Batavia who interrupted. “You’re out of your mind, Randall. You got nothing. You’re nowhere here. She’s probably just fucking the guy, doesn’t want her husband to find out. The lieutenant’s right. You got nothing on Beaumont. No motive, no means, opportunity. Forget it. Let the lady go, would you? Jesus. I got to go to the bathroom.” And with that, he was out the door.
“Charming gentleman,” Pratt said.
“Good cop,” Glitsky responded.
Randall came forward in his folding chair. “I don’t care if he’s the king of England. He’s not giving me any suspects, so I develop my own and build my case. And from where I’m sitting, Frannie Hardy’s right in the middle of it.”
Glitsky caught the eye of Batavia’s partner, Tyler Coleman, gave the secret sign, and they both stood up. “I wish you’d think about it some more, Sharron. This is really wrong.”
She looked him right in the eye. “I will, Abe. I promise.”
While Glitsky and Coleman were waiting for the elevator, Batavia emerged from the hallway behind them. “If assholes could fly,” he said, “that place would be an airport.”
Glitsky himself tried to limit his profanity to a word or two a year, but he appreciated a well-turned phrase. The scar between his lips tightened in amusement. But Coleman was still seething—implicit in everything that had just transpired in Pratt’s office was the accusation that he and his partner had booted one. “If there’s such a fire under this one, Abe, why didn’t we hear about it?”
The elevator door opened and they squeezed in amid the rest of the clerks, cops, lawyers, citizens. Glitsky had at one time decided it could be an instructive display of authority to talk in a crowded elevator, and he answered Coleman as if they were alone in his office. He also thought it wouldn’t be all bad if some spy from the airport—he hoped that Batavia’s new nickname for the DA’s office would have a long life—heard him taking Mr. Scott Randall to task for his misguided enthusiasm. Maybe he’d also drop a little rumor about Scott’s ambitions that his boss wouldn’t appreciate all that much.
“Randall wants a high-profile case, that’s all, Tyler. He wants out of this low-rent office, into the big private money. This building’s not big enough for him, so due process takes a powder.”
Batavia was also immune to elevator squelch. His voice boomed in the enclosed space. “But he doesn’t have a goddam thing, Abe. Like I said in there.” The doors opened and they stepped out. “What’s this window of time shit, anyway? Everything we’ve read or heard, the guy was dropping the kids at school, going for coffee.”
But here, though he hated it, Glitsky had to admit that technically, Randall wasn’t all wrong. He had to give Coleman and Batavia his reading that even if Frannie’s alibi was righteous, Ron Beaumont still could have killed his wife. Bree’s body hadn’t been discovered in the patio for several hours, and the coroner hadn’t been able to fix a precise time of death. “It could have been three hours plus or minus,” he concluded. “We’re going on around eight-thirty on the theory that Ron left the house a little before that and says she was still alive.”
“The kids say it, too. How about that?” Batavia wasn’t ready to give anything to Scott Randall.
But Glitsky knew that the homicide cop’s worst enemy was imprecision. Well, maybe second worst after jumping to conclusions, but certainly way up there. He corrected Batavia. “I hate to say it, Jorge, but the kids were a little vague.”
Coleman popped in. “Hey, it’s two days after their mom died, for Christ’s sake, and they didn’t remember what she had for breakfast. I don’t blame ’em. Hell, I don’t remember what I had for breakfast today. I don’t even know if I ate
“Charming gentleman,” Pratt said.
“Good cop,” Glitsky responded.
Randall came forward in his folding chair. “I don’t care if he’s the king of England. He’s not giving me any suspects, so I develop my own and build my case. And from where I’m sitting, Frannie Hardy’s right in the middle of it.”
Glitsky caught the eye of Batavia’s partner, Tyler Coleman, gave the secret sign, and they both stood up. “I wish you’d think about it some more, Sharron. This is really wrong.”
She looked him right in the eye. “I will, Abe. I promise.”
While Glitsky and Coleman were waiting for the elevator, Batavia emerged from the hallway behind them. “If assholes could fly,” he said, “that place would be an airport.”
Glitsky himself tried to limit his profanity to a word or two a year, but he appreciated a well-turned phrase. The scar between his lips tightened in amusement. But Coleman was still seething—implicit in everything that had just transpired in Pratt’s office was the accusation that he and his partner had booted one. “If there’s such a fire under this one, Abe, why didn’t we hear about it?”
The elevator door opened and they squeezed in amid the rest of the clerks, cops, lawyers, citizens. Glitsky had at one time decided it could be an instructive display of authority to talk in a crowded elevator, and he answered Coleman as if they were alone in his office. He also thought it wouldn’t be all bad if some spy from the airport—he hoped that Batavia’s new nickname for the DA’s office would have a long life—heard him taking Mr. Scott Randall to task for his misguided enthusiasm. Maybe he’d also drop a little rumor about Scott’s ambitions that his boss wouldn’t appreciate all that much.
“Randall wants a high-profile case, that’s all, Tyler. He wants out of this low-rent office, into the big private money. This building’s not big enough for him, so due process takes a powder.”
Batavia was also immune to elevator squelch. His voice boomed in the enclosed space. “But he doesn’t have a goddam thing, Abe. Like I said in there.” The doors opened and they stepped out. “What’s this window of time shit, anyway? Everything we’ve read or heard, the guy was dropping the kids at school, going for coffee.”
But here, though he hated it, Glitsky had to admit that technically, Randall wasn’t all wrong. He had to give Coleman and Batavia his reading that even if Frannie’s alibi was righteous, Ron Beaumont still could have killed his wife. Bree’s body hadn’t been discovered in the patio for several hours, and the coroner hadn’t been able to fix a precise time of death. “It could have been three hours plus or minus,” he concluded. “We’re going on around eight-thirty on the theory that Ron left the house a little before that and says she was still alive.”
“The kids say it, too. How about that?” Batavia wasn’t ready to give anything to Scott Randall.
But Glitsky knew that the homicide cop’s worst enemy was imprecision. Well, maybe second worst after jumping to conclusions, but certainly way up there. He corrected Batavia. “I hate to say it, Jorge, but the kids were a little vague.”
Coleman popped in. “Hey, it’s two days after their mom died, for Christ’s sake, and they didn’t remember what she had for breakfast. I don’t blame ’em. Hell, I don’t remember what I had for breakfast today. I don’t even know if I ate
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