A minute later his radio crackled. He debated for a minute, then answered, “Go ahead, Georgia.”
“Lieutenant Doyle? This is Agent Jones.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed silently, wishing to God he hadn’t picked up. She sounded even pissier than usual, hard though that was to believe. “What do you want, Jones?” he asked after a minute.
“I want to know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Doing just what I’m supposed to be doing, sitting here taking down plates.”
“Really. You realize the car you’re driving is equipped with a GPS tracking system, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
Doyle glared at the receiver. He’d forgotten the new squad cars came equipped with that. Goddamn technology. Guy couldn’t scratch his balls anymore without someone else knowing about it. “Yeah, so I’m taking a break. So what.”
“So you’re treading on very thin ice, Lieutenant. Based on our conversation yesterday, I expect you to follow my orders.”
He glared at the mouthpiece. Something about this woman made him want to spit nails. A decade ago, he’d walked out on the last female that had managed to piss him off this much; it had been a toss-up between divorcing her or murdering her. Just as he opened his mouth with a retort, his eyes widened. Speeding toward him at about twenty miles over the limit was a battered Toyota, light silver with a dark gray hood. He swiveled as it passed, a grin spreading across his face. Flaps of torn red plastic covered the right rear taillight. He barked into the receiver, “Gotta go,” before dropping it on the passenger seat, knocking the volume down so that he could barely hear the squawks of protest. Throwing the car in a tight U-turn, he flicked on his lights and sirens and gunned the engine, accelerating around the bend.
Jan tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear and smiled winningly into the camera. She nodded briskly to Mike, who gave her a thumbs-up: camera rolling. “This is Jan Waters, Channel 6 News, reporting.” She took a few steps to the side, gesturing to the house behind her with a sweeping gesture. “Through my sources I’ve discovered that at least two of the recently murdered boys were living here before they were brutally slain.” She paused. When they edited this segment she’d have Mike insert footage of the interior of the house while her voice-over chronicled the chaotic scene. She repressed a shudder. It was horrible inside, through the windows they’d even gotten an amazing close-up of mice nibbling at a moldy sandwich. Her boss would shit himself when he saw that—it was exactly the sort of horror show that kept people from changing channels.
“The owner of the house, Gino Brondello, was unavailable for comment. According to his next-door neighbor, earlier today he was taken into police custody. Local authorities refuse to confirm whether or not Mr. Brondello is a suspect in the recent string of murders.” Her voice was heavy with significance as she said this, and she slightly arched one eyebrow. Here they would splice in a sound bite from Brondello’s neighbor, an obese woman wearing a sweatshirt despite the heat, who’d gazed nervously at the camera as she said that she’d always thought there was something funny about him. Not only that, but her cat had gone missing last year, a few days after he had complained about it shitting in his yard. They’d have to work on that bit, cut out the “shitting” part, but it was a perfect quote, got the television audience wondering about the guy. Hell, these days it wouldn’t take much more than that to condemn a man.
“We spoke with residents on this block, who claim that for years this house has been occupied by groups of young men during the summertime.” They’d insert another piece here, an interview with a blue-haired woman in her seventies saying she’d complained to the police repeatedly about loud parties at the house. Showed that the cops had known about the problem, but had done nothing about it. Jan considered keeping the second part in, where the woman said she was shocked that anyone would have rented to “that element,” especially in a nice family neighborhood like this one, but decided against it. The prevailing winds had shifted, she could sense it. Folks were talking less now about how these boys were a blight on their community. The addition of fresh bodies to the death toll had suddenly shifted public opinion, casting the victims in a more sympathetic light. Before, folks could tell themselves, Well hey, they deserved it, living that lifestyle. But three dead boys in two weeks, not to mention the others found in the boneyard…at those numbers the collective guilt kicked in. Those damn boys became those poor boys, and that suited Jan just fine: made the human interest angle more compelling. She’d already spoken to her boss about expanding the piece into a series, tracking down a few boys who were still living on the streets, getting some of the heartrending back-stories on how they’d ended up there. Maybe she could even find one or two who’d become productive citizens. Hell, that was the kind of story that won Peabody Awards. And with one of those, she could write her ticket anywhere.
Jan assumed a serious expression as she concluded, “We have to wonder, were these boys being led like lambs to the slaughter? What were they compelled to do, in exchange for a roof over their heads? In the end, did it cost them their lives?”
