In confrontational situations, interrogations for instance, I’m the one throwing fastballs and Richie is the “good cop,” telling me to take it easy. Wink-wink. He’s especially good with women. They trust him on sight.
Conklin gave me a thumbs-up after assessing the chocolate. He said, “You going to tell me about your mystery breakfast?”
Phones were ringing. The overhead TV was on low, but not mute, and people were talking over the ambient noise.
I said, “A homeless woman named Millie Cushing tagged me as I was coming through the door. She wanted to tell me that a series of homeless people have been shot to death over the last year or so, and that the cops haven’t done anything about it.”
“First I’ve heard of this,” Rich said.
“The shootings have been happening in Central Station’s beat, that’s why.”
“Aw, jeez,” my partner said. “This isn’t good.”
While the citywide Homicide Detail is located here at Southern Station, a vestigial Homicide Detail operates out of Central Station, the result of a redistricting before my time. Officially called a station investigative team, Central Homicide sweeps up homicides that are called into their district during the graveyard shift.
That’s fine with me. God knows we have enough crimes to solve right here in our own house.
I told my partner what Cushing had told me: that a man named Jimmy Dolan had been shot sometime in the wee hours down on Front Street. Since I hadn’t heard about any killings of street people on our beat—and I would have—it could only mean that all of these shootings had happened in Central.
“I promised Millie I’d look into what she says is an ongoing pattern of homeless shootings, no arrests,” I concluded.
Rich was already tapping on his keyboard, searching for a report of a homicide outside Sydney G. Walton Square.
“Got it,” he said. “Victim: James Dolan, white male, fifty, shot twice in the chest at approximately four a.m. No witnesses to the shooting. Investigation ongoing. Body at Metro Hospital morgue.”
I said, “That’s the guy. Who was assigned to the case?”
“Sergeant Garth Stevens and Inspector Evan Moran. I don’t know them. You?”
“I know of Stevens,” I said. “He’s been on the job for twenty-five years.”
“Stevens and Moran work graveyard shift,” Conklin said.
I called Sergeant Stevens before Conklin and I clocked out for the day, and was put through to his desk at Central. He knew my name, said he’d even worked with my father, Marty Boxer, back in the day. My father was a bad-news cop and a worse husband and dad, but I let the comment slide with a “No kidding.”
I said, “Sergeant, you’re investigating that shooting at Walton Square early this morning?”
“Yeah. Vagrant took a couple of rounds to the chest. Killed instantly. Why do you want to know?”
“A citizen got hold of me and said there may have been several incidents like this one. Does that sound right?”
“You have a suspect in this shooting?” he asked, answering my question with one of his own.
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about this, Sergeant. Moran and I are on it. Nice chatting with you.”
And then he hung up.
I put the receiver back in the cradle and said to Conklin, “Stevens blew me off.”
“Typical,” said Conklin. “Old-timer. Get offa my cloud.”
I had a bad feeling about it. It wasn’t just that the old-timer had been rude; maybe he had a reason for blowing me off. Maybe there was something he didn’t want me to know.
CHAPTER 12
YUKI WAS HUNCHED over her computer rereading transcripts of her interviews with some of Marc Christopher’s associates from the Ad Shop.
Parisi had warned her that their case pretty much rested on the video, and she agreed. The recording was powerful. Yuki thought that if it was true the DA could get a grand jury indictment with a ham sandwich, then Marc Christopher’s rape video was a five-star seven-course meal with a vintage wine.
No doubt she could get a grand jury indictment; if they went to trial, the rape video had to go into evidence and had to be shown to the jury.
Giftos would try to get the video excluded. That way, if he put Hill on the stand, the jury would hear both versions of the sex act. Only one juror had to agree that the rape was staged, and Briana Hill would be found not guilty.
Yuki had to find more evidence to shore up her case if the video was thrown out, but how?
No one else had been in the bedroom with Hill and Christopher. The cops had photographed fading bruise marks on Marc’s wrists and ankles, but apparently, Marc hadn’t told anyone that he had been raped until weeks after the fact.
Now she wondered if anyone else had had a sexual encounter with Briana Hill that could be called rape.
As she reread the interview transcripts, she was looking for something that she might have missed, a comment that she should have probed, a tell that she had let slide.
She called up the transcript of senior art director Lyle Bevans. He was forty-two, had worn red-rimmed glasses and an untucked plaid shirt over his jeans, had long hair, and had smelled like weed. He had seemed to enjoy the meeting with the ADA and been willing to spend as much time as she would allow.
She had interviewed him because he had frequent and recent experience working with both Christopher and Hill.
Yuki highlighted the relevant parts of the transcript, including the part where Bevans told her that Briana Hill was hot and demanding. “She’s a sex bomb.”
Yuki: Mr. Bevans, did Ms. Hill use inappropriate sexual advances to manage or manipulate her staff?
Bevans: I would say that she’s all woman with a masculine determination to git ’er done. You looked at her, you thought about sex, and she carried a gun. That was sexy, too.
Yuki: You say that you heard about Marc Christopher’s accusation that she’d raped him. What was your reaction to that?
Bevans: You’re asking me if I think she could have done it? Yeah, if I had to make a wager. I’d bet she made him her bitch.
Yuki: Did you ever see her make inappropriate demands on Marc Christopher?
Bevans: They were dating. You know that, right? So, did she slap his butt once? Yeah. Sure. I saw that.
Yuki opened the next transcript, the interview with Bill Keely, CEO of the Ad Shop and Briana Hill’s superior. She remembered that Keely’s wardrobe was gray, his haircut was Republican, and his work history was account management, not creative. Briana Hill had a dotted-line reporting relationship to him. He had made the final decision in hiring her, and recently he had put her on waivers.
Keely: I didn’t want to suspend her. But this situation is a distraction, and our clients don’t want any association with her.
Yuki: How would you describe her worth to the firm?
Keely: A+. Hardworking. Corporate values. Delivered a great product. I don’t know her personally. So, is that all?
Yuki: Almost. Were there any complaints about her being sexually provocative or aggressive with agency staff?
Keely: I heard some hallway gossip that I put down to sexism. She was a good-looking woman in a power position. But no complaints came to me officially.
Yuki opened the transcript of her interview with Maria Cortes, the production department assistant. Cortes had worn tight jeans, a black shirt, and great lace-up boots, and had tattoos on her hands and neck. If Keely would be the last to know if Hill was guilty of sexual harassment, Cortes would be the first. She reported directly to Hill and was the go-to person for the whole production staff.
Cortes: Briana is tough. She has to be. She’s not a rapist, that I can tell you. Men like her. She likes them. They flirt with her, too. But she’s honest and has a good heart.
Yuki: You like her?
Cortes: I do. And I like Marc, too.
Yuki: What do you think of the rape accusation against Ms. Hill?
Cortes: I’d like to say it was all a misunderstanding.
Yuki: Thanks, Ms. Cortes. I appreciate your time.
Parisi called Yuki on her private line. “I thought you’d still be there.”
“I’m reviewing my notes now,” she said. “I have another interview in five minutes that could be a decider. I’ll have a point of view in the morning.”
“I’ll be standing by,” said the DA.
CHAPTER 13