The Angel of Knowlton Park (30 page)

"Me neither. I hope I never do again."

"Pissed you off, huh. I don't blame you. No way that was necessary. I hear—"

Burgess was impatient to interview Anna Pederson and get back to the station, but he'd known Charlie a long time. Security guards were invisible to a lot of people, so Charlie often heard useful things. He cradled his torn arm and waited. The stitching had been brutal, but he hadn't wanted pain killers. He needed to keep his remaining wits about him. "What?"

"Paper's got itself a new reporter. Cute little thing. Looks like a sixteen-year-old kid—fresh-faced, adorable little turned-up nose, lots of Shirley Temple curls, got moves like Magic Johnson. She'll do anything to get a story. She's everywhere. Into everything. She'll be behind that picture. You'll find her in your car, in your house, in your face, on your desk. So watch yourself. She'd crawl up your ass if it would get her a story."

"Jesus. That's all we need."

"I'm surprised you haven't met her yet."

"Guess she was too busy sweet-talking someone into letting her into their attic so she could get that picture. Plus, the department keeps my ugly face out of the paper. Thanks for the warning. You hear anything else I should know, you'll call, right?"

"You bet."

He took the elevator to Mrs. Pederson's floor, checked in at the nurses' desk, and ran into a brick wall. Her nurse, a sensible middle-aged woman named Lynne, said, "I'm sorry, but I can't let you see her." Sober, determined, planting her blocky body directly in his path. Had his bull-headed reputation preceded him?

"I've got a murder," he said.

"And Mrs. Pederson's got a bad heart. She's still unstable and I'm not letting you in."

"It won't take long."

"It won't take any time at all, Detective, because it's not happening. Quite aside from her condition, you go in looking like that, you'll scare the hell out of her. She's a frail old lady. Give me your card, and I promise I'll call as soon as she's able to talk. If you promise to clean up first."

"You think I want...?" She didn't move. Didn't even blink. You gotta know when to fold 'em. He pulled out a card. "It's important," he said.

"I know." She wasn't sure of him yet. She was watching his body, his feet, the way an opposing player might watch for a sudden move on the field. When he shifted his foot toward the elevator, and she relaxed a little. "I will call you."

"Day or night," he said. "They know where to find me. Wait." He took the card and scribbled his home number with a little "H" next to it.

He was going through the Emergency Department door when a woman came up to him. She had the squeaky-clean good looks of a high school cheerleader. A pink, scrubbed look. Soft, bouncy blonde curls. Sweet blue eyes and turned-up nose. Thanks to Charlie, he knew exactly who she was—a bloodsucking vampire in a girl suit. She planted herself in his path. "Detective, I'm Charlene Farrell, from the paper. May I ask you a few questions?"

He didn't even slow. "You're the one who arranged that picture?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I have nothing to say. You know the protocol. All department comment goes through Captain Cote."

"I understand you and Captain Cote don't get along," she said. "I don't think he gives a damn about this case. I was hoping you might give me something real."

Ignoring her, he walked to his car and opened the door. Charlene Farrell blocked his way, still smiling. "How did you get injured, Detective?"

"Excuse me." He stepped around her, got in, and started the engine. She must have mistaken him for someone who had scruples about running over reporters, who worried about bad press. She didn't move. "Is it true that you were attacked by a fleeing suspect? That even when he slashed you with a knife, you drew your weapon but never fired it, and let him escape on a stolen bicycle?"

It sounded bad and stupid—what police department lets a suspect escape on a bicycle?—and was intended to provoke a rash response. "Ms. Farrell," he said, "I'm in the middle of a murder investigation and you're in my way. Would you please move?"

"You have no comment on your failed attempt to apprehend Mr. Osborne?"

"Interfering with a police investigation is a crime, Ms. Farrell," he said. "I'm asking you one more time. Please move out of my way."

The pretty face was sullen now. Reluctantly, she stepped onto the sidewalk, but she had the parting shot. "Is it true, Detective, that some drugs you say you seized in a search of the victim's home have mysteriously disappeared?"

Was this what Cote had been so cheerful about, a nifty little leak to the press designed to make him look both corrupt and stupid? He was wearing his trained cop's face, no emotion there for Charlene Farrell to record, but his mind spun. Fucking Cote pressuring him to solve this thing, then doing every damned thing he could to get in the way. He put the car in gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed back across town.

Chapter 23

He walked back into 109 and into an administrative road block. One of those witless, get-in-the-way civilians had alleged that he had fired his gun. He had to write a lengthy report on the incident, which grated on already sore nerves and wasted time he didn't have. Sometimes the job felt like a game of Simon Says. Your boss says go do something. Then you can't get out the door because you forgot to say "May I?" When he was done with the issue of deadly force—luckily, a punch in the nose didn't qualify—he went to Melia's office and tried to hand off the meth problem again.

"We've got a serious news leak, Vince."

Melia, who'd washed but still wore his dirty suit, raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "What now?" Whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it.

"More shit flowing in my general direction." He told Melia about the reporter's parting shot. "How the heck would something like that get out? No one in the lab would talk. I didn't talk. You didn't talk. Terry and Stan wouldn't."

"Told you to watch your back on this one."

"Meaning I shouldn't have brought the stuff in at all?"

