”
    “I think maybe we need to talk to Blackwell.”
    “Don’t bother. I’ve just come from his office. He’s on board.”
    Baxter frowned. “I won’t pretend I’m happy about this. These interjurisdictional things always turn out to be a headache. And I’ll be honest—I don’t much like working with Feebs. Neither does Morelli.” She paused. “Right, Morelli?”
    Mike’s shoulders rippled. “Well, as a rule, working with the Bureau is not my idea of the good life. But I guess I don’t have any problems with this.” Baxter looked at him as if he’d just sold her into slavery. “At least I have some history with Agent Swift.”
    “That’s right,” Swift said, jabbing him in the ribs. “And we got along pretty well, didn’t we, handsome?”
    “Yeah. Except for the minor detail of the bad guys getting away.”
    Baxter looked as if the top of her head were