Ashley nodded, although her mind was pretty much made up already. “The other skill I’m a little worried about is reconstruction. I’ve never done anything remotely similar.”
“That’s something you can learn, as well.”
They talked a while longer. Then, midmorning, Captain Murray returned, and Ashley told him yes, she would like to take the position.
That began several hours of paperwork. After that, Murray told her she was free to take the afternoon off. She would start training with Mandy the following day.
Marty called in, apologizing profusely; said he would catch up with Jake later in the day—he hoped. He’d either eaten something bad or picked up a virus, and he wasn’t able to stay out of the can for more than fifteen minutes at a time.
Jake missed his partner during the task force meeting, though the other men were good, solid cops. Belk was forty-five, seasoned, reasonable, and had a calm about him under any circumstances that made him all but magic with witnesses. Rosario was just a few years younger; they had worked together for years. Where Belk was calm, Rosario could bluster, and between them, they could glean an incredible amount of information. Rizzo and MacDonald were younger, but still experienced, having both been in homicide for over seven years. Rizzo had a nose for research, while MacDonald could size up a crime scene like few other men. They all discussed their interviews, went through the reports on the door-to-door questioning, and once again, analyzed the medical examiner’s report.
Then there was Franklin. Once again, he spoke about his experience with what he considered a far more important agency, but his experience that day seemed to signify only that he should tell them not to neglect the rest of their work, that they had close to zilch to go on, that he had combed the FBI computer and spoken to law enforcement officers across the country, and hadn’t found the break they needed. Franklin was tall, dark-haired and considered himself extremely knowledgeable—and suave. He gloried in the fact that he had been asked to share his incredible knowledge on various television shows. “Until we get an I.D. on that girl, we’re spinning our wheels,” he said, staring at them all. “We really need an I.D. on her.”
Jake refrained from speaking. He glanced at Rosario and almost grinned, because he was so certain they were thinking the same thing.
Duh, asshole!
“The FBI has no magic solution for this one,” Franklin said. “What it will take is really good police work on your part.”
Jake felt like a dog with his hackles up. To the best of his knowledge, the case was still under the jurisdiction of the county.
Jake stood then, but held his temper.
“Jake?” Captain Blake said, frowning. He was seated on the edge of his desk, since they’d met in his office so he could review their work on the case.
“Special Agent Franklin is correct,” Jake heard himself say politely. “Gentlemen, let’s get back to work.”
Blake knew him—knew he didn’t have one good thing to say about Franklin. But he had spoken with an almost flattering conviction.
Jake escaped. He made a call to forensics, then to Dr. Gannet. He looked at his watch and knew he had time to head south, even though he would have a long drive back to the morgue.
A moment later, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and was out the door.
“Mr. Bordon?”
“Yes?”
Peter Bordon was sitting outside in the exercise yard, feeling the sun on his face. The guard spoke to him politely. Hell, most of the guards were polite. They had no reason not to be. He was unerringly respectful, truly a model of good behavior.
“There’s a phone call for you. You have permission to take it.”
“Who is it?”
“Your cousin Richard. There’s an illness in your family, I’m sorry to say.”
“Ah.”
“You’ll be out soon, right?” the young guard asked him.
“If the parole board says so.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thank you, Thomas, is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Bordon.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
He was led to the phone. Peter picked up the receiver. “Peter Bordon.”
“So the cop has been to see you.”
His fingers tensed. He allowed himself no outward expression. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“He’s got nothing.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“It will.”
“Yeah, we’ll see that it does.”
The phone went dead in his hand. His escort was waiting. “Not so bad,” he told the guard. “My nephew is ill, but he’s coming around.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s a tough little guy.”
Back out in the yard, Peter felt the sun again. It wasn’t as warm. He thought back to his arrest. The cops were allowed to lie to suspects during interrogation. And Dilessio had lied. Because he had known something. Damn him, he’d known something.
But Peter hadn’t cracked. He’d taken a lie detector test and passed with flying colors. Even so, he’d wound up in prison for fraud and tax evasion.