Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(44)

I said, “Are you the president of the United States?”

“Yep.”

I shot a nasty look to the detective. I even mumbled, “He answered in the affirmative.”





Chapter 56



It’s rare that I lose my temper. Perhaps it’s a side effect of having ten children. But in reality, before we adopted our first child, I was pretty good at keeping a level head. I attribute most of that to being raised by Seamus Bennett.

But looking at that homeless man’s face and knowing what the homicide detective was considering, I lost it. I stomped out of the interview room. And kept stomping all the way down the hallway. I saw half a dozen sets of eyes fall on me. I couldn’t have cared less. I hit the exit door like a fullback.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I got outside. I gulped in the fresh air and appreciated the afternoon sun on my face.

Bobby eased out of the door a minute later. He took a moment to straighten his tie and pulled the cuffs of his shirt. Then I heard him take a deep breath as he turned to face me.

Bobby said, “What was that hissy fit about?”

“Are you kidding me? If you’re making a joke, that’s fine. If you think that poor guy in handcuffs actually killed anyone, you need to find a different line of work.”

“I don’t need a detective from a local agency telling me what I should do with my career. I don’t care if you’re with the NYPD, the LAPD, or the Hattiesburg, Mississippi, PD, you’re still not the FBI.”

“For all the faults the FBI has, I haven’t known any agents who would railroad someone into a charge just to clear a case.”

“You’re right. It’s a local cop who’s more likely to do something like that.”

In that moment, I wanted to smack the arrogant prick. For all the goodwill we had built up, he was wasting it awfully fast.

Bobby said, “I’m not saying I would’ve gone along with it. I just wanted to hear what the detective had to say and what the suspect looked like.”

“I’m beginning to think the suspect might be better-looking than that guy. Maybe wear a suit. Maybe even wear a dress. I have a few suspects in mind, but that guy ain’t one of them.”

The door to the building burst open, and the chubby homicide detective stuck his head out. He glared at me and said, “You blew any chance we had of making a case on that guy.” He pointed a crooked finger at me.

I just stared at him. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t trust myself.

The detective came out to us. I couldn’t wait to hear more excuses. He leaned against a blue Ford Taurus and crossed his arms in front of him. “I wasn’t going to charge him unless we had enough. But after your little outburst and the way the command staff reacted, I won’t even get a chance to question him.”

“You talked to him for a while. Did he say anything you could use?” I waited through a couple of moments of silence, then added, “Besides ‘Yep.’”

“You got no idea the kind of pressure I’m under. The stories on the news. The FBI calls every day. My bosses want this cleared up. I’m just making sure we don’t miss anything. But pulling stunts like that makes us miss stuff.”

I took a few steps closer until I was only a foot away from the detective’s face. “Tell me what you’re missing by not talking to the poor guy you have in there. You think any prosecutor would have accepted a case like that? Or would you have made a probable cause arrest and hoped that it got through first appearance? I didn’t become a cop to ruin people’s lives. I became a cop to help people.” I glared at him without having to say What about you?

The detective let out an exasperated sigh. Without a word, he turned and stormed back into the building.

Before I could say anything to Bobby, an unmarked Chevy Tahoe pulled into the lot. It had the look of a command staff car. When the door opened, I was even less happy.





Chapter 57



There were little things about the Tahoe I should’ve detected before the door even opened. It had just a little too much wear and tear and mud splattered across the door. Very few command staff people would allow a vehicle to get that sloppy. That’s why they have assistants. That’s why there are rookies: to clean cars occasionally.

Instead, when the door opened, and the tall black man emerged, I recognized him. It was Paul Daggett, from the Special Investigations unit. I remembered him from when he and a couple of his friends had visited me at my hotel.

The first thing out of the DC detective’s mouth was “You don’t listen so well.”

I said, “It’s Daggett, right?”

“Good memory. Too bad you don’t have any common sense to go with it.”

“Last time we met, you had a couple of minions with you.”

Just then the doors to the Tahoe opened. I heard a woman’s voice say, “You mean us?” The physically fit woman, about thirty with long dark hair, stepped out onto the asphalt. She was dressed in a Nationals T-shirt and had a Glock model 19 in a holster on her hip.

The driver was the heavyset white man who’d been quick with the comebacks. He casually leaned on the hood and let the others do the talking. He didn’t look any better dressed today than he had a few days ago. Over stretch jeans, he wore an old light-blue sport coat that looked like it came from a leisure suit.