She let that sink in, pausing before concluding brightly, “Once again, this is Jan Waters. We’ll have more on this story tomorrow.” She stood for another moment until Mike flashed the all-clear sign.
“What did you think?” she asked.
Mike shrugged. “Sounded good to me.”
Jan rolled her eyes. It was easy to see why Mike had never advanced in this field. “Let me look at it, then I might want to shoot that last segment again. I think maybe I should look more upset.”
“You’re the boss,” Mike said, turning away from her as he shuffled to the rear of the van.
Jan followed him, her face smugly confident. She was back on track, she could feel it. No other network had this story, and in a half hour it would be too late for them to catch up. She smiled as she pictured the expression on the face of that bitch from CNN when she found out she’d been scooped. Jan almost hugged herself. Boston, here I come, she thought as she climbed into the van.
Twenty-Seven
“What’s with him?” Monica asked, jerking her head toward Colin. He sat slumped in the corner of the command center, a cold mug of coffee clasped in both hands. She and Kelly were in the hall just outside, speaking quietly so he couldn’t hear them.
“The kid we just ID’d was his cousin,” Kelly said shortly.
“No shit? That’s a shame.” Monica knit her brows. “Kind of a funny coincidence, him getting assigned to this case.”
“Don’t get me started,” Kelly grumbled. “If he doesn’t pull it together soon, he’s off the team.”
“Yeah? That’s pretty harsh.” Monica sounded surprised.
“Colin chose to get involved with the investigation. If he can’t keep his personal feelings out of it, he’s got no business being here,” Kelly said forcefully.
Monica held up her hands defensively. “Jeesh, you’re right, I get it. It’s just that Doyle is basically AWOL, and if we lose Colin, too, it’s down to just the two of us. Not that that’s a problem, it’s just that there are kind of a lot of leads to track down.”
“Where are we with the owner of the house?” Kelly asked.
“I’ve got him in holding, but we don’t have anything to charge him with. And he hasn’t given me zilch on the guy he rented to, claims he never met him in person, never even saw him. The contact number for the tenant matched a disposable cell that’s already been disconnected. I’m waiting for the IRS to get back to me on Brondello’s tax returns. I’m guessing he never claimed the cash payments. Might be able to use that as leverage to help jog his memory. I’ve also included Brondello’s picture in a photo array. A uniform is driving it over to the place Jordan is staying. If he confirms that a different guy chased him off, we can call in a sketch artist.”
“Okay, let’s hold on to Brondello for as long as we can. I also need you to find out more about the latest victim we ID’d.”
“Colin’s cousin?”
Kelly nodded. “See if he shared the same house, or knew some of the same people as the other boys. Start with that bartender from Club Metro—Tony. He has a good handle on the scene.”
Monica took the file from her and flipped it open curiously. “Ricky Waters. Doesn’t look much like Colin. First cousin?”
Kelly nodded once, sharply.
“Twenty-one years old. Such a shame.” Monica glanced behind her toward the main open area of the station. A few detectives sat at their desks, muttering into phones or tapping away on laptops. “I’m actually kind of surprised that the homicide unit here hasn’t tried to force a few more Doyles on us, what with all the fresh bodies pouring in.”
“I’m guessing they’re keeping their heads down and hoping all this blows over,” Kelly said. “Which is fine by me since there’s no telling how many were involved in the cover-up.
It’s okay, if we need more manpower I can always have the Albany field office send in some agents.”
“But you don’t think we’re there yet?” Monica asked.
Kelly shook her head. “Nope. We’re still waiting for IDs on most of the bodies and, by and large, the summer crowd has headed south for the winter. I might have to go down to New York to interview them.” Which would neatly solve her current Jake problem, Kelly thought to herself, adding, “Chances are this case is going to drag on for months, and I can’t commit more Bureau resources unless I’ve got some solid leads.”
“Well, Howie’s pretty committed to this two-killer thing.” Monica said.
“Yeah? What makes him so sure?”
“He says we got a pro and an amateur on our hands. Something about the marks on the bodies, how they were tortured.” She shuddered slightly. “Honestly, the way he talked about it kind of gave me the creeps. Now I’m thinking this might not work out.”
“I could’ve warned you about that,” Kelly said, managing a small smile. “I dated a forensics guy once.”
“Yeah? An anthropologist like Howie?”
