Bandoni was right that we’d probably need a warrant to get ColdShip’s recordings. But going through the North Platte police, district attorney, and a judge would take time. Why not try a little honey before applying the vinegar? Detectives did it all the time.
A receptionist answered at ColdShip Distributors in North Platte. I asked for the manager. While I waited, I listened to hits from the eighties and contemplated how forthcoming I should be in my approach. I heard Cohen’s voice in my head: Except for those times when we get to lie to the scum of the earth to help a case, be honest. Any conversation you have could end up in court.
The phone clicked. “This is Gene Vacek.”
Presumably Vacek wasn’t scum of the earth. I introduced myself and gave the manager an abbreviated version of the incident. I finished with a request for any video recordings that showed the reefer being loaded.
“A murder,” Vacek said. “Dear God.”
“Hard to imagine,” I agreed.
“I just—I don’t see how we could have left a door open. We have rules the employees are required to follow. There are safeguards. And now we have all that lost product . . .”
His voice trailed into silence, no doubt contemplating the cost per pound of frozen chicken.
“Maybe something went wrong at a different point and not at your facility,” I said. “I’d love to get ColdShip off my radar. Video recordings would go a long way toward making that possible.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know that we actually have cameras. That’s a security issue. I don’t manage those kinds of concerns.”
To my credit, I didn’t roll my eyes. “Who is your security guy?”
“That would be Martin Chase.”
I got a phone number for Chase, then thanked Vacek for his time. “I’ll be in touch.”
He cleared his throat. “Detective Parnell, I guess I have a question. What is it exactly you’re looking for? Are you wanting to question our workers?”
“Should I?”
A pause. “I can’t see why. It’s not like it’s one of ours you found on that train. So why do you want the recordings? Is it about the door?”
“I’m looking for trespassers, Mr. Vacek. I would imagine that might be important to us both.”
I hung up and dialed Martin Chase. Straight to voice mail. Was Vacek already on the phone with his security man? Bandoni had said that it might be better to play it by the book. Uneasily, I left a message asking Chase to call me at his earliest convenience.
I typed up a request for North Platte PD to issue a search warrant and forwarded it to Bandoni. The request would have more weight coming from him. I had moved on to researching Lady of Guadalupe necklaces on the internet when Clyde bounded to his feet, tail wagging. I looked up. Clyde’s favorite man, Detective Michael Cohen, was weaving his way toward us through the desks.
I smiled and stood as Cohen approached. If I had a tail, no doubt it would be wagging. Cohen was my favorite man, too.
“You slumming?” I said as he came within earshot.
The skin crinkled around his eyes as he offered his own smile. “Never seen the place so empty. You scare everyone away?”
“The rumor of my near arrival was sufficient, apparently.”
A foot away, Cohen stopped as if he’d walked into a wall. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“That smell.”
“Clyde’s favorite. Odeur de poulet.” I waggled my eyebrows. “You like it?”
“Now I know why everyone’s gone.” He backed up a step. “Why don’t we take it outside?”
“Pie at Tom’s?”
“Anything. As long as it’s not chicken.”
The three of us cut across North Washington and made our way to Colfax Avenue and Tom’s Diner. Tom’s was a local landmark, a 1970s-style diner with decent food and a waitstaff that made sure you never saw the bottom of your coffee cup. Midafternoon, the place was empty. We settled in our favorite booth near the windows and ordered apple pie à la mode and coffee. The stink from my clothes—while not defeated—was mitigated by the odors of grease and fried foods.
Clyde stretched out beneath the table and fell asleep on our feet.
“Heard you and Bandoni caught a case,” Cohen said when we were halfway through our respective slices and had come up for air.
I nodded. “Guess I’m now officially a homicide dick.”
“What I actually heard was that you hunted it down, shot it, and dragged it back.”
“Bandoni?”
“Gabel. I stopped at the lab to talk to him about one of my cases.”
“So, what? I’m not supposed to follow up on things? I was right.”
“You were right,” Cohen said mildly.
I hated when I got defensive. This job was going to involve a constant struggle to separate my lack of confidence from simple inexperience.
“Tell that to your old partner,” I said. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
A smile. “Why would he suddenly start doing that?”
Cohen had transferred into sex crimes at the encouragement of Division Chief Trujillo, who was head of all investigations including Major Crimes, the Forensics and Evidence Division, Special Operations, and Investigative Support. Trujillo wanted Cohen to get a broad base of experience—no doubt grooming him for a future high-level position. If it came to that, Cohen wasn’t sure what he’d do. He was a street cop at heart. A man of the people who believed in the mission: serve and protect. But for now, he was ready for a change. My move to the department gave him all the push he needed.
Friendship between detectives was encouraged. Sex, not so much.
For my part, I was glad that sex with me trumped looking at dead people.
I put aside my annoyance with Bandoni and smiled at my man. He looked good with his close-cropped hair and well-fitted suit, the lean angles of his face accented in the afternoon sun. Today he also looked rakish—a scruff of beard told me he’d probably left the house in a hurry, and not long after I did.
“Tell me about your
