Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (10 page)

Rick turned his back and rolled his eyes.

"I'm not kidding, Rick. You know the rules."

Swain reached the edge of the room and propped one foot against the wall. He could picture himself out on the open land. He needed an assignment. He couldn't handle this desk work anymore. Why didn't something big happen in Alaska or Wyoming?

"Are you listening?"

Rick nodded his head and dipped a pretend hat.

"Oh no, you're channeling Wild Bill again. Are you going to tell me about the call or what?"

Rick shrugged. "What about it?"

"Play Cowboys and Indians on your own time, Swain. Mueller wants details."

Rick pitched himself upright at his boss's name. Mueller was the only one who might get Rick transferred out of the dungeon, if only Rick could get some time with him. "I've been trying to talk to—"

Jamison nodded. "He knows, Rick. It's a hectic time. Tell me about the call."

Rick sat at his desk and rested his folded hands on top. "Came in to my beeper at 15:32 today. Requested ID on a license plate."

"Why?"

"She said the car was parked in front of her house. Made her nervous, I guess."

He sat down and nodded for Swain to continue.

"I checked the plate."

He made a gesture of impatience. "And?"

"Owner's name is Jordan Gray. He's an inspector."

Jamison narrowed his gaze. "What kind of inspector?"

Why the hell did he care? Casey McKinley wanted nothing to do with the Bureau. If the Bureau worried about the people they still had working for them...

"What kind of inspector?" Jamison repeated, his voice raised. His skin had taken on a pink tone that accented his fleshy cheeks and neck.

"SFPD."

Jamison didn't move. His gaze attached to the wall behind Rick. His small fists locked into tight balls.

Though tempted to follow his gaze, Rick kept his eyes on Jamison. Why did it matter what Casey McKinley was doing? Rick knew better than to ask. From day one, everything Rick had learned at the Bureau was on a need-to-know basis. And generally, Rick didn't need to know.

"Should I do anything if she calls again?"

Jamison snapped his gaze back into place and popped from his chair like the cork from a champagne bottle.

Rick tried to ask another question, but Jamison wasn't listening. Leaning back in his chair, Rick lit another cigarette. Jamison mumbled something about Mueller as the door clicked shut.

Chapter 8

Jordan slammed into the precinct parking lot and jumped from the car. The trip to the East Bay yesterday had been a total waste, and he didn't have time to waste. He'd spent the morning in Marin, checking into the death there with his investigators. The day had passed too quickly. It was going to be dark soon. Another day and not an inch closer to a suspect.

He had tried to push Agent McKinley from his mind, but he'd been so damned excited about the possibility of getting help from a profiler. Even if she had offered, McKinley was in no state of mind to help them. And the last thing he needed on this case was a self-pitying prima donna.

Now he was two hours behind. He needed to set up his task force and get a tips line going before something else happened. The commissioner was going to have to address the media. Jordan greeted a couple of inspectors, heading out through the parking lot.

"Shit's hitting the fan," Sandy Polito said, laughing. His thinning blond hair looked like a wreath of wispy feathers on his shiny head. Despite skinny legs, Polito had a gut that spilled out the front of his pants, making him look strangely top-heavy.

Jordan returned a thin smile. "Probably won't be like Cortez shit, though, huh?"

Polito glared at him as his companion said, "He's got you there."

"Fuck off," Polito snapped.

Jordan pressed forward, hoping this case wouldn't turn into the disaster Sandy Polito's had. Cortez was a heavy Mexican dealer. His ring spanned from Seattle all the way south to the border. He flowed heroin in and money out like water. Polito had been the supervising inspector on the case, and had handled it well. By the end, Polito was armed with enough evidence to put Cortez and almost a dozen of his cohorts away for life.

But in a moment of panic, Cortez had tried to skip town. Forced to make a fast decision, Polito had his men pull Cortez over for speeding and then proceeded to search his car without probable cause. After a huge departmental battle, involving the D.A.'s office, Cortez got off on a technicality that stemmed from Polito's mistake. The case was a classic and an ill-humored joke among the inspectors in the department. Jordan wasn't looking forward to the possibility of being the next Polito.

The thought of how much he had to do shook the fear from his mind as he hurried through the department toward his office. Renee met him at the door, a stack of files in her arms. "I can just tell it wasn't good. So let's move on, shall we?"

All Jordan had to do was nod. Renee was nearly fifty-five, a thick black woman with solid white hair, who protected Jordan's business like a guard dog. From seven a.m. to five p.m., no one, not even the chief, entered Jordan's office without her permission. Despite the comfort her protection brought, it wasn't what Jordan treasured most about his longtime assistant.

Like his mother, Renee refused to dwell on anything negative. Her determination was often enough to keep anyone in her orbit motivated, and Jordan depended on her more than either of them acknowledged. "It's going to be a late one, Renee. We've got a task force and tips line to worry about."

She nodded, propping her notebook on her files and scribbling notes. "What's the task force look like?"

"I don't know. I need a couple of people to go over to Marin and interview the victim's family about the fire and get a statement from the sheriff there. I've been out there, but it doesn't look like we're going to get much.

"Also, we need to know about the body." He swallowed and shook his head. "It was probably cremated." In his experience, most burn victims were. "Burial would mean we'll need the remains exhumed. Carrera will have suggestions on who you can get to go over there."

