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“Now, that’s all I’m at liberty to say.” Garland was all business now. “If you have any other questions, you’ll have to direct them to our legal department.”
Ah, the legal department. That pretty much said it all. “Okay,” I said, working to keep my voice even and somber. “Thanks.”
“Certainly.”
I hung up, clapped my hands and said, “Yes!” The conversation had been short and Garland never gave me anything. But I would have bet my next retainer check that Cooper had gone to Philadelphia to use the contents of his lock box to rat out the Kozmik embezzlers. And, with any luck, those papers could clear Brad and point to the culprits.
* * * * *
The next day, I had a lengthy conversation with the asshole attorney about the discovery dispute in the Divorce from Hell. In my experience, the term applied to all litigious divorces. I told him I wouldn’t withdraw my motion to compel until he’d provided better answers. He said he had nothing more. Stalemate, putting it squarely in the judge’s hands. The judge wouldn’t like having to spend time listening to us argue. Judges always prefer that attorneys work things out. And my client wouldn’t like it,
because he’d have to pay for my time. I was running through his money quicker than a shoe freak at a Manolo Blahnik store.
I left the office and picked up the photos of our suspect, then drove to CID to leave one with the homicide detective on the Sondra Jones murder. At the front desk I was referred to Detective James Willard. He wasn’t in. I remembered Willard from a case I’d handled as a public defender. He was the stoic, cynical type. Walt and I would have difficulty convincing him to shift his investigation from Brad—with a possible motive and the murder weapon— to someone doing business with Kozmik, who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I gave the desk sergeant my card with a note asking Willard to call me. As I turned to leave, I saw another familiar face—Detective Martin Derry, whom I’d dealt with on several occasions, not always happy. His navy suit enhanced his blue eyes. He stopped beside me.
“Do we have business?” he asked.
“No. I’m here about one of Detective Willard’s cases.” Despite the tension between us, I felt regret. He, on the other hand, looked relieved.
I’d last seen Derry several months before on a case in which he’d had to placate an FBI agent while investigating a homicide. Because it also involved identity theft, federal agents from an alphabet soup of agencies ended up crawling like flies all over the matter. Derry and I were hardly pals. Nonetheless, he ended up as the “good cop” to the FBI’s “bad.”
My problems with Derry began when I worked as a public defender. I’d won an acquittal for a man accused of killing his fiancée because the evidence against him had been mishandled. Sometimes I wondered if we would ever reach a truce. And even though it happened years ago, I knew that time doesn’t always heal wounds.
“Anything interesting?” he said, drawing me back to the present.
“The Sondra Jones murder.”
“Oh, yeah.” Derry’s chin dipped in a semi-nod. “The White Collar Killing. I thought Walt Shapiro was representing the perp.”
“Alleged perp,” I said. His jaw clenched. “The case has acquired a nickname, huh?”
“Let’s just say it’s not representative of our caseload.” He meant drug killings, domestic disputes, gang killings—most of them involving minorities.
“Well, you may have to change the name, if the evidence I have for Willard turns up any other leads.” I waved the tape before him. “The surveillance camera showed someone who did business with the suspect’s employer coming and leaving ten or fifteen minutes before our client arrived. This guy.” I held up the photo.
Derry did a double-take and squinted at the image. “Looks familiar. May I?” He took the photo and examined it.
“Do you watch old movies? He could’ve played a thug in a Forties gangster flick.”
One corner of Derry’s mouth upturned in a half smile. Shaking his head, he said, “Somewhere else.” He looked at me. “I can pass this along to Willard.”
I had hoped to deliver the photo to Willard myself. In the spirit of détente, I let him have it. “I’ll let you, on one condition. When you figure it out, you agree to tell me who it is and where you’ve seen him.”
His mouth pursed and his mustache curled over his bottom lip. “You know I can’t promise that. It’s not even my case.”
Trying not to appear desperate, I looked him in the eye. “Please.” Groveling to a cop. Jesus!
Sighing, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
On the way back to the office, I resolved to set up a time to see Tina. We were overdue for a talk about Rochelle’s gang and the kid who’d been at her house around the time of the murder. No doubt, she felt abandoned and scared in detention. I wanted to tell her I was doing everything I could to get her sprung, without raising her hopes.
On the phone, I was bounced around to various people, until being handed off to the superintendent.
“Ms. McRae, I understand you wish to visit your client, Tina Jackson?”
“That’s right.” Something was wrong. They wouldn’t route me to the woman in charge to arrange a simple visit. I remembered Tina’s description of girls with toothbrush shivs. Fear gripped me. “Is she all right?”
