“Got any change?”
She handed over her last three quarters.
Max popped them into the machine, gave it a hard kick, and got his cup of coffee. It spilled out oily and burned, just the way he liked it. They headed down the hallway just as two FBI agents, looking like on-the-job German shepherds, came jogging toward them and then passed by without saying a word.
“Keepin’ us in the loop,” Afton snorted.
They poked their heads into Thacker’s office and were waved in.
“How did it go with Binger?” Thacker asked. He looked dapper today in a charcoal gray pinstripe.
“Not much there,” Max said. “Guy’s pissed off, but he’s not that kind of pissed off. What’s happening here?”
“We saw more FBI agents,” Afton said, curious. “Out in the hallway.”
Thacker leaned back in his chair. “There’s still no word from the kidnappers. Darden is starting to lose it, so he’s been calling anyone and everyone who’s in a position of power.”
“Which means you’ve been getting trickle-down pressure?” Afton asked.
Thacker’s laugh was a sharp bark. “I’ve talked to more state senators, city council members, county sheriffs, and governor’s aids today than I normally do in an entire year of operations. Unless it’s an election year, and then they’re calling to panhandle or ask for an endorsement.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Afton said. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
Thacker grunted. “There’s more.”
“What?” Max asked.
“Richard Darden is thinking about offering a reward. One million dollars.”
“Oh no,” Max said. “That’ll just bring out all the crazies. Tie up the phone lines. Exhaust our resources.” He blew out a glut of air. “As if they’re not exhausted enough.”
“When the kidnappers hear about it,” Afton said, “they’ll just want him to add it to the ransom.”
“I’m working hard to get him to hold off,” Thacker said. His clenched hands flew open. “But . . . who knows?”
“Has the media gotten a whiff of this yet?” Afton asked.
“I hope not,” Thacker said. He looked at her sharply. “Still want to be a detective?”
“Would it sound strange right now if I said yes?”
“Maybe a little,” Thacker said. “But I kind of suspected that’s what you’d say. You have to be a little out there on the edge to be able to handle this job.”
Afton sat a little straighter in her chair. This was Thacker’s version of praise. “You think I meet the minimum daily requirement of derangement?”
“Maybe,” Thacker said. “You might be getting there.” He was silent for a moment, and then said, “We’ve got things pretty well covered here. You two should head over to the Saint Croix medical examiner’s lab. The ME is doing an autopsy on Muriel Pink this afternoon.” When Afton looked squeamish, he said, “Yeah, I know. But it’s part and parcel, so take off.”
*
THE last person they expected to run into at police headquarters was Portia Bourgoyne, but there she was. Lounging in the hallway next to the file room, speaking in a low melodic whisper, her lips practically brushing the ear of a young uniformed officer.
Harry Affolter, Afton thought, when she caught sight of them. Was he the leak? Then she turned her attention back on Portia. The woman was wearing a black cashmere dress and black stilettos that showed off her rounded curves and shapely calves. It seemed fairly clear that the young officer was firmly under her spell.
“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Bourgoyne?” Max asked in a loud, authoritative tone. He’d not only caught Portia’s attention, but sent the young officer scurrying away.
Portia cast a disdainful look at Max and said, “I was just checking in with your media relations officer.”
“Trying to wangle some inside information?” Afton asked.
Portia ignored her.
Max suddenly advanced on Portia. “You killed that woman, you know that?” His mouth was an angry slash, and if Afton didn’t know better, she’d say his ears were pulled back flat against his head. Like a jackal ready to attack.
Portia just stared at him.
“Muriel Pink,” Max hissed. “You killed her just as sure as if you’d held a knife to her throat and slit open her jugular.”
Portia’s eyes blazed. “How dare you insinuate—”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Max said. “I’m stating a fact. You manipulated that poor, gullible old woman. You put her on TV and practically dared the killer to go after her. Well, that’s exactly what happened. So now I’m asking you, how do you sleep at night?”
“Any issue of culpability can be taken up directly with my news director,” Portia spit back. “And my station’s attorney.”