"I'll get with her and find out. Also, D.A.'s office called."

Jordan winced. "Who are they sending?"

Renee smiled. "They were going to send Willard."

He groaned. Ben Willard was a third, the son of Bernard Willard, II, managing partner of Willard Associates. All three Willards were attorneys; all three had started in the D.A.'s office. For them, the current gig was to gain a little street experience before climbing to the top of the ivory tower and negotiating sentences for the rich and famous. Willard acted like a prissy schoolgirl, carrying around a starched white handkerchief that he used to open doors in the station. Perhaps he was concerned that he might chip a nail on the heavy handles. Whatever the reason, he and Jordan did not see eye to eye—on anything.

"But—" Renee interjected.

"But what?"

"I mentioned the case Strioski is working on?"

Jordan narrowed his gaze. "Which case?"

"The black kid kicked out of the movie theater by some big white bouncer guy. Kid claims he was brutalized because he's black."

"I know that one. It's not a case. It's some punk kid trying to get a free ride at the movies."

Renee grinned. "Willard thinks it's a history maker—battle of the races in San Francisco. Even gave his spot on the serial killer case to Mary Riggs."

Jordan cracked a smile. "Renee, you're dangerous, you hear me?"

She snapped her fingers. "You better believe it. Mary will be by in about an hour." Renee made a note and looked back up with a wink.

"What's next?"

"Becky called, and the chief wants a list of facts for the evening news."

Jordan had anticipated that one of the heads would speak to the public. It was his job to determine what they would be told. Too little, and the tips line would be worthless in helping them. Too much, and they wouldn't be able to weed out the good leads from the bad. "Who's addressing?"

"The mayor or maybe the chief. I don't think they've decided yet."

"Either's fine. We need to have a tips line ready by tonight. Will you call in Monica Pradahn? I'd like her to lead up the group and handle the press." Monica, pronounced Mo-Nee-ka, was a petite, trim, energetic Indian woman who embodied the meticulous organizational and managerial qualities that were invaluable for a successful tips line. Beyond that, she invoked humor and calm at the craziest of times.

When Monica joined the force seven years earlier, from the Los Angeles department, Jordan had continually mispronounced her name. Despite constant criticism from colleagues about his insensitivity and more embarrassment than he cared to recall, Monica never once lost her cool. Instead, she responded to each butchering by simply smiling and correcting him. Again.

"I'll get her on the phone right now. Anything else?"

The truck he had seen in front of Agent McKinley's house came to mind, and he pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. Tearing the page from the spiral, he handed it to Renee. "Will you have someone run a check on this license for me?"

"Rush?"

He nodded. "And I need to have you check with local departments about similar cases."

"Who do you want to try?"

"L.A. Try Detective Sherman there. I saved his ass two months ago. Maybe he'll return the favor. And try Portland—what's his name—"

"Del Negro is there, isn't he?" she said, writing on her notepad.

"Exactly. And Jimmy Atkinson in Seattle." He paused. "That's enough to start. Get anything they can think of. If they've got something—anything—I want to talk to them. And I want as much as you can get on what happened to FBI Agent Casey McKinley in Cincinnati."

"Got it." She shifted the stack of files against her hip and stared him down. "You talked to Angie, Jordan?"

The name felt like an uppercut to his gut. He stared at his feet. "Yep. And it still doesn't sound like she wants anything to do with me."

Renee shook her head. "Don't be stupid, Jordan. The woman loves you. She'll come around. Now, don't go forgetting your father-in-law's birthday is in three days. I'll pick up a card."

"Thanks, Renee."

"And Will's birthday is in less than two weeks, Jordan. You don't want to be away from that boy on his birthday."

He nodded. "I asked Angie to bring the boys up this weekend. Told me she wanted me to come to her. But I don't want to go stay with my in-laws."

Renee waved her hand at him, dismissing his comment. "Of course not. She'll come up here. She just wants you to work for it. You should send those flowers."

"It won't do any good."

"Won't know till you try."

Jordan eyed her, then shook his head. "I don't know..."

"Oh, forget you. You men don't know a good thing till it's gone." She handed him a couple of files and pushed him toward his office. "Now, you get in there and dial up some shop and send your wife flowers. Write something real sweet, now, you hear me? I'll get on the horn and see about getting Warrior tickets. Between the flowers and the tickets, Angie couldn't say no."

"Thanks, Renee."

"Yeah, yeah. Now, git." She waved him off.

Jordan sat at his desk and debated the merits of sending flowers. Somehow it felt like an admission of guilt. He hadn't done anything wrong, but that wasn't how his mother-in-law would see it. Damn, but he did want Angie and the boys back. It was getting lonely in the house.

Finding a number in the phone book, he dialed a florist and asked the high-pitched male voice on the other end to send something bright and cheery with a card that read, "Come up here before I explode."

"Oh my. Isn't that visual?" the salesman exclaimed.

Jordan thanked him and hung up, a little uncomfortable at the florist's enthusiasm.

With that done, he concentrated on making notes for the press conference later. Ray Zambotti's autopsy report on the black girl found in the alley described what few clues Jordan had. The facts were eerily familiar as he thought over the first victim's autopsy report.