lot more freely on it.
“I think I just cashed in every chit I’ve got,” I said, shaking Terrence Hoover’s hand again.
“It’ll be good to have you on this one,” he said. “I hear they’re calling him the Audience Killer.”
Since I had come up with the name, I was tempted to smile but didn’t. “Audience Killer, huh? I guess that sounds about right.”
Chapter 40
I HOOKED UP with Bree and Sampson back at the Daly Building that evening. I’d already been given an office there, and it was doubling as a nerve center for the Audience Killer case. It felt a little like a college dorm room, with the three of us crammed in there together.
I’d never worked this way before, quite so cooperatively. There was no tension about our roles, though, no debating how the work would get done. There was just the case. And, of course, the proximity of Bree’s long legs and other parts, her fetching looks, and so on and so forth.
She was searching through the drawers for something when I came in. Sampson stood behind her, reading a file on the desk over her shoulder.
“Check this out.” He held up a mug shot. “Meet Ashton Cooley.”
“What’s his deal?” I asked, glancing at the file upside down from where I stood.
“Ashton is a stage name,” Sampson said. “He tried out for, but
“That could piss you right the hell off,” Bree contributed. “Don’t you think so? I do.”
I took the picture and looked at it. The actor was in his twenties, white, dark-haired, kind of pouty- looking.
“I’m guessing a lot of actors would have wanted that part. Play could’ve been headed for Broadway,” I said.
“Sure,” Sampson said. “But how many of them were suspects in a
Chapter 41
SAMPSON WAS WORKING another murder case in the projects, so Bree and I went to see the actor. We cut over to Massachusetts Avenue, then up Sixteenth Street to Cooley’s Mount Pleasant address. The neighborhood is still remembered for the 1991 riots, sparked by charges of anti-Hispanic racism among DC’s black cops.
Cooley, I read on the way over, had been-and technically still was-the primary suspect in the shooting death of a girlfriend, Amanda Diaz, two years earlier. The DA had been forced to give it up for lack of evidence, but apparently it had been a close call.
Cooley still lived in the same apartment where the shooting took place. Not the sentimental type, I guess.
The apartment was on the second floor, above a Central American grocery, in a building not yet reached by any neighborhood-improvement effort. Bree and I took the stairs and arrived at a dank, tiled hallway with one translucent window at the far end.
Cooley’s was the middle of three metal-faced apartment doors. We knocked and waited.
“Yeah, who is it? I’m busy.”
“Mr. Cooley, I’m Detective Cross, here with Detective Stone from the MPD.”
To my surprise, the door flew open, and he ushered us inside. “Get in, get in.”
Bree scratched her ear and gave me a look.
“Do you have some particular concern about the police being seen at your door?” she asked.
“You mean because that always works out so well?” he said. “Last I checked, cops at the front door is not good news.”
We walked into a narrow hallway with two closed rooms along the left side and a row of framed headshots- maybe Cooley’s actor friends-hanging on the other chipped and peeling wall. I wondered if one of them was the dead girl-friend.
“Could we sit down?” Bree asked.
He didn’t move. “Not really. What do you want? Like I said, I’m busy.”
Cooley was already one strike away from finding out what it’s like when I lose my patience. “We have questions about two Saturdays ago. Just for starters, can you tell us where you were?”
“Okay.” He started toward the back room. “Let’s sit down. I was right here that Saturday. Never left the apartment.”
Once we were in the living room, Bree stayed on her feet. I sat down across from Cooley on a tall, wobbly stool. He had one very old easy chair, a coffee table, a half-decent home-theater setup, and another stool as the balance of his furniture.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Ever since I won the lottery,” he deadpanned. His manner was cocky and full of hard eye contact.
Bree stepped in. “Mr. Cooley, can anyone verify that you were here that night?”
He sat back in his chair. “Yeah. The good ladies at 1-900-FUCKYOU can do that.”
With two quick steps, she was on him. She jerked the handle on the side of his La-Z-Boy and laid him out flat. Then she leaned in close. “This isn’t funny, asshole.
She’d gone further than I would have, but it worked out.
The actor put his hands up in mock surrender. “I was just kidding around. Damn. Chill, girl.”
Bree stood up but stayed close. “Talk. I don’t feel like chilling, dude.”
“I rented a movie, ordered Chinese from Hunan Palace. Somebody delivered the food. You can talk to them.”
“What time did they deliver?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Seven? Eight? Somewhere in there. Hell, I don’t know.” Bree barely moved toward him, and he flinched before recovering again. “I’m serious. I don’t know what time it was. But it doesn’t matter. I was here the whole night.”
I didn’t say so out loud, but I felt inclined to believe him. Despite his show of testosterone, everything about him was
We were looking for someone much more in control than this guy, someone who was stronger in every way.
And probably a better actor too.
Bree must have felt it. “Let’s go, Alex,” she said. She turned back to the actor, smiled. “Sorry, you’re not right for the part. Bet you hear that a lot, smart-mouth.”
Chapter 42
AT NINE THIRTY on Sunday morning,
Once in a while, a northbound car would honk loudly as it approached the usually deserted pedestrian bridge
