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“I know, I know,” Rollins said. She took back her gizmo, said, “Here’s the thing, Lindsay. Blayney is a juvenile viper. He’s got a license to harass and nothing to lose. I don’t need to tell you how he can spin this story, poison any potential jury pool. He can make things hard for sources to come forward.”
“I’m not cooperating with him, Bec. I didn’t see him.”
“Gotcha. But be aware of him. Here’s what he looks like.”
She showed me the picture of a man in his twenties, dark hair, narrow eyes, a lot of teeth. He looked like a wolverine.
“He’s going to confront you, count on it. When he does, you’ve got to be wise and cool and act as if you’re approachable — but don??t tell him anything unless Brady says okay first.”
“Brady has talked to Blayney. Did you know that?”
“Yes. I knew. Let Brady do the talking for you on both of your cases. And here’s the other thing. Your friend Cindy.”
At the mention of Cindy’s name, my partner left the break room and came toward our desks. Bec Rollins leaned in and finished what she was saying.
“Cindy Thomas is an investigative reporter.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Inevitably she’s going to want an inside track on this story.”
“For God’s sake. Are we done?”
“Lindsay, please keep in mind that whatever the press writes is worldwide and forever. Oh, hi, Rich,” Bec said to Conklin. “I’ll call you,” she said to me.
Conklin sat down and said, “What’s this about? Don’t tell Cindy anything?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Cindy Thomas is an honest, dedicated, and talented writer, and she has helped me solve crimes. That’s how good she is. The kind of bureaucratic bull Bec Rollins had brought into the squad room like a lame pony is exactly why I’d eventually said “No, thanks” to the corner office.
I’d committed to being a career homicide detective. I had to be better than good. I had to be excellent.
Chapter 27
CONKLIN AND I sat in the observation room, our hands cupped around containers of cold coffee, as Lieutenant Lawrence Meile and Captain Jonah Penny, from Vice and Narcotics, respectively, interviewed each of the three Narcotics cops whose names we’d tagged four hours before.
It was uncomfortable, yeah, and painful to see men I’d known for years being grilled about their whereabouts at the time Chaz Smith had been shot. In fact, no one was happy in that interrogation room, not the men asking the questions and especially not Sergeant Roddy Jenkins.
Jenkins kept his voice even, but I thought he was a picture of contained fury as Meile asked him to produce an alibi for Chaz Smith’s time of death — and he didn’t have one.
“I was just driving around. That’s what I like to do when I’m off duty.”
Meile said, “Come on, Roddy. It was two days ago. Where were you in the afternoon?”
“I was screwing your wife, Meile. Ask her. It was pretty good.”
Meile boiled out of his chair and went for him. Penny pulled Meile off Jenkins, and Conklin got into the room in time to stop Jenkins from throwing a punch.
“Roddy. Roddy. Settle down.”
Jenkins acted like Conklin wasn’t there. He shouted at Meile, “I said I was driving around. What? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You accusing me of taking out that douche bag? I’m not saying another fuckin’ word until my fuckin’ lawyer is sitting next to me.”
Roddy’s name was still on the short list when he threw down his badge and gun and stormed out of the interview room shouting, “Fuck you. Fuck all a’ you.”
Conklin returned to the observation room, said, “That could’ve gone better.”
I said, “I don’t mind seeing his temper. He’s organized. He’s got a lot of years on the force. He’s smart enough to have waited in the bathroom for Smith, and if he was mad, I don’t doubt he would have pulled the trigger. And get two shots dead center too.”
