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“Fucking chief.” Jacobi sighed. “I always thought the guy would hold a news conference at his own funeral.”
“We still classifying this as a hate crime, Lieutenant?” Cappy sniffed.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I hate this bastard pretty bad.”
Chapter 47
JACOBI WAS RIGHT about one thing. The next morning, everything had changed. A feeding frenzy of every news organization in the country was massing on the outside steps of the Hall of Justice, setting up their camera crews, clawing for interviews. Anthony Tracchio was named acting chief. He had been the chief’s administrative right hand, but had never come up through the ranks. On the Chimera case, I was now reporting to him. “No leaks,” Tracchio brusquely warned. “No contact with the press. All interviews go through me.”
A joint task force was set up to handle Mercer’s homicide. It wasn’t until I got upstairs that I found out precisely what “joint” meant.
When I got back to my office, two tan-suited FBI agents were waiting in the outer room. A polished, preppy black man named Ruddy in an oxford shirt and yellow tie, who seemed to be in charge, and the typical hard-nosed field agent named Hull.
The first thing out of Ruddy’s mouth was how nice it was to be working with the inspector who had solved the bride and groom case. The second thing was a request for the Chimera files. All of them. Tasha. Davidson. Whatever we had on Mercer.
Ten seconds after they left, I was on the phone to my new boss. “Guess I know what you meant by ‘joint,’ ” I said.
“Crimes against public officials are a federal offense, Lieutenant. There’s not much I can do,” said Tracchio.
“Mercer said this was a city crime, Chief. He said city personnel ought to see it through.”
Tracchio sent my heart into a tailspin. “I’m sorry. Not anymore.”
Chapter 48
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I drove out to Ingle-side Heights to talk with Chief Mercer’s wife. I felt I needed to do it myself. A line of cars was already stretched along the street around the chief’s home. A relative answered the door and told me Mrs. Mercer was upstairs with family.
I stood around, checking out faces I recognized gathered in the living room. After a few minutes, Eunice Mercer came down the stairs. She was accompanied by a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman who turned out to be her sister. She recognized me and walked my way.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it,” I said, squeezing her hand first, then hugging her.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know you’ve just gone through this yourself.”
“I promise you, I know how tough this is. But I need to ask you a few questions,” I finally said to her.
She nodded, and her sister floated back among the guests. Eunice Mercer took me into a private den.
I asked her many of the same questions I had put forth to the relatives of other victims. Had anyone recently threatened her husband? Calls to the house? Anyone suspicious lately watching the house?
She shook her head no. “Earl said this was the only place where he actually felt like he lived in the city, not just ran the police force.”
I changed tack. “You ever come across the name Art Davidson before this week?”
Eunice Mercer’s face went blank. “You think Earl was killed by the same man who did these other horrible things?”
I took her hand. “I think these murders were all committed by the same man.”
She massaged her brow. “Lindsay, nothing
makes sense to me right now. Earl’s murder. That book.”
“Book…?” I asked.
“Yes. Earl always read car magazines. He had this dream, when he retired… this old GTO he kept in a cousin’s garage. He always said he was gonna tear it down and build it up from scratch. But that book he had stuffed in his jacket…”
“What book?” I was squinting at her hard.
“A young doctor at the hospital returned it to me, along with his wallet and keys. I never knew he had such an interest in that sort of thing. Those old myths…”
