“Maybe I would’ve assumed that,” I said glancing at Quille. “If the entire precinct hadn’t been drug tested three months ago.”
All eyes turned to Quille.
Quille scowled at me. “You’re too damn observant, Kid.” He pulled out a chair and threw himself into it. “This doesn’t leave this room, but a few months back, a small amount of Oxi went missing from evidence. We assumed it was taken for recreational purposes. We ran a drug screening, but other than two cops who tested positive for marijuana, we never found anything linking back to the Oxi. We shuffled the staff assigned to the evidence vault, but that’s about all we could do.”
My hands fisted and thumped the table. “Son-of-a—” I glared over at Quille. “If Internal Affairs spent less energy investigating people like me, maybe, just maybe, they’d have solved the case—before two more people died!”
Ford chuckled. “I think a cop turned hitman is a little out of I.A.’s wheelhouse. Hell, I’m not sure I can get behind this theory, and I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit.”
Chambers looked to Ford. “But if this is a cop, he might’ve lost access when he was reassigned duties. That would explain why he had the truck stop manager supply the drugs for the last hit.”
“But it might not have been one of the cops assigned to evidence,” Quille said. “The Oxi could’ve been lifted at any point when the evidence was signed out. Or someone could’ve grabbed it while they were pulling another box. We never found proof against anyone.”
“We need to inventory the evidence room,” I said, handing the evidence logs to Quille. “Can you oversee the process while I handle something else?”
Quille looked up from the logs and back at me. “Is this something else legal?”
I didn’t answer.
Quille’s eyes narrowed.
I still didn’t answer.
“My office,” he said pointing toward the door.
“Wait. Just give me a minute.” I stood and paced, trying to think of how much to say. It was moments like this that I hated working on a team. “There’s a particular cop I need to check into. I haven’t had time to run a background on him. I have a name and address, but that’s all.”
“And you’re just now telling us you have a suspect?” Quille asked.
“He’s a COP!” I said, throwing my hands up into the air. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not overly enthusiastic about tarnishing his record without evidence!” I kicked one of the boxes sitting on the floor. It only moved about three feet, but the files spilled out. I crossed my arms and turned back to the group. “So far, the only thing I have on this guy is a suspicious arrest a few years back. The bust sounded legit, but the perp was a middleman drug dealer. According to the rumor mill, the dealer should’ve had a lot more drugs on him.”
“Name?” Quille ordered.
I shook my head. “As soon as we run him in our database, red flags will go off. We can’t take the chance.”
“Name?” Quille said again, getting more and more pissed.
My shoulders fell as I looked down at the floor and answered. “Officer Grenway. Stuart Grenway.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Ford asked.
Quille answered Ford as he walked toward me. “Grenway rolled his cruiser about three years back. He chose riding the desk over disability pay.” Quille stood in front of me and leaned into my face. “He had severe nerve damage in his right hand from the accident.”
My stomach rolled. I didn’t want to be right. I stepped closer to the table, reaching a hand out to balance myself. After a few deep breaths, I picked up my cellphone and called Kierson.
Kierson answered on the first ring. “I miss you.”
“I’m sorry, but this is a work thing. I need your help. Or, rather, the FBI’s help. And I don’t have time to go through Maggie.”
“What do you need?” Kierson asked. His voice had shifted from soft and sweet, to all business.
“A background on a Miami cop—without triggering a red flag in our database.” I gave him the name and address I had for Grenway.
“Genie’s with me now. I’m putting her on speaker.”
“Hello, my favorite drinking partner. I hear the gang is in Florida in some fancy mansion. Is it as fabulous as Maggie says?”
“It’s ridiculously fabulous. And if you get me the background check I need, I’ll send you a plane ticket.”
Genie giggled. “Kierson is scowling, so I’d wager me agreeing to the exchange would break some FBI rule, but if a ticket were to magically appear, I wouldn’t turn it away.”
I could hear Kierson grumbling something in a low tone.
Genie giggled again. “Give me a few minutes to do my thing, and I’ll call you back with this background check.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me like thirty, but it’s all good. I’m happy to help. And if we close our case before this weekend, I’ll take you up on the plane ticket.”
As Genie disconnected, Abe and Natalie entered.
I focused on them. “Give me the run down.”
Natalie gestured for Abe to go first.
“I’ve got an Allen Franklin. Age forty-eight. Happily married with two kids. He was a volunteer at a teen shelter: The Sunrise Center. Your typical do-gooder.”
“My guy is the opposite of Abe’s. More of an evil-doer,” Natalie said. “Holland Parker. Fifty-six years old. Real estate developer. Net worth in the millions. No kids.” She flipped a page on her notepad. “His first wife filed abuse charges two months into the marriage and then split. Wife number two lasted longer, about
