“About ten last night.” Roscoe’s jaw muscles clenched. “At that point, I still thought we were all on the same team.”
Roscoe studied Kim for a few moments over the top of her glasses. Silence filled the space until she shrugged and returned to her paper shuffling. “OK, see Brent on your way out for an appointment. Maybe we can discuss ancient Reacher history sometime in the next couple of decades. Or not.”
Roscoe continued searching for a few more seconds, but she failed to find what she was looking for. She dropped the two manila folders onto the desk top, left the rosewood office and headed down the hall.
Kim turned to Gaspar, still slouched in his chair. “Any chance you could help me out here?”
“You were doing a good job without any help from me,” he replied. “Tell me when you figure out what you want me to do, Boss Lady.”
She reached over and grabbed the two folders off Roscoe’s desk. “These are personnel files. One for Harry Black and one for Sylvia.”
“Anything about either Jack or Joe Reacher? Common dates? Prior military service? Employed at Treasury?” Gaspar moved nothing but his lips.
“Not that I can see.” Kim scanned the contents of both files without rushing. The headshots were recognizable, but Sylvia’s photo reflected a rather plain female by comparison to the sophisticated woman Kim had observed yesterday at the crime scene.
Roscoe returned with new papers, and her old attitude. “So you’re not interested in Sylvia Black, huh?”
Kim said, “You made it pretty clear that you won’t help us until we help you with her. So it seems I’ve got two choices. Either I arrest you for impeding a Federal investigation, or I get your problem fixed so we can move on to Reacher. Let’s try the easy way first. What were you looking for in these personnel files?”
“Sylvia’s fingerprint records.” Roscoe resumed her position behind the desk. She replaced the reading glasses on the end of her nose and turned her attention to the new documents she’d collected.
Kim passed through the file contents again. Every employee in any law enforcement capacity is fingerprinted. Lots of reasons. Standard practice, even before 9/11. Once in the system, prints are maintained forever. No exceptions. An existing fingerprint card and report were too distinctive to overlook.
“No prints in here.”
“Exactly,” Roscoe said, searching through the new pages she’d collected. She pointed to the personnel file with her chin. “Full work up before we hired her; no prints now.” Her tone had lost its edge.
Gaspar sat almost upright in the chair and stretched out an open palm. “Can I take a look?”
Kim ripped the first page of Sylvia’s file off its staple and handed both folders to him. She scanned the familiar checklist; she’d seen hundreds exactly like it. Everything that should have been completed was marked as done. “What was her job here, again? Dispatcher?”
Roscoe said, “Her title was Administrative Aide.”
“Which means what?” Kim asked.
“She filled in where we needed her. Dispatch, scheduling, reports and databases, payroll, supplies.” Roscoe stopped to think over Sylvia’s duty list. “No public safety work. But we only have a ten member team, including me and the Aide, so everybody pretty much does whatever needs doing.”
“Unfettered access to records?” Kim asked.
“Yes, she could access personnel files, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So she could have taken the prints out of the file herself at some point after she was hired. She probably did.”
“Why would she?”
“I have no idea.” Kim brought the coffee cup to her lips with both hands and blew on the surface before she sipped. Really great coffee in this town. Was it something in the water? Maybe the brewing method? Steamed coffee was her favorite. A small stovetop Italian espresso maker. Freshly ground beans. Heaven.
Gaspar asked, “Was Sylvia issued a gun? Fingerprints would be required. The ATF would still have them.”
“No. Not armed on duty.”
“Allowed to carry?”
“She might have a concealed weapon permit. We can check. Hard to find a Margrave resident without one. Lotta snakes around here, both the two-legged and the four-legged kind.”
“OK,” Gaspar said. “That’s one possible source of old prints. Probably others. Is everything else that should be in the file actually here?”
“Seems to be.” Roscoe nodded, preoccupied with the papers in her hand. If she thumbed through them too many more times, she’d rub the ink off the pages.
The clock showed 10:57 a.m. Maybe GHP would never call. Maybe the boss was wrong. He’s not God, as Gaspar kept reminding her. But Kim’s gut, what she’d come to recognize as her second brain, disagreed.
“What’s involved in the background check?” Gaspar asked.
“Standard Homeland Security forms,” Roscoe replied.
Kim was thoroughly familiar with those forms and the procedures they required. Smart choice. Presented several possible fingerprint record opportunities. Roscoe was a small town top cop, but she was a good one. Kim would have enjoyed collaborating with a cooperative Roscoe under different circumstances. Maybe one day, they would actually be on the same team. Assuming Roscoe wasn’t the dirty cop Gaspar believed her to be.
To confirm, Kim said, “So pre-hire, you checked criminal records, gun licenses, credit report, education and employment, drug tests, lie detector, physical exam, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Gaspar said, “And all of that’s still here, for both Harry and Sylvia. Sylvia’s fingerprints and print report are the only things missing. No medical records?”
“Relevant medical records would be there if we had any,” Roscoe replied.
Gaspar said, “Maybe we can get those from the insurance company?”
“We’re self insured. She didn’t get any medical care through us. I’d have known about it. I file an annual report,” Roscoe said, inattentive.
Gaspar looked at Roscoe until she met his gaze. He raised one eyebrow; she grasped the point quickly. A woman Sylvia’s age should have had at least some medical care in the five year period. Sylvia herself looked well cared for and Gaspar lived in a house full of females, so he knew. Records existed. For sure.
The phone screamed silence. Twenty-six minutes. 11:01 a.m. What the hell were those guys doing out there, anyway? Kim’s stomach snake thrashed around, fully alert. She gulped coffee to calm and distract, but coffee wasn’t working any longer. She asked, “How about tax returns?”
She loved tax returns. She requested them on every case. Tax returns contained a gold mine of information if you knew how to read them. Predictable, comforting, recognizable digits securely held in proper boxes. Much better than dealing with people. Figures lie and liars figure, she knew. But Kim understood lies and liars; she liked numbers better.
Roscoe, it seemed, did not.
“No.” She dropped papers on the desk. A few fluttered to the carpet. “No tax returns. No DNA. No cavity searches. No video of her mother giving birth. No goddamned place to look besides those two folders. No old fingerprints. Got it?”
Kim held both hands palm out in mock surrender. Roscoe bent down to collect the documents she’d dropped on the floor.
Gaspar asked, “How about tax returns for Harry after they married? If they filed jointly, that would be a start.”
Roscoe straightened up. Without a glance, she stalked out and slammed the door behind her. But she didn’t do anything worse.
“That went well, don’t you think, Mrs. Lincoln?” he said lightly.
“Just great.”
Gaspar stood, stretched, walked around the room as if he was mulling things over. Might have fooled someone else, but Kim recognized his pain relief routine. He said, “Don’t worry, Sunshine. She’s got to come back eventually. It’s her office.”