“Nope, blood spatter analyst. We went out for pasta one night and he used the marinara to demonstrate a case he was working on.” Kelly grinned. “Suffice it to say, I’m a cream sauce girl now.”
“Yeah, well…” Monica kept her voice light, but her eyes stayed focused on the table in front of her. “Serves me right for getting my hopes up.”
“Hey.” Kelly impulsively grabbed her hand, then faltered as she realized all she had to offer were platitudes.
Monica’s green eyes crinkled as she waited, then she broke into a grin. “Thank God. For a minute there I thought you were going to say there are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Who, me?” Kelly smiled back at her. “Please, like I’m one to talk.”
“You kidding?” Monica snorted. “I’d kill for a hunk of manmeat like Jake. And he’s nuts about you.”
Kelly examined the table, tracing a line across it with her thumbnail as she responded. “The question is, am I nuts about him?”
“Jesus, I wish I had your problems,” Monica said with a snort. “Maybe I can snare Sam Morgan. Didn’t you think it sounded like he and his wife might have split up?”
Kelly shook her head. “As long as there’s a ring on his finger, steer clear. Learned that one the hard way, too.”
“Did I miss something?”
They looked up to find Colin Peters standing in the doorway looking puzzled. His face was still drawn and white, but his jaw was set.
Kelly cleared her throat, embarrassed. “We were just discussing some of Dr. Stuart’s findings.”
“How you holding up, kiddo?” Monica asked with concern.
Colin shrugged. “I’ve been better. What’s next?”
“I’m not sure I can keep you on this case,” Kelly said cautiously.
A cloud crossed over his features. “Please don’t boot me, Agent Jones. I know I screwed up, but even if you just keep me here going through files, please let me help. I’ve gotta do something. If you send me back to New York, I’ll go nuts.”
Kelly debated, then nodded her head once, sharply. “All right. Anything yet on those field reports?”
He looked visibly relieved. “I’ve been sorting them by name. Seems to be the same few people popping up over and over. Nothing serious, mainly drug stuff.”
“Anyone associated with the victims?”
“Not so far, but I’ll keep looking.”
“All right. Separate them out by age and stats. We’re looking for men in their thirties and forties in good shape.”
“Will do. It’s a predominantly gay area, so a lot of guys match that description,” Colin acknowledged.
“Speaking of which, I tracked down the last of Danny’s sugar daddies, and it doesn’t look like there’s anything there,” Monica said. “Most claimed they hadn’t seen him in months, and their alibis are all pretty solid. Once I hear back from Jordan, I’ll see about finding a sketch artist.”
“The Bureau has sketch artists on call in most regions, let me know what turns up and I’ll call one in,” Kelly suggested.
“Great.” Monica examined her watch. “Almost quitting time. What do you think, should we call it a day, or keep going on this?”
Kelly pressed her lips together as they watched her expectantly. “I don’t have clearance to issue overtime—”
“Knock, knock!”
Sam Morgan stood there, eyeing them sheepishly. “Sorry to barge in like this, I’m looking for Lieutenant Doyle.”
Kelly exchanged a glance with Monica, who wiggled her eyebrows. She repressed a laugh as she said, “He’s out on the field. Something I can help you with?”
“I was just thinking maybe I should file a report on what we discussed earlier. Probably should be a record of it somewhere.”
“What did you discuss?” Kelly asked.
“Didn’t he mention it? Maybe it’s really nothing.” Sam looked puzzled.
“Why don’t you tell me about it, anyway,” Kelly said, leaning against the desk and crossing her arms.
Dwight gritted his teeth as he floored it. The cop had been behind him now for a few miles and was steadily gaining. “Piece of crap Tercel,” he spit out. He should’ve traded it in for a motocross bike. Cops would never catch him if he had one of those. He could just take off into the woods and leave the goddamn bastards in his dust. His eyes flicked from the road in front of him to the rearview mirror. Fucking cops with their fucking timing. He’d been on his way to the tennis club, figured he’d grab the wife as she was leaving. The Captain wasn’t letting the girls out of his sight but the wife, she was already off the reservation. Dwight was halfway there when the fucking lights appeared in his rearview mirror. He’d debated pulling over, but thought he could lose him if he made it across the border. He was going to take the Taconic Trail, which wound through Petersburgh Mountain and into New York. But another glance at the cruiser riding his ass told him there was no way. The cop was too close and Williamstown was coming up fast. Once he hit the traffic there he’d be fucked.