Smash Cut by Sandra Brown

isn’t the best-quality photo because it’s a freeze-frame taken off the video.”
“A jerky video,” Kimball added. “Poor lighting. Bad angle. He’s not much more than a blob, but it’s a start.”
Sanford concluded with “We thought you should have a look.”
He removed an eight-by-ten photograph from a manila envelope. Julie’s heart was thudding as she reached for it. She glanced at it, then looked up at the detectives, and she knew her reaction must be apparent. Are you kidding? “This is it?”
“I warned you it was lousy. In fact, in light of this, the Moultrie has replaced their security cameras with newer models and updated their entire system.”
Julie studied the photo but shook her head with dismay. “This could be anybody.”
“You don’t recognize him?” Kimball pressed.
“Not even vaguely.”
“The photograph has been enlarged,” Sanford said, “so it’s even grainier than the video. Look again. Try to piece together the pixels.”
Julie did as asked, but it was hopeless. The face was a smear of light and shadow, obviously male, but beyond that indistinguishable. She passed the picture back to Sanford. “I wish I could give you a name, believe me.”
“Well, it was worth a try.” Sanford slid the photo back into the envelope.
“Have you shown it to anyone else? The other victims of the robbery?”
“We’ve both faxed and e-mailed it,” Kimball said. “The ladies in Nashville got back to us immediately with a negative. We’re waiting to hear from the Californian. It’s still early out there.”
“What about Doug? Creighton?”
Sanford nodded. “It occurred to us that the shooter could be an ex-employee of Wheeler Enterprises who had a grudge against his boss. We asked Doug Wheeler to come in, take a look. He referred us to his lawyer. As of yesterday, he has a new one.”
Kimball snorted with obvious distaste. “Derek Mitchell. A scourge.”
Julie tried to keep her expression impassive. “Why?”
“He wins.”
“No, I mean why did they retain a new lawyer?”
Neither of the detectives ventured an opinion, but Julie detected that her seemingly innocent question had resonated with them. “It sounds as though they’re nervous, doesn’t it?”
Kimball and Sanford exchanged a look. As though taking a cue, Sanford stood up and excused himself to make a call. “You ladies are free to use my space here as long as you need to. Excuse me.”
Once he was out of earshot, Julie smiled at Roberta Kimball. “You two communicate without language. I’ve noticed it on more than one occasion.”
“We’ve been working together for a couple of years, but it seems like much longer. When we were assigned to each other, we clicked instantly. Our investigative methods are compatible, and so are our personalities.”
“Yet you’re so different.”
“Can’t argue that,” she said affably. “Black, white. Male, female. Married, single. Tall and thin. Short and stout. Maybe the differences are why the partnership works.”
Julie assessed the detective for a moment, then asked, “So which are you?”
“I’m the short and stout one.”
Julie smiled. “Are you the good cop, or the bad cop?”
Kimball, not in the least abashed, smiled back. “Where do you shop?”
“Pardon me?”
“Where do you buy your clothes? You always look so…right.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course if I tried to wear a little black dress like that, it would be a fashion fiasco.” Kimball’s smile was good-natured and self-deprecating. She picked up a bronze paperweight that was shaped like the bulldog mascot of the University of Georgia and fiddled with it absently, all the time watching Julie. Finally she said, “We’re both the good cop.”
Julie drew in a long breath, let it out. “I suppose that depends on one’s point of view.”
“Yeah, I suppose it does.”
“What’s the next step with the security videos, the photograph?”
“We continue showing the still around, hoping somebody can ID the guy and either clear him or incriminate him. In the meantime, we’re looking at the videos recorded three days