Clean and cold, like a contract killing. Up close and
personal, like a love thing gone bad. I've got a list of johns and a call-out
sheet coming the phone company. We've got plenty to work with. There's
motivation all over the place, if she was thinking blackmail."
Brighton
considered. "Any prints besides hers and McNally's?
She told him about
the latents not good enough to send through or CAL-ID. She told him they hoped
for a DrugFire hit on the brass casing. She told him about the hair and fiber
and shoeprint, if they could eliminate Aubrey's own clothes and those,
possibly, of Mike McNally.
Brighton listened
passively. He wasn't a guy who filled up silences. "And how's Miss Patti
Bailey?"
"I've
barely scratched it, sir."
"I don't expect
you to kill yourself on it," he said. "I give those out to clean the
files. If we solve one, fine."
"I
understand."
"Bailey
was a prostitute, too," he said. "I'm sure you figured out that much
by now. I remember she was mixed in with the narcotics suppliers back then. You
know, that was nineteen sixty-nine. Supposed to be free love and cheap highs
and bell-bottoms. A lot of it was. But the speed racket guys weren't giving it
away. Neither were the heroin sellers. And we had lots of professional girls
out on Harbor Boulevard, servicing the guys who weren't getting it for free.
Lots of conventioneers. Tourists."
"Like now."
"Exactly."
Brighton swiveled in his chair and looked out one of the vertical windows.
"That was a long time ago. I was forty years old that year. A captain. Two
years later, they asked me to be the sheriff. Thirty years of that. It seems
like about fifteen minutes."
"You've done
well, sir."
He
swung back, a dry smile in place. "Time to think about stepping
aside."
"You've said
that every year, sir. For the last few, anyway."
He smiled but his
eyes narrowed. "That's the perception?"
"Just
mine," Merci said quietly. Even at thirty-six, her talent for saying the
wrong thing was undiminished.
"I
appreciate your candor, Sergeant. Give me some more of it now: How would you
feel about Nelson Neal as sheriff?"
Watch it now, she
thought. "Fine. Not inspirational."
Brighton nodded.
"Craig Braga?"
"Yes."
"Mel
Glandis?"
"Same as
Nelson."
"How
about Vince Abelera, over in the Marshal's Department? He wants it. He's got
some rank-and-file P.D. support, a good face for the cameras."
Merci
had heard Abelera's spiel on the TV news: If he was sheriff, he'd trim the fat
and hire more deputies, he'd franchise some of the inmate population into
private "jails," the public would become his "customers,"
law enforcement was a "marketplace." He said the Sheriff Department
should be run like any corporation. He was handsome, dressed well and had good
teeth.
"I think he's
telling people what they want to hear. Everybody wants to save money. Everybody
wants more cops."
Brighton nodded
again. His eyes were small and bright in his craggy face.
"You
still have your eyes on the Crimes Against Persons Section?”
"It
seems years away."
"And someone's
got to be running Homicide Detail when I retires. That's early next year."
"I'd love to get
my hands on it. But you need the respect. I'm thirty-six and I'm a woman. I'm a
mom. There was Hess. I'd need ... respect."
Brighton listened,
cocked his head to the rain, then looked back at her. "You have mine.
Sorry about your boyfriend."
"I'd
rather you didn't call him that."
"Noted. I'm
sorry the dumb prick didn't exhibit better sense this girl. We're all going to
suffer for his antics now."
"I
do appreciate your saying that."
"It'll blow
over. Unless it leaks all over the department and the reporters get it."
Brighton seemed to consider this possibility, then he blinked and shook away
the vision. "Look, tomorrow's Friday. You could use a day away from here.
Do what you can with the Bailey case. But Rayborn—don't kill yourself over this
one. Nineteen sixty-nine a bad year then, and it's a bad year still. Bring me
the guy who shot
personal, like a love thing gone bad. I've got a list of johns and a call-out
sheet coming the phone company. We've got plenty to work with. There's
motivation all over the place, if she was thinking blackmail."
Brighton
considered. "Any prints besides hers and McNally's?
She told him about
the latents not good enough to send through or CAL-ID. She told him they hoped
for a DrugFire hit on the brass casing. She told him about the hair and fiber
and shoeprint, if they could eliminate Aubrey's own clothes and those,
possibly, of Mike McNally.
Brighton listened
passively. He wasn't a guy who filled up silences. "And how's Miss Patti
Bailey?"
"I've
barely scratched it, sir."
"I don't expect
you to kill yourself on it," he said. "I give those out to clean the
files. If we solve one, fine."
"I
understand."
"Bailey
was a prostitute, too," he said. "I'm sure you figured out that much
by now. I remember she was mixed in with the narcotics suppliers back then. You
know, that was nineteen sixty-nine. Supposed to be free love and cheap highs
and bell-bottoms. A lot of it was. But the speed racket guys weren't giving it
away. Neither were the heroin sellers. And we had lots of professional girls
out on Harbor Boulevard, servicing the guys who weren't getting it for free.
Lots of conventioneers. Tourists."
"Like now."
"Exactly."
Brighton swiveled in his chair and looked out one of the vertical windows.
"That was a long time ago. I was forty years old that year. A captain. Two
years later, they asked me to be the sheriff. Thirty years of that. It seems
like about fifteen minutes."
"You've done
well, sir."
He
swung back, a dry smile in place. "Time to think about stepping
aside."
"You've said
that every year, sir. For the last few, anyway."
He smiled but his
eyes narrowed. "That's the perception?"
"Just
mine," Merci said quietly. Even at thirty-six, her talent for saying the
wrong thing was undiminished.
"I
appreciate your candor, Sergeant. Give me some more of it now: How would you
feel about Nelson Neal as sheriff?"
Watch it now, she
thought. "Fine. Not inspirational."
Brighton nodded.
"Craig Braga?"
"Yes."
"Mel
Glandis?"
"Same as
Nelson."
"How
about Vince Abelera, over in the Marshal's Department? He wants it. He's got
some rank-and-file P.D. support, a good face for the cameras."
Merci
had heard Abelera's spiel on the TV news: If he was sheriff, he'd trim the fat
and hire more deputies, he'd franchise some of the inmate population into
private "jails," the public would become his "customers,"
law enforcement was a "marketplace." He said the Sheriff Department
should be run like any corporation. He was handsome, dressed well and had good
teeth.
"I think he's
telling people what they want to hear. Everybody wants to save money. Everybody
wants more cops."
Brighton nodded
again. His eyes were small and bright in his craggy face.
"You
still have your eyes on the Crimes Against Persons Section?”
"It
seems years away."
"And someone's
got to be running Homicide Detail when I retires. That's early next year."
"I'd love to get
my hands on it. But you need the respect. I'm thirty-six and I'm a woman. I'm a
mom. There was Hess. I'd need ... respect."
Brighton listened,
cocked his head to the rain, then looked back at her. "You have mine.
Sorry about your boyfriend."
"I'd
rather you didn't call him that."
"Noted. I'm
sorry the dumb prick didn't exhibit better sense this girl. We're all going to
suffer for his antics now."
"I
do appreciate your saying that."
"It'll blow
over. Unless it leaks all over the department and the reporters get it."
Brighton seemed to consider this possibility, then he blinked and shook away
the vision. "Look, tomorrow's Friday. You could use a day away from here.
Do what you can with the Bailey case. But Rayborn—don't kill yourself over this
one. Nineteen sixty-nine a bad year then, and it's a bad year still. Bring me
the guy who shot
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