were trying to protect me or something stupid like that, because I’m not going to do the citizens of Kingsford County a hell of a lot of good as a deputy if my commanding officer won’t let me out on the street for fear I’ll stub my toe.’
‘We’ll get him with the list!’ Halloran snapped, his face reddening.
The rising voices had attracted McLaren’s attention. He was leaning forward at his desk in the back, a half- smile on his face, phone pressed to his chest so the tedious business of some homicide call didn’t interfere with his enjoyment of the fireworks in his own front yard. He waggled red brows at Maggozi.
Gloria seemed to be having a good time, too. She was rocking back on her platform heels, beaming at Sharon like a well-loved child, and even though she would never have said, ‘You go, girl’ out loud, because that was what people expected a black woman to say, the expression was written all over her face.
Magozzi, on the other hand, was decidedly uncomfortable. Cop-cop confrontations were not good; man- woman confrontations were flat-out terrifying, and this one was both. He decided to take charge of the situation and end this right now. ‘Okay, listen, you two . . .’
Sharon spun her head and looked at him.
Or maybe he should just let them work this out for themselves.
‘Listen, Mike.’ Sharon turned her attention back to Halloran. ‘Even if we get a name off those lists, that doesn’t mean we’ve got the shooter. He could have changed his name a dozen times since then, and it could take days to trace from then to now, especially if it’s one of the Monkeewrench owners. We are light-years behind those people when it comes to altering computer records. But if I could spend just a little time with them, ask the right questions, maybe I could see something in one of them, or jog loose a memory about somebody they knew in Georgia.’
Sheriff Halloran was trying to scowl at her, but Magozzi thought he just looked helpless. Poor guy. Apparently Sharon took pity on him, too, because her voice softened.
‘It’s what I do, Mike. And I’m good at it. You know I am.’
Halloran was remembering what he’d told Danny Peltier on the way out to the Kleinfeldts’: that Sharon was the best interrogator he had. There seemed to be a strange sort of synchronicity at work here; things coming together in a way that was tying his stomach into knots.
Suddenly there was the startling sound of complete silence, and Magozzi realized the fax machine had stopped. ‘Tell me it didn’t die,’ he begged Gloria.
She pulled out the stack of papers in the tray and looked at the number on the last one. ‘Nope. This is the whole lollapalooza.’ She added the papers to a stack on the table just as Gino and Bonar entered the office carrying coffee-making paraphernalia. A line of women trailed behind, looking around with eyes as wide as those of the grade-schoolers who tramped through on occasional field trips.
‘Well, Mike?’ Sharon asked quickly, wanting this settled before the confusion of new arrivals gave him an excuse to postpone his decision.
‘I’ll go with you.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘It doesn’t work that way. I’m not going to get any information out of anybody with you hovering. You’re too intimidating.’
‘
‘I’ll wear a vest. I’ll take a shoulder unit and leave it on. You can listen to every word.’
Halloran looked down and saw Sharon the cop, in the shapeless brown uniform with the cuffs and the Mace and the big gun she could shoot faster and better than anyone on the force. But in his mind’s eye he saw Sharon in the red dress, looking small and hopeful with colored water on her lips. ‘I’m going with you,’ he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest again, he added, ‘But I’ll wait outside.’
After Sharon and Halloran left for the Monkeewrench warehouse, Magozzi looked around at his new work- force and immediately regretted letting them go. Gino and Bonar had brought fifteen women up from data entry downstairs, and now they were clustered together in a whispering, tittering pack, uncertain and nervous in this strange environment.
Their demeanor changed when Gino started to explain what they needed done, and even before he finished the women were dragging chairs around the table near the fax, dividing the pages of the registration list, organizing themselves like an army of ants with a single purpose.
Gino, always smart enough to know when he’d become superfluous, stepped over to talk to Magozzi. ‘This is going to work.’
‘Looks like it.’ Magozzi watched one of the women fussing over Bonar, putting him in a chair, handing him a sheaf of pages, setting a mug of steaming coffee at his right hand. Bonar took a sip, feigned an ecstatic swoon, and got a pat on his head for his trouble.
‘I stopped and talked to Tommy. He’s running a couple of searches through the FBI file, looking for the geeks’ real names so maybe we could check them through the list first. He found MacBride right off the bat, since she was the focus. No way we can figure the rest of them. There’s a ton of witness and friend interviews, but no physical characteristics, just names.’
Magozzi slid his eyes sideways to look at him, tried not to ask, but finally he couldn’t stand it. ‘All right, damnit, what’s her real name?’
Gino handed him a small folded piece of paper.
Magozzi opened it, looked at it, and frowned. ‘No way.’
‘I kid you not. Jane Doe. Tommy checked it all the way back to her birth certificate. That’s her real name, all right. Just about the saddest thing I ever heard.’
Magozzi took a deep breath, then shook his head and handed the paper back to Gino. ‘Have them check it through first. I’ve got to call Monkeewrench and tell them Sharon’s on her way.’
Gino nodded. ‘Call dispatch while you’re at it so they can give Becker a heads up, or he’ll probably shoot her before she gets to the door.’
43
Roadrunner was at his desk in the loft, eating a Twinkie, of all things, and there was no clearer indication that he was having a bad day. Not only had he overslept for the first time in fifteen years, but when he had finally regained consciousness, it had been with a splitting headache and a stomach so sour he couldn’t even contemplate coffee. He blamed the champagne and swore off the stuff for the rest of his life.
Even Annie, usually the last to arrive at the office, had beaten him in that morning. Now she was swishing over in a brown satin ensemble that was covered from top to bottom with tiers of velvet, leaf-shaped cutouts in autumn colors. She was carrying a mug of coffee and a white bakery bag. She set the coffee down in front of him. ‘Here you go, Sleeping Beauty.’ She eyed his yellow sponge breakfast suspiciously. ‘I thought you said Hostess was the devil’s workshop.’
Roadrunner looked guiltily at the Twinkie and set it down. ‘They are, but I was hungry. The Food and Fuel is a little weak on the food part and I didn’t have time for anything else.’ He eyed her outfit. ‘You look like a tree.’
‘Honesty will never get you a date, pal.’ She dug in the bag and slapped a cherry turnover down on his desk. ‘If you’re going to poison yourself with sugar and fat, at least do it without the preservatives. The Russians used Twinkies to preserve Lenin, did you know that?’
Roadrunner gave her a crooked smile and took the turnover. ‘Thanks, Annie. You look like a
‘Uh-uh. Too little, too late.’
‘Where is everybody?’
‘Harley walked down to Liquor World to get a little hair of the dog. Grace went with him.’
‘How is she?’
Annie clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Okay, I guess, considering. But she doesn’t want to leave.’
Roadrunner looked alarmed. ‘But we
‘
‘Oh, man, Annie, he was in her backyard. There isn’t any doubt now, is there? This is the guy – he’s back. And he’s close. Jesus, she can’t stay here.’
