He looked up. She thrust the picture toward his face.
“That’s you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, it might be.”
“This was taken the night he died.”
He shook his head.
'Adam?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Hill. I didn’t see Spencer that night.”
“Look again-”
“I have to go.”
“Adam, please-”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill.”
He ran away then. He ran back toward the brick edifice and around the back and out of sight.
9
CHIEF Investigator Loren Muse checked her watch. Meeting time.
“You got my goodies?” she asked.
Her assistant was a young woman named Chamique Johnson. Muse had met Chamique during a somewhat famous rape trial. After a rough start in the office, Chamique had made herself fairly indispensable.
“Right here,” Chamique said.
“This is big.”
“I know.”
Muse grabbed the envelope. “Everything in here?”
Chamique frowned. “Oh, no, you did not just ask me that.”
Muse apologized and headed across the hall to the office of the Essex County prosecutor-more specifically, the office of her boss, Paul Copeland.
The receptionist-someone new and Muse was terrible with names-greeted her with a smile. “They’re all waiting for you.”
“Who’s waiting for me?”
“Prosecutor Copeland.”
“You said, ‘they’re all.’ ”
“Pardon?”
“You said, ‘they’re all’ waiting for me. ‘They’re all’ suggests more than one. Probably more than two.”
The receptionist looked confused. “Oh, right. There must be four or five of them.”
“With Prosecutor Copeland?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “Other investigators, I think.”
Muse was not sure what to make of this. She had asked for a private meeting to discuss the politically sensitive situation with Frank Tremont. She had no idea why there would be other investigators in his office.
She heard the laughter even before she got into the room. There were indeed six of them, including her boss, Paul Copeland. All men. Frank Tremont was there. So were three more of her investigators. The last man looked vaguely familiar. He held a notebook and pen and there was a tape recorder on the table in front of him.
Cope-that’s what everyone called Paul Copeland-was behind his desk and laughing hard at something Tremont had just whispered to him.
Muse felt her cheeks burn.
“Hey, Muse,” he called out.
“Cope,” she said, nodding toward the others.
“Come in and close the door.”
She entered. She stood there and felt all eyes turn toward her. More cheek burn. She felt set up and tried to glare at Cope. He was having none of it. Cope just smiled like the handsome dope he could be. She tried to signal with her eyes that she wanted to talk to him alone first-that this felt a bit like an ambush-but again he would have none of it.
“Let’s get started, shall we?”
Loren Muse said, “Okay.”
“Wait, do you know everyone here?”
Cope had caused office ripples when he first took over as county prosecutor and stunned all by promoting Muse to be his county chief investigator. The job was usually given to a gruff old-timer, always male, who was supposed to show the political appointee through the system. Loren Muse was one of the youngest investigators in the department when he selected her. When asked by the media what criteria he had used to select a young female over more seasoned male veterans, he answered in one word: “Merit.”
Now here she was, in a room with four of those same passed-by old-timers.
“I don’t know this gentleman,” Muse said, nodding toward the man with the pad and pen.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cope put out his hand like a game show host and slapped on the TV-ready smile. “This is Tom Gaughan, a reporter for
Muse said nothing. Tremont’s hack of a brother-in-law. This was getting better and better.
“Mind if we start now?” he asked her.
“Suit yourself, Cope.”
“Good. Now Frank here has a complaint. Frank, go ahead, the floor is yours.”
Paul Copeland was closing in on forty years old. His wife had died of cancer right after the birth of their now-seven-year-old daughter, Cara. He had raised her alone. Until now anyway. There were no longer any pictures of Cara on his desk. There used to be. Muse remembered that when he first started, Cope had kept one on the bookshelf right behind his chair. Then one day, after they’d grilled a child molester, Cope had taken it down. She never asked him about it, but she figured that there had been a connection.
There was no picture of his fiancee either, but on Cope’s coatrack, Muse could see a tuxedo wrapped in plastic. The wedding was next Saturday. Muse would be there. She was, in fact, one of the bridesmaids.
Cope sat behind his desk, giving Tremont the floor. There were no other chairs available, so Muse was left standing. She felt exposed and pissed off. A subordinate was about to start in on her-and Cope, her supposed champion, was going to let it happen. She tried hard not to shout sexism at every turn, but if she’d been male, there would have been no way she’d have to take Tremont’s nonsense. She’d have the power to fire his ass, political and media repercussions notwithstanding.
She stood and seethed.
Frank Tremont hitched up his belt, even though he remained seated. “Look, no disrespect to Ms. Muse here-”
“Chief Investigator Muse,” Loren said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not Ms. Muse. I have a title. I’m chief investigator. Your boss.”
Tremont smiled. He slowly turned toward his fellow investigators and then toward his brother-in-law. His amused expression seemed to say,
“Kinda sensitive, aren’t you”-then switching into full-tilt sar- casm-“Chief Investigator Muse?”
Muse glanced at Cope. Cope stayed still. His face offered no solace. He simply said, “Sorry about the interruption, Frank, go on.”
Muse felt her hands tighten into fists.
“Right, anyway, I have twenty-eight years of law enforcement experience. I caught this hooker case down in the Fifth Ward. Now it’s one thing for her to show up uninvited. I don’t like it. It isn’t protocol. But okay, if Muse here wants to pretend she can be helpful, fine. But she starts giving orders. Starts taking over, undermining my authority in front of the uniforms.”
He spread his arms. “That ain’t right.”
Cope nodded. “You did indeed catch this case.”
“Right.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me about the case.”
“We don’t know much yet. Hooker found dead. Someone bashed in her face good. ME thinks she was beaten to death. No ID yet. We asked some of the other hookers, but no one knows who she is.”
“Do the other hookers not know her name,” Cope asked, “or they don’t know her at all?”
“They ain’t talking much, but you know how it is. No one sees nothing. We’ll work them.”
“Anything else?”
“We found a green bandana. It ain’t an exact match but it’s the colors of a new gang. I’m having some of the known members picked up. We’ll grill them, see if we
