Logan drummed his fingers on the tabletop and gave a decisive nod. “Let’s do it. That’s our headliner.”
Mascherino stood up and went to the long whiteboard on the wall behind her. “All right, then. We start with the murder of Ted Duffy.”
She chose a marker and wrote Duffy’s name at the top of the board in neat cursive. Grider looked at Nikki and smiled like a shark. She rolled her eyes away from him and toward the third member of their team, Candra Seley, who shrugged and spread her hands, mouthing her opinion: He’s such an asshole!
Seley, on loan from the Business and Technology unit, would primarily be reviewing evidence, processing and reprocessing test results, performing witness and suspect background checks, compiling witness lists, and constructing time lines. Liska and Grider would be the feet on the ground.
Grider got up from his chair, smoothing his tie over his protruding belly. “I’ll get right on it.”
“No,” Mascherino said calmly. “The Duffy case goes to Liska.”
“What?!” Liska and Grider blurted out simultaneously.
“That’s my case!” Grider argued, his face turning red.
“It’s time for a fresh pair of eyes,” the lieutenant said firmly. “That’s the whole point of a cold case unit—getting a fresh take on an old crime. I’m sure Sergeant Liska will appreciate your input when she asks for it, but this is her case now.”
“But I know this case inside and out! I know these people!”
“That’s just my point. I want someone who doesn’t know any of the people involved. Someone who has no preconceived ideas going in. That’s the only way a case this stale has any chance of being solved.”
Grider paced behind the table. Nikki could hear him breathing in and out like he’d run a hundred yards.
“She doesn’t even think the case deserves to be investigated!” he shouted, pointing at Nikki as if he were fingering her for a witch.
“I don’t think it deserves to be a priority,” Nikki corrected him, pushing her chair back and standing. He was still half a foot taller than she was.
“You said it was unsolvable.”
“Well, in twenty-five years you certainly haven’t proven me wrong.”
“So it’ll be just fine with you if you don’t solve it, either,” Grider said sarcastically. “You’ve already got your excuse ready.”
Nikki felt like the top of her head might blow off. Furious, she walked up on him, her hands jammed at her waist. “Are you implying that I won’t do the job? You think I’m a bad cop? Fuck you, Grider! I didn’t ride in here on a powder puff. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. I’ll put my record in Homicide up against yours any day of the week. I don’t have any moldy age-old unsolved murders with my name on them.”
Grider looked at the lieutenant. “How am I supposed to work with her?”
“You’re not,” Mascherino said. “You’ve got your own case to work. Take your number two and run with it. Nikki, you’ve got priority for Candra’s time, however you need her.”
Logan unfolded himself from his chair, looking at Nikki. “Press conference at five in the government center.”
“Today?” She glanced at her watch. It was nearly four.
“Plenty of time to go powder your nose and put on some lipstick,” Logan quipped.
“Speak for yourself,” Nikki snapped, gathering her notes from the table. “I’ve got a case to review.”
3
“The guy’s a freaking twitch,” Sam Kovac said. “The first thing he did when we got him in the box was puke on the floor.”
He sat at his desk watching the feed from the interview room on his computer screen. His new trainee—he refused to use the word partner—was just down the hall, taking his turn trying to get information out of Ronnie Stack. Stack—thirty-four, meth head, bone thin, pasty white—was a nervous rodent type: furtive, thin lips quivering, narrow eyes darting all around the room, rubbing his hands together like he was washing, over and over.
“Is he high?” Tippen asked, watching over Kovac’s shoulder like a vulture. He was built that way, too: long and bony, with a permanent slouch, a beak of a nose, and keen dark eyes. He’d been a detective nearly as long as Kovac, which made the two of them old as dirt.
“No, but I’m sure he wants to be.”
This fact would, Kovac hoped, tip the scales in their favor. Stack wanted out of that room—maybe badly enough to give them what they wanted: information on the murder of a drug dealer known as BB. Stack was a known associate of BB’s, and had reportedly been with the dealer shortly before somebody stuck a knife in his throat and caused him to drown in his own blood.
Stack was not under arrest. This was a noncustodial interview. He was free to get up and leave anytime he wanted. It amazed Kovac how few people exercised that right. They seemed to think that option was some kind of trick.