“It was in with a bunch of other photos?”
“No, it was shoved into a box with a pair of shoes,” she says. “He was hiding it:”
I watch us fly past other cars, opting to withhold comment on the subject for the time being. I’m thinking to myself,
“Another stop I’ll need to make,” she says.
“What-Harland Bentley?”
“Yeah.” She looks over at me. “Why, you got a problem with that?”
“Well-no, I-have you called him?”
“I had someone check to see if he was in town. He’s at the office today. I’ll swing by.”
“Without calling him?”
She angles her head. “I like these guys better when they’re not expecting me. Before they lawyer-up and make things tougher. Our offender’s gonna move again fast, I think. We need to nip this thing right now. I don’t have time for fancy attorneys.” She nods. “Same thing with the professor. He’s not expecting us. His class ends at eleven and we’ll be waiting for him. Believe me, they’re better fresh.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say weakly.
“Am I supposed to care about what you know?”
“In this case, yes.” I look at her. “Because I’m Harland Bentley’s fancy lawyer.”
“Oh, you’ve gotta-” She puts a palm out, as in stop. “When did this happen?”
“About fifteen years ago. I represent all of his companies. It’s not exactly a secret.”
“Well, it’s news to me. Have you talked about this thing with him? This investigation?”
“You don’t expect me to answer that.”
She pulls the car sharply to the curb and stops abruptly. I half expect the air bag to deploy. She shifts in her seat and gets in my face. “Wait just a second. You’re advising Harland Bentley on this case?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes or no?”
“Harland Bentley has nothing to hide. Relax, Ricki. Don’t get hysterical.”
She works her jaw as she glares at me. I happen to know for a fact that women hate it when you accuse them of being hysterical.
“I don’t like you, Riley,” she says. “You get that?”
“I was beginning to get that impression.”
“You were, were you? You’ll be getting the impression of my handcuffs on your wrists if you think you can play both sides here.”
“Detective Stoletti,” I say calmly. “Put the car in gear and drive to the campus. It’s almost eleven. I’m going to help you find whoever did this, because I think I owe that much to Evelyn Pendry, and because this idiot is sending me letters. And because if you’re like any of the other cops who come from Major Crimes up there in the nice, safe suburbs, you couldn’t find a Catholic at the Vatican.”
She holds her tongue, the color pouring into her face, then shifts the Taurus back into gear. “If I find out you’re sabotaging this investigation, you’ll need a fancy lawyer of your own.” She guns the car and blows a red light. I grip the armrest and hang on.
26
McDERMOTT LOSES almost an hour in the lieutenant’s office with Commander Briggs, some of the top brass from the county attorney’s office, and the media relations guy for the department. A bunch of politicians readying for the downside and hoping for the upside. He spends less time giving them an update and more time helping them find the right way to say it in a press release that will have to be issued, at some point. These guys have invented hundreds of ways of saying absolutely nothing.
He finds Carolyn Pendry standing by his desk, pacing, on a cell phone. Her grief has morphed into steely resolve, which makes her somewhat easier to deal with. McDermott doesn’t like the soft stuff, dealing with the victims, but the only sign of her tears now is the smeared mascara. He doesn’t know to whom she’s talking, but he knows she’s not enjoying the conversation.
“I appreciate that,” she says. “Yes, I have your cell, too.”
He casts one eye on his desk, which has now been overtaken with material from the Fred Ciancio and Evelyn Pendry homicides. Inventories, preliminary autopsies, photos, trace evidence work-ups-or the lack thereof.
He doesn’t know if the offender is a copycat or not. All he can say with his gut is that whoever it is, he isn’t finished. Next up is a murder with a damn razor blade. That’s no kind of lead at all. But the fourth murder mentions a “Trim-Meter chain saw.” That’s the one. Not just a weapon but a particular model. He needs to track down the area retailers who sell that brand.
“I can absolutely
“My colleagues won’t leave me alone,” she tells him. “Everyone calls to send their condolences, but then it always winds around to wanting a comment. Everyone wants the inside story. I can’t take a breath without them standing there.” She reads the look on McDermott’s face. “And no, Detective, the irony is not lost on me.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“The reason I’m here.” She clears her throat with some difficulty. “Two weeks ago, I did a special on Terry Burgos. The anniversary of his execution. June fifth.”
“Okay.”
She angles her head, struggling. This woman’s job is composure and she’s learned well. “I said that he was insane.” She forces the words out. “That he shouldn’t have been convicted. He should have been locked up and treated, not executed.”
There’s a question or two in there, but it’s better to let this go.
“I think I unleashed someone.” She shakes her head slowly. “I said that anyone who would follow lyrics like this-and take them as the word of God-anyone who would do that must be insane. Regardless of how the state defines insanity.”
Okay. The point being, someone who had like-minded thoughts got upset at being called insane and decided to do something about it.
“Then why your daughter?” he asks.
“Because there’s no-” Her throat closes. She places a hand on her chest to suppress her emotions. She finishes with a whisper: “Because there’s no worse way to hurt me.” She turns her back to McDermott and weeps quietly.
“I understand the thought,” McDermott says gently. “But then we have Fred Ciancio, a guy who called you with ‘information’ back then, and then called Evelyn recently. And it looks like
