Sometimes, she almost wanted the prosecutor to say no, or to plea the charges down. It was a reason, an excuse, to do it her way instead. But she knew she had to be careful of that temptation. There was a balance. She respected the system, but she wouldn’t be a slave to it. Her real allegiance was to her victims, and if the system didn’t get them justice, she would get them justice another way.
She’d been at it for close to forty minutes when her lieutenant came in—short, brown hair neat, expression wide awake despite the early hour. Donna Strangeland. A Brooklyn transplant with an accent to match, and a damn good cop. It was odd—some of the women on the force dealt with discrimination by identifying with the men, competing with their sister cops, putting them down, trying to step over them like crabs in a bucket. But a few dealt with it through mutual support and solidarity. Donna was in the latter camp. Beyond which, Livia had never seen a better interrogator. The woman could project incredible levels of compassion and understanding even to the most vile criminals. Murderers. Child rapists. Sadists. She made her suspects feel she understood them, and that if they would only explain to her, be honest with her, open up to her, she could forgive them. Something about her made them crave understanding, the possibility of forgiveness, to the point where Livia had seen her get people to sign confessions stained with their own tears. She was like some kind of surrogate mother, persuading her suspects to trade honesty for the chimera of her love.
She had explained to Livia it wasn’t exactly an act. When she walked into that interrogation room, she set aside all her horror, her disgust, her rage. She always looked for something that would enable her to feel sympathy, and then focused on that thing, not allowing herself to feel anything else. Until after she’d gotten a signed statement, of course. But first she made her suspects want that confession almost as badly as she did.
“Guess I shouldn’t really be surprised to see you,” Donna said, pausing on her way to her office and sipping the department’s strong-smelling coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Though I did think you might throttle it back a little after the last two.”
She was talking about Ballard and Olympic Hills—both closed cases now. “Yeah,” Livia said, lacing her fingers and stretching her arms over her head to crack the knuckles. “I was going to. But something turned those guys into what they are. So I thought I’d poke around a little. See if there was a teacher, a coach, whatever, picked up for molestation. Cross-reference. Maybe I can spot the next one before it happens. Plus there’s my Sea-Tac victim. Prosecutor’s not going to like her.”
None of it was a lie. Not really. It was just a matter of emphasis.
Donna nodded. If it had been anyone else, she might not have bought it. But she knew Livia’s habits. Her obsessions. “All right,” she said. “See you at roll call.”
“You bet. Unless you have something for me now.”
“I always give you the child stuff, Livia. No one else wants it, anyway.”
Almost no one who had kids, or even nieces and nephews, could handle the child cases. It was too much to bear. But everyone knew that for Livia, it was a crusade.
“Just asking.”
Donna nodded. “By the way. Word from the chief. There’s a guy coming in. Homeland Security. Something about a joint anti-trafficking task force. They’re looking for the right personnel, and it sounded up your alley. You interested?”
“Maybe. Any other intel?”
“That’s it. You know the feds. All very hush-hush. But if it’s DHS, it’s safe to say there’s an overseas component. And maybe some kind of terror angle, I don’t know.” She paused, then added, “I don’t know if it’s about kids. Certainly could be.”
Overseas . . . right now, she didn’t want anything that would distract from the Hammerhead funeral. Or from Weed Tyler, whose release was imminent, who was the only possible key to what had happened to Nason. Livia nodded and said, “Can I think about it?”
Donna took a sip of coffee. “I don’t even know when the guy’s coming in. We’ll learn more then.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Roll call was the usual—an hour of updates on what had happened the night before; discussion of changing policy and procedures governing the use of force; information-sharing on open cases. Just before dismissing everyone, Donna glanced at her tablet. “Oh, look at this,” she said. “Seems one Billy Barnett has met his maker.”
Some of the assembled detectives raised their eyebrows. Others glanced around, looking for clarification. Outside Sex Crimes and the Gang Unit, Barnett was hardly a household name.
“Hammerhead soldier,” Donna said. “And twice-convicted sex offender. Got himself strangled in a park up in Marysville. Just released from Monroe, too. Terrible loss for humanity.”
“Marysville PD like anyone for it?” That was Suzanne Moore, another good cop who, like Donna, had early on taken Livia under her wing.