“Okay, Mr. Garrison, could you please take a shot of these indentations in the dirt?” He pointed to the ground again. He was tall, over six feet, and lanky but athletic-looking. The sarcasm and his eyes told Ben he’d better not push it. Fucking feebie. Ben glanced at the guy’s windbreaker and wondered where his gun was hidden. He bet the asshole wouldn’t be such a macho prick without his government-issued Glock.
“No problem,” Ben finally said. He checked out the area where the agent pointed. Immediately he saw two, maybe three small circular indentations in the ground. They were about five to six inches apart.
“What is it?” Racine joined them, looking over Ben’s shoulder just as he felt the first raindrops on the back of his neck.
“Not sure,” the agent told her. “Something was set down here. Or maybe it’s some sort of signature.”
“Jesus, Tully, you’re always thinking serial killers, aren’t you? Maybe the killer set down a suitcase or something.”
“With little circular feet?” Ben laughed and snapped a couple of more shots.
“Everyone’s a goddamn expert.” Racine was getting pissed.
Ben smiled, his bent back to her and his face to the ground. He liked when Racine got pissed, and he imagined her mouth making that sexy little pout.
“That should be enough photos, Garrison. Now, play nice and hand over the film.”
When he glanced up at her, she was holding out her hand.
“I didn’t get very many angles of the body,” he protested. “And I have a few more exposures left.”
“I’m sure we have enough. Besides, the medical examiner’s here.” She waved to the small, pudgy man in the houndstooth jacket and wool cap making his way up the overgrown incline. The guy took small, careful steps, watching his feet the entire time. He reminded Ben of some cartoon character with a little black bag.
“Come on, Garrison.” Her hands had moved to her hips while she waited. Maybe she thought it made her look authoritive. Racine had boyish, straight hips, probably even wore men’s trousers with those long legs. What she lacked in hips, she made up for in tits. He stared at them now as she waited. Something about those soft tits next to that holstered metal gave him a hard-on every time. He wondered if she knew and liked it, because she didn’t budge to close her jacket. Instead, she stood there, same stance, pretending to get impatient but not denying him access.
“Garrison, I don’t have all fucking day.”
Reluctantly, he tapped the release button and rewound the film, snapped the camera open and handed her the roll. “No problem. Not like I don’t have better places to be.”
She stuffed the film into her pocket, then buttoned the jacket as if to tell him the show was over now that she had what she wanted.
“So you owe me one, Racine. How about dinner?”
“In your dreams, Garrison. Just send me a bill.” She turned to meet the medical examiner, dismissing Ben as though he were one of her lackeys.
Ben scratched his bristled jaw, feeling like he had been sucker punched. The ungrateful cunt. One of these days she wouldn’t get away with jacking men around. Actually, Ben had heard rumors that she did the same thing to women. Yeah, he could see Racine doing both, maybe even at the same time. The thought threatened to give him another hard-on. He felt the feebie staring at him. It was time to get the hell out of here. After all, he had gotten what he wanted.
He started down the path, knowing without looking where to step so he wouldn’t slip. Before he turned around the granite boulders, he glanced over his shoulder. Racine and the rest of them were already occupied with the medical examiner. Ben stuffed his hand deep into his pocket, found the smooth cylinder. Then he smiled as he squeezed the roll of film into the palm of his hand. Poor Racine. It had never occurred to her that he may have taken more than one roll.
CHAPTER 22
Maggie felt an immediate sense of relief. How awful was that? She preferred examining a dead body to having breakfast with her mother. Surely, that had to be a mortal sin for which she’d burn in hell. Or perhaps she’d be struck by lightning-maybe by one of the thickening gray thunderheads gathering now.
She flashed her badge to the first uniformed officer blocking the sidewalk next to the information center. He nodded, and she ducked under the crime scene tape. It was her first visit to the monument, though it had been finished and dedicated in 1997. She guessed she wasn’t much different from other District suburbanites. Who had time to tour monuments except on vacation? And even if she took vacations, she certainly wouldn’t choose to stay in the District.
Unlike the other presidential monuments, the FDR Memorial included trees, waterfalls, grassy berms, alcoves and gardens, all spread out over a long, expansive area rather than grouped in one imposing structure. As Maggie walked through the galleries or rooms, she paid little attention to the sculptures and bronzes. Instead her attention went to the granite walls, the ledges above and behind. She noticed plenty of trees and bushes. From down here, the area looked like a private haven for murder. Had the designers not given that a thought or had she simply become cynical after years of trying to think like a killer?
Maggie stopped at the bigger-than-life bronze of the seated Roosevelt with a little bronze dog next to him. She checked the position of the spotlights around it and wondered how far up they would shine. If the sky continued to darken, perhaps she’d soon get her answer. However, the granite walls had to be ten to fifteen feet tall. She doubted the lights illuminated any of the trees and bushes above and behind. From where she stood, craning her neck, she wondered if it was possible to even notice someone in those woods? She could faintly hear the commotion of detectives over the rushing sound of the waterfall. The voices came from above and farther in the bushes, but she couldn’t see them. Not a single motion.
“The little dog’s name is Fala.”
She startled and turned to find a man with a camera hanging from his neck.
“Excuse me?”
“Most people don’t know that. The dog. It was Roosevelt’s favorite.”
“The monument’s closed this morning,” she told him, and immediately saw his expression change to anger.
“I’m not some fucking tourist. I’m here taking crime scene shots. Just ask Racine.”
“Okay, my mistake.” But his quick temper drew her attention, and she found herself assessing his bristled jaw and tousled dark hair, the worn knees of his blue jeans and the toe-tips of shiny, expensive cowboy boots. He could easily pass for a tourist or an aging college student.
“See, I could make a snap judgment, too, and wonder what a babe like you was doing here. I thought Racine liked being the only babe on the scene.” He returned her assessment by letting his eyes slowly run the length of her.
“New police procedure. We like to have at least one backup.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the backup babe.”
He smiled, more of a smirk than a smile, and his eyes traveled the same path.
“Sorta like cameramen,” she continued. “Every police station needs a backup. You know, a second stringer, some lackey they call when they’re in a pinch and the real cameraman can’t make it.”
His eyes shot up to hers, and she could see the flash of anger return. This guy was as much a crime scene photographer as she was a police babe. What the hell was Racine thinking? Or perhaps that was the problem. Racine hadn’t been thinking, as usual.
“I’m tired of this fucking treatment,” he said, with his hands swiping the air as if to show her what he had endured. “I do you assholes a favor and what do I get? I don’t fucking need this shit. I’m outta here.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned on the heels of his polished boots and left with enough of a strut that Maggie knew he had gotten something for his early morning trouble. Just what, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps some promise from Racine, some token quid pro quo. The woman had it down to an art form. Maggie remembered the last time she and Racine had worked a case, not that long ago. It was still too fresh in her memory bank to
