Inside the newly built Rosedale police headquarters Cruz buzzed the phone connection and displayed his badge through the window. After the female officer pushed a release button, he wound his way around the inside corridor to the bullpen.
Considering all the patrol cars and the gathering crowd at Ryder Park, Cruz figured the incident had to be a murder, so he wasn’t surprised to find Sheriff Ben Slater relaxing in a chair by Officer Jeff Rawley’s desk.
Slater rose when Cruz approached. “Officer Cruz.” The Sheriff’s eyes were a slate gray color, cool and hard as the metal file cabinets on the far wall, but he extended his hand in welcome. They’d met before, but it was a while ago.
Rawley looked sullen and dissatisfied from this morning’s event at the convenience store. He was a beat officer who itched for the action found in inner city precincts and always seemed bored with his job. He nodded stiffly toward Cruz, but didn’t rise.
“Crime scene at the park?” Cruz asked the Sheriff. “The victim could be one of my parolees.”
“Another meth head identified the vic,” Rawley supplied. “Says it’s Dickey Hinchey.”
“Damn,” Cruz said. He looked from Slater to Rawley and back again. “Who has jurisdiction on the case?”
Rawley opened his mouth, but Slater answered first. “RPD can have it. We’ve got enough on our plate right now.”
There’d been a rise in meth production in the county over the last several months. Although the Sheriff wasn’t one to ignore a homicide case, he already had his hands full, and figured Rosedale PD could handle this one.
Rawley smirked, assessing Cruz carefully. “Flood caught the case, but I gotta tell you, no one’s going to worry much about a dead bum.”
That was what Cruz was afraid of.
Sheriff Slater’s cell phone beeped and he checked the message. “Crime scene’s finished. I think I’ll take a quick look around before passing it off.” He lifted an eyebrow at Cruz – an implicit invitation to join him.
Slater eased his long body up and ignored Rawley. “Have Flood give me a call.” He tossed these last words over his shoulder as he exited the bullpen ahead of Cruz.
Fifteen minutes later Cruz and Slater walked silently across Ryder Park’s baseball field toward the group of people cordoned off from the crime scene.
“Don’t worry about Rawley,” Slater said out of the blue.
“Sir?”
“These Rosedale police are like a dog with a bone.” Slater twisted his mouth in what could’ve been a smile. “They get territorial as hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
Slater frowned. “And don’t ‘sir’ me,” he warned. “You may be – what, twenty-five, thirty? – but I’m not old enough to be your granddaddy.”
Cruz laughed in spite of himself. “Been on the job five years,” he offered, feeling far older than he was. College, then law school at McGeorge in Sacramento, mostly nights while he worked a beat.
“Good, then you’re only a few years younger than me.” Slater grinned while his keen eyes took in the rugged face above the muscled body of a football player. He didn’t have to look up to many men, but Santiago Cruz was one of them. “Call me Slater.”
Cruz nodded. “My friends call me Chago.”
They flashed badges and made their way through the outer perimeter. The detective in charge, Andrew Flood, was already on scene, as Cruz knew he’d be. He motioned the Sheriff over, simultaneously growling orders to several police officers trying to disperse the crowd. “Get these goddamn vampires outta here!”
Nice PR, Cruz thought.
“Look, Slater,” Flood began when he saw Cruz, a crimson flush creeping up his tanned face. “We got this under control. There’s no need – ”
“Ah, don’t get your tidies in a bunch,” Slater answered. “I’m turning the case over to RPD. Just wanted a quick look-see.” He turned to Cruz. “You know Parole Officer Cruz?”
“Yeah,” Flood answered darkly. There was no love lost between Rosedale PD and county parole officers even though their clients were often the same desperate people. The detective, built like a bulldog, had a corresponding pugnacity.
Slater crouched to inspect the damp, crumpled sleeping bag. “Looks like enough blood for two adults. Nothing but the sleeping bag?” he asked Flood.
Flood nodded toward the creek. “The body’s down there. Some water decomp, but not much. M.E. says about four hours ago.”
"Ah, hell!" Slater looked toward the garish sight of mangled flesh and viscous fluid that shadowed the edge of the creek.
"Looks like a werewolf’s been here, doesn’t it?" Flood observed, a vaguely amused look on his face. “Careful,” he cautioned as they approached the body.