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“Then what’s the problem?”
“Had to take a shot.” Franco spread her hands. “We could use the airtime. The other matter I have to discuss with you is, potentially, a great deal more serious. It’s already come to the mayor’s ear that you questioned the Dukes this morning in the course of your investigation. A family who also lost their son recently, and who are protected by sealed files.”
“He didn’t waste any time. The information on the Dukes came into my hands. The connection to two of the victims, as well as Donald Dukes’s profession, led me to believe an informal interview was warranted. Are you going to try to tell me how to do my job now?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Franco threw up her hands. “Why do you insist on behaving as if we’re on opposite sides.”
“It feels that way.”
“Do you know what will happen if Donald Dukes goes to the media? If he talks about being harassed in his own home by the primary in this already hot-button situation? Their son was hooked on illegals by Cogburn—”
“There’s no evidence to support Cogburn was his first dealer.”
“It doesn’t matter if there’s evidence,” Franco fired back. “This is what would be said. Cogburn hooked an innocent, vulnerable twelve-year-old boy, from a good, solid, churchgoing family. The police failed to make a case. Later, this boy—now troubled, now recalcitrant due to his addiction, falls into the hands of a pedophile. Chadwick Fitzhugh beats and rapes young Devin, now a tender fourteen. The family is shattered, the boy is traumatized, and again the police fail to make a case.”
“That’s not the way it happened.”
“That’s the way it’ll be presented, reported, discussed should they go public. Truth, pieces of the truth, outright lies, it doesn’t matter once it’s on the air. A picture will be painted, then you’ll walk into it, questioning this damaged, grieving family who tried to do the right thing, who put their faith and their son’s welfare into the hands of the system only to be failed in the most horrible way. You attempt to implicate them in a homicide investigation. You accuse them of being members of a group you’ve publicly called terrorists. And you do this in their home. Don’t you see how this will play?”
“I’ll tell you how it plays, Franco. Donald Dukes couldn’t or wouldn’t accept his son’s sexual orientation—”
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Franco pressed her fingers to her temples, seemed to try to drill them through. “You start saying that child was gay, you’ll be in a lawsuit, and so will the department, probably the city before I can push you out of the nearest twenty-story window.”
“Not if I push you first. In any case, evidence indicates he was gay, or certainly confused about his own sexuality. He never got the chance to make up his mind. His father is rigid, domineering. The kind of guy who’s just not going to be wrong. He destroys evidence that may have helped make the case against Cogburn, but it’s the system’s fault. He edits and changes the facts in the Fitzhugh matter so the case falls apart, and again, it’s the system’s fault. Now he’s found an outlet for his aggressions and his viewpoint: Purity.”
“You have proof of all this?”
“Of some. I’ll get the rest.”
“Dallas, if I’m having a hard time believing any of this, no one else will believe it. In addition, you’re speaking of facts and suppositions that were in a sealed. An official and public reprimand from your commander may not be enough to stop legal action, or the media storm.”
“If and when my commander deems it necessary to reprimand me, that’s his right and that’s my problem. The media storm’s yours and Chang’s. Dukes can start all the legal actions he wants. They’re not going to go anywhere once I put him in a cage. Are we done here?”
“You’d better be very sure of yourself,” Franco warned.
“I’m sure of the job, and that’s the same thing.”
Eve walked out. As she started back downstairs, she heard the clear, strong voice of a tenor singing the opening bars of Danny Boy.
Cops were always singing Danny Boy at funerals, she thought. She’d never known just why.
“Lieutenant.” Roarke met her at the base of the stairs.
“I need some air” was all she said, and strode out the door.
Chapter 16
A double-parked delivery van had tied up traffic for what appeared to be a good six blocks. The resulting noise from blasting horns and hurled obscenities turned the air into on
e long scream of rage.
A glide-cart operator had overcooked and oversauced his kabobs. The stink of the greasy smoke was amazing.
Eve preferred the noise and stench to the murmurs and flowers inside.
She strode straight through the nauseating odor and dug out credits. “Gimme chocolate,” she ordered the operator.
“Got sticks. Many ya want?”