"Meaning yes, someone's trying to screw with you. Meaning play it by the book. Keep someone with you. Have a witness to everything you do."

"Fuck it. We don't need this."

Melia gave him a smile filled with pity for the naive and simple. "We needed a murder? We needed this heat?"

"Vince, I can't work like this."

"You can work any way you need to, if it will help a case. Besides, I thought you were asking for my advice."

"I was."

"Look, I'll cover you as best I can, but the food chain's the food chain. It were me, I wouldn't just stand there and let some asshole stab me in the back. You're older, smarter, and more experienced. Use that." Melia stared at his window, which gave him a view of nothing. "I could sure use some results."

That hurt. "Hell, Vince. We busted a pornographer, a child molester."

"Maybe
a pornographer.
Maybe
a child molester.
Maybe
our killer. There's no sign the boy was killed in that house. Not even in the basement or the garage. We're still going over the car. As for busted, I don't see any one arrested."

Burgess was striking out on every at bat. Didn't need his nose rubbed in it. If the results so far were any test, he couldn't find his own ass without help. He felt as tattered and mean as a mangy old dog and just as ready to snap at whatever crossed his path. Vince was right. He was letting peripheral stuff distract him. He had to get out of here, somewhere he could think about the case without a desk load of administrative bull. He heaved himself to his feet.

"If outward appearances are a mirror of inner thought, you might as well hand Cote your resignation right now," Melia said. "Turn in your badge and gun, go home and play with Chris and forget about slaughtered kids."

"You trying to make me lose my temper?"

"Near as I can tell, your temper's neither lost nor found. It swarms around you like a big, dark cloud. I'm trying to make you lose your self-pity, get your attention focused on something besides your own sorry ass."

"Someone's trying to set me up here. You saying I shouldn't care?"

"I'm saying move carefully, but keep moving. I'm saying a dead kid's a big deal. I've got a city holding its breath. I've got the brass breathing down my neck. I've got reporters camping on my doorstep. And I haven't a goddamned thing to tell 'em."

"So
you
can focus on
your
ass, but I'm supposed to ignore mine?"

"That about sums it up." Vince pushed his chair back. "You know I've never given a damn about anyone but myself. Now get out of my office. Go find me something."

Downstairs, he found Rocky Jordan sitting at a conference table in a room off the crime lab, playing with a blackened computer. "Getting anything?"

"Remember when that question used to mean something pleasant?" Rocky said. "Give me time, I will."

"You get me a name and address on that license number?"

"It's on your desk."

He stuck his head into the lab, saw Dani patting a dirty, disheveled Devlin on the shoulder. "Don't worry," she said. "We'll handle it." She looked up and saw him. "Go away, Joe. We're busy. We've declared a moratorium on crime until next week."

"Got anything for me?" He folded his hands in front of him like a penitent and lowered his head. "Something. Anything. For the love of God. My fearless leader, Lt. Vincent Melia, is decompensating." Trying not to beg.

Devlin had turned away, so Dani took the question. "Rudy's finishing your pictures. Been in the darkroom so long he's turned fish-belly white, purely out of devotion to you. If you can't wait, there's video. Doesn't the bad guy always return to the scene of the crime?"

She shook her head, masking a smile with a latex-gloved hand. "You want something? How about an amphetamine-cooking or using, Dorito and Oreo-addicted, knifeaholic who lives in a house with purplish-gray carpet, uses coconut-scented shampoo, keeps a pet eagle and drinks Coke in bottles?"

"Just what I was looking for," he said. "Can't be too many of those in the city. I'll just organize a house-to-house. We should be done by Christmas." Then he realized what he'd heard. "Eagle?"

"Yeah." Wink said. "I took your advice. Gave a guy at the university that feather."

Burgess wished it could have been a more common bird. One people kept as pets. It must have showed on his face. "Look, Joe," Dani said. "We're sorry. We want this as much as you do. We haven't had much time. We can't be here, playing with our beakers and our spatulas and tweezers and our super glue, and out there crawling through yet another house. This isn't CSI, you know."

"And I'm not finished yet."

"We didn't think you were," Devlin said. "Now go away and leave us alone."

"What about the K-Mart bag?"

"When we can. Now get out."

"Your eagle feather," Dani said. "What about those dream catchers people have? Don't they use eagle feathers?"

He found the name and address Rocky had left on his desk, unsurprised to find it was Mother Watts estranged brother, Henry Devereaux.. He picked up Kyle and Delinsky's analysis of the house-to-house, Perry's reports on his list of perverts, and some individual reports. Perry and Delinsky were still out. He told Melia he and Kyle were going ten seven. "Anybody needs us, we're at my place."

"Do us all a favor," Melia said. "Get some sleep. Tell Stan to do the same. Everyone back here at 0700?"

He called Chris. "We're on our way but don't expect much. We're pretty ragged."

"I'll take what I can get," she said. "We'll take what we can get."

He couldn't believe her even temper could last. His own rotten mood would rub off. And she'd be furious and protective when she saw the stitches. Like his mother trying to keep him inside when he had a cold. It wasn't fair to make assumptions. She wasn't his mother. His sisters said what he knew about women wouldn't fill a thimble. But he was a cop. His life was making assumptions. He gave it up. So far, Kyle hadn't said a word.

"We're going to be great company," he said.

"What did they expect?"