Random Victim by Michael A. Black Page B

toward motive if the husband’s involved,” Leal said.
    “Yeah,” Ryan said, blowing some smoke through his nostrils, “but we don’t even want to think about going there unless we got
     more than just a book of love poems by some asshole who may or may not have been jocking her.”
    “Come on, Tom,” Leal said. “It’s something we got to check out.”
    Ryan’s cheeks hollowed as he drew on the cigarette more copiously this time. When he spoke his words came out amid a cloud
     of smoke. “Let’s run it by the boss first. Like I said, he wants to talk to all of us today for a progress report.”
    Brice’s sports jacket had been hung over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up over
     his muscular forearms.
    When they came into the office he stood up and moved around the desk with an anxious step, first slapping Ryan on the back
     and then extending his hand toward Leal.
    Taken somewhat aback, Leal reciprocated and got snared in Brice’s patented “sissy shake,” his big hand powerfully grinding
     the tips of Leal’s trapped fingers together. Brice gripped Smith’s palm in similar fashion, but Hart was seemingly spared.
    Maybe he’s afraid her grip will be stronger than his, Leal thought to himself, shaking his fingers.
    Brice walked back behind his desk and opened a metal box next to the framed photograph of his wife and kids with dated-looking
     clothes and hairstyles. He removed a thick cigar from the box and bit off the end, leaning back and spitting into the waste
     can.
    “Hope nobody minds,” Brice said as he flicked the lighter and held it to the end of the cigar. “Thank God this no smoking
     thing doesn’t apply to private offices.”
    Leal noticed the cords in Hart’s neck tighten visibly. Suck it up, kid, he silently urged her.
    Brice blew out a cloud of smoke and coughed several times.
    “So how’s the investigation going?” he asked.
    Ryan took out his own cigarettes and held up the pack.
    “Boss, may I?”
    Brice sat back and nodded, the cigar jutted at a sharp angle from the corner of his mouth.
    “We’ve been going over the background of the victim,” Ryan said, withdrawing his own cigarette after taking a quick puff.
     “Getting to know her, so to speak.”
    “What’s that mean, Ryan?” Brice said. “She’s dead. How the hell can you get to know her?”
    “We were exploring possible motives,” Leal said.
    “Motives?” Brice said.
    “Right,” said Leal. He sensed the growing hostility in Brice’s tone and sought to lighten it. At this stage of the game animosity
     would be counterproductive. He grinned. “After all, she didn’t die of the flu.”
    But Brice didn’t laugh or even smile. He removed the cigar from his mouth and said, “I’m well aware of that.”
    “So basically,” Ryan cut in, “we were trying to establish her habits, who her friends were, her enemies…So we could
     try and develop a better understanding of what might have happened.”
    Brice wrinkled his nose, as if he were smelling a foul odor.
    “Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t you people read the case file on this? Murphy and Roberts went over all that already. They
     pretty much established that Miriam Walker was a random victim.” He looked at each of them and drew deeply on the cigar, causing
     the ash to redden. Leal glanced over at Hart. Between the lieutenant’s pungent cigar, and Ryan’s smoldering cigarette, she
     looked about ready to puke.
    “I gotta say, I expected more from this group,” Brice said. “But it seems that instead of hitting the ground running, you’re
     just going over old ground.”
    “With all due respect, Lieu—” Leal started to say. But Brice cut him off.
    “Can it, Leal. I’m a lot more familiar with this case than any of you. I worked it before, you know.”
    Yeah, Leal thought. And you did real good, too, didn’t you?
    “So,” Brice said, blowing out some more smoke, then coughing again. “I want