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He wasn’t old, but he’d seen a lot, and he wore it in the angle of his shoulders and the way he held his back straight. He nodded to Mason when he came in and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“He’s here?”
“He is, sir,” Mason said. “I gave him the
files. Full access. Just like you said.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Sir? About Anderson—”
“I’m not going to talk about that,” the chief said, stirring nondairy creamer into the black.
“He’s a good cop,” Mason said. “I’ve worked with him for six years now, and he’s the sharpest guy we have on this team. We lose him over this, and it means bad people walking.”
“I’m not talking about it, Mason. And neither are you. When the Internal Affairs review is finished up, we can—”
“It was a couple hundred dollars,” Mason said. “This department goes through more than that in free cappuccinos every week.”
The chief put his cup down, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. His expression was the empty calm that meant Mason had come close enough to see the line, but he hadn’t crossed it yet.
“I respect your concern for your partner,” the chief said. “I share your high opinion of Detective Anderson. Speaking as a professional law enforcement officer and as your superior, I’m telling you right now that we are going to toe the line on this. Whatever IA wants to know, you tell them. Whatever they want to see, you show.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Detective Anderson is exonerated of all wrongdoing, I don’t want anyone thinking it was on some kind of technicality, or that we pulled one over on IA.”
“No, sir.”
“And speaking as myself, don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”
Mason fought not to grin.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t need gratitude. I need a confession out of Sobinski.”
“All right, then.”
The chief took his coffee, nodded, and walked away.
Back at his desk, Mason glanced over at the expert, who was still frowning over the details of the dead girl, sighed to himself, and started filling out the death investigation reports for a homeless man who’d either walked off an apartment building or else been pushed. An hour later, Scarrey appeared at his shoulder, clearing his throat as an apology.
“Find what you need?” Mason asked.
“No, no. Only what I expected. I was hoping we might stop by the crime scene? Possibly Sobinski’s apartment?”
“Okay. But you understand that the crime scene’s not going to be like it was. After the forensics guys are done, we release it. Let people start using the place again. They usually get the cleanup guys in pretty fast.”
“What a world it would be otherwise,” Scarrey said, and then, seeing Mason’s blank look, “I was just thinking what it would be like if we froze a room every time someone died in it. We’d run out of places to eat and sleep. Store food. We’d have to find some way to clean the space. Start time moving again. But then, I suppose we do that when the forensics team leaves, don’t we? Try to take a room or alleyway or whatever out of the world while they go about their work, and when they make their mark, put it back in.”
“Sure,” Mason said. “I guess.”
“The power of ritual,” Scarrey said, pleased by the thought. “Well. Would you like to drive, or shall I?”
THE WAREHOUSE WHERE SARAH OSTERMAN HAD DIED WAS ONE OF HUNDREDS like it squatting in the rough triangle where the river and the railroad intersected. The morning sun pressed the shadows out of the concrete and steel. The only pedestrians were the homeless, and the traffic was all big-rig trucks and clunkers. Mason liked the district for its authenticity. That was about all it had to offer.
In the passenger seat, Scarrey hummed to himself and leaned out, peering at the addresses they passed. His thick, stubby fingers tapped on the seat beside him, almost but not quite keeping time with the humming. On the one hand, Mason could turn on the radio, try to drown the guy out. On the other, if he did, the guy might try to sing along.
