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“You’ve created a media storm for my department,” Bower rumbles, his bald head glistening under crappy overhead lights, and the bushy mustache that lines his upper lip flicking with each word. “You made sweeping statements on prime-time news, casting doubt on the entire police force when this city needs unity most of all.”
“Our perp is a cop, Captain. I didn’t make that up.”
His eyes, as dark as the hair on his lip, harden. “You’re fighting with your colleagues inside my building. You have blood,” he snaps loudly, “on your shirt!”
Sheepish, I glance down and find proof of what he says.
Shit.
“Are you ready to make an arrest? Or will you continue this circus until the Chief of Police slaughters us all?”
“I can’t make an arrest yet, Captain.” And that knowledge fucking galls me. “I know what I know, and I get the feeling he knows I’m close. But even with footage from today’s altercation, a judge won’t rule based on that alone. It’s not enough.”
“He’s volatile, Cap.” Fletch speaks up, lifting his chin and meeting the older man’s eyes head on. “The fact that he shot up Arch’s place this morning is proof he’s reactive. We don’t make a habit of advertising our addresses, and his is especially veiled, considering the place is in his wife’s name. That was a mistake on Taylor’s part, sir. He slipped.”
“And he mentioned the armor-piercing rounds,” I add. The final nail in three cops’ coffins. “We’ve kept that information intentionally tied up the entire investigation. Mentioning the A.P. rounds was his second mistake. It was an admission, Captain. But it’s not enough for a judge.”
“We believe Detective Taylor is Booth’s inside man,” Fletch presses on. “We believe Mercer, Wright, and Haightman became privy to this arrangement, but were unwilling to join Booth’s side of the war on Copeland. This led to Taylor ending their lives before they blew the whistle. We believe Taylor has been accepting coin in exchange for information and favors, and because of this, we’ve sent a warrant request over to Judge Ruth to search his financials. Once we’re in, we expect to see the trail leading away from the blue line and across to where Booth waits. This is mafia, Sir, and we know which man, within our ranks, is corrupt.”
At the mention of themafia, two sets of eyes slowly come to me. Scrutinizing. Searching.
Though not accusing, at least.
“Detective Stohl possesses an exceptionally short fuse,” I tell them. “He’s had it out for me from the moment I stepped foot inside this precinct when I finished in the academy. He’s wanted to smack me in the face for as long as I remember. The statement I made last night lit that fuse and left him bubbling over. We knew he’d blow up this morning, so long as he was given the chance to see me. Like Taylor, Officer Clay put Stohl where we needed him to be. Our scene was set and our players were on the board. The moment he saw us, Stohl showed his ass, and Taylor, being the hero he thinks he is, screwed up when he mentioned details hecould nothave known unless he was our killer.”
“We know he’s our guy,” Fletch says. “But we need proof or a confession. Because even a shit lawyer could get him released on what we have so far.”
“How do you expect to secure what you need?” Fabian questions. “He’s been on the force even longer than you have. He’ll smell a trap no matter how you attempt to set it up. Especially if, as you believe, he’s suspicious that you know.”
“He wants to be our friend. So…” I shrug and flash a smug grin. “Let’s let him. He craves recognition for what he’s done, and he wants it from me most of all, since obviously,” I drawl, “we’re brothers in the mafia war.”
MINKA
“Please state your name and professional position for the record,” Mr. Gibbons—Anthony Palenti’s lawyer—commands. He’s a snooty, uptight jerkwad who stands two or three inches shorter than me, but because he stands and I sit, he looks down his nose and attempts to make me feel small.
Odd. Since small is not how I feel when I look into his rodent eyes.
“My name is Minka Mayet. I am the chief medical examiner in Copeland City. Prior to that, I was employed here in New York, which is how I came to be the medical examiner on file for Suzanne Palenti’s autopsy.”
“So you no longer reside in New York?” Gibbons—his first name is probably Rat Boy—stands as tall as he can manage, puffing his chest forward and exerting his example of dominance. Lacking, really, when the men in my life include Archer Malone and Charlie Fletcher. Justin Lawrence. Timothy Malone.
Jesus. Any Malone, really. They’re annoying, but they were born to dominate.
“I ask the jury,” he looks at them, his half-smile ugly enough to tempt me to smack it, “don’t you consider it odd that our expert witness believes in her case so much, she packed up and left the state?”
“Objection!” The prosecutor stands behind her table. “Chief Mayet’s career choices are not up for debate today.”
“I was presented with an opportunity for career advancement,” I insertcalmly. “I consider that opportunity a glowing endorsement for my abilities as a medical examiner. The fact that I relocated to another city is not relevant to this case. I performed Suzanne Palenti’s autopsy well, I was thorough, and I stand behind my final report.”
“Let’s discuss your final report.” Gibbons circles back to his table, whipping out a manila file and opening it to reveal a stack of papers. “How confident can you be, Ms. Mayet? Genuinely.” He turns, brandishing his papers, and looks me up and down. “Your age alone proves your lack of experience.”
“My age and experience are proof of my ability.”Try again, asshole. “My report stands.”
“Shall we discuss Moira Sanderson?” He flaps his paper and grins when my eyes narrow to slits. “Your first ‘final report’ states accidental death. Youramendedfinal report, which,” he grins for the jurors, as though to imply I’m intellectually lacking, “is an oxymoron, no? I thought final meantfinal?” He brings his eyes back to me, “Youramendedreport shows death by… Hmm…” He makes a show of reading, “Unexplained death. This final report has no answers at all. How can that be so?”
“Firstly, Moira Sanderson is not a part of these proceedings. You have somehow accessed someone else’s medical records. That is a gross invasion of privacy.” I look at the judge. “That’s illegal.”
“Anonymous tips are admissible in court,” Gibbons titters, drawing my focus back around and smirking when I snarl. “Moira Sanderson’s final, amended, and final again report, indicate your total disregard for the smaller details.”
