Macy: So they themselves keep telling us. Convenient how that works, isn’t it?
Reporter: That’s...something to think about.
Five minutes at HQ, and Jamey had somehow gotten roped into dealing with Cedrick Stone’s lawyer.
“Mr. Stone is saddened by this tragedy,” said the lawyer on the other end of the phone. “He’s distraught at the whole situation. He’s mourning a dear friend and a valued colleague today.”
Jamey leaned back in her chair at her desk at headquarters, phone balanced in the crook of her neck, and twirled a freshly sharpened pencil in her free hand. “Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Stone will prepare a statement,” the lawyer continued. “He will stay strong for the community. He will be a beacon of hope for those in grief.”
On the other side of the bullpen, officers Stensby and Kosler were whispering about Hathaway’s anti-empathy bill. Jamey spun the pencil again, eyeing theJob Safety and Health Lawposter tacked to the bulletin board. “Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Stone is not going to comment on these deaths,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Stone is not going to share anything with the police unless you have a warrant.”
“You think someone will take up the bill in Hathaway’s place?”Kosler muttered.
“Of course,”Stensby said under his breath,“she’s basically a martyr for the anti-empathy cause now.”
“Mr. Stone—”
Jamey threw the pencil like a dart into the center of the “o” inJob. “Mr. Stone should know we found three bodies on his yacht. One of them was the senator, one went by the street name the Torturer, and the third still had a shrimp fork between his eyes.”
There was a small intake of breath on the other end of the phone.
“I don’t care who Stone thinks he is,” said Jamey. “I’ll get my warrants. I’m giving your client a small window to do the right thing.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Let me call you back,” the lawyer said.
“You have fifteen minutes.” Jamey hung up just as Taylor walked up to her desk.
“Bad news,” he said. “Those samples you wanted, for the mud on the Ford Transit’s tires. They’re lost.”
“Lost?”
Taylor spread his hands. “Apparently? Lab refused to give details—they just said we’re not getting test results for this case.Anytest results.”
No results. That meant the dirt and the bloodwork she’d asked for—gone.
“For what it’s worth, I did get this.” Taylor handed over an excellent fake driver’s license with Reece’s picture and the name Connor Kendrick.
She tightened her hand around the license. “I owe you.”
He shook his head. “I got to do the famous Detective St. James a favor,” he said, clapping her shoulder with a grin. “I’m the envy of half the force right now.”
She slipped the fake license into her pocket. Now all she needed was Reece, who should have been at the station at least twenty minutes ago.
She was about to call Reece, obnoxious auto-responses be damned, when Lieutenant Parson crossed the bullpen, heading her way. She got to her feet. “Lieutenant,” she started to say.
He jerked his head. “With me.” She followed him down the short hall into his modest office across from Liam’s. He sank into his chair behind the desk. “Get the door?”
She shut it behind her but remained standing.
He looked at her from under bushy gray eyebrows. “You’re working on the Hathaway case.”
“We need to find that red car,” said Jamey. “The driver could be another witness, or in danger—”
Parson cut her off. “The search is off. We have to stand down.”
