The Girl Who Survived(34)

Another email popped up. From the lieutenant. His superior.

“Holy shit, Cole, if you don’t know, who does?”

Another good question. He read the email. Lieutenant Gleason wanted a meeting in fifteen minutes.

“Look, when you find out,” Sheila was saying, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can. It won’t be the first time you broke the rules.”

“I don’t know anything,” he admitted. “If you want more—”

“Hey. No.” She cut him off. “Don’t even think about peddling me off to the PIO. Not this time, Cole. This time I need something more than a canned speech by the department.”

“And I’m telling you I don’t have it.”

“Even though you’re the senior detective. You work homicide. And before you start saying the case is cold or too old or whatever, don’t. Save your breath. I know better. As I said, check the news today. You might find it interesting.”

And with that, she hung up just as Johnson appeared.

Peeling off her jacket, she said, “I just passed Lorna’s desk. The lieutenant wants to see us in ten.”

Lorna Driscoll was the lieutenant’s secretary.

“I saw. Email.” He hiked his chin at this computer monitor, then checked his watch.

She paused and took a quick assessment of him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

With a lift of her shoulder, she said, “I dunno. Looks like you’re a few quarts shy.”

“Of—?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.” Her eyebrows drew together over dark eyes that sparked with humor. “I could come up with lots of things, but let’s just say shut-eye.” She tossed the jacket over her arm. “Let me guess: Jonas McIntyre.”

He sent her a look, but she was already heading to her desk.

Watching her leave, he couldn’t help but wonder about her. There was more to Aramis Johnson than met the eye, a lot more. Yet she was secretive. He chalked it up to her being a private person, but maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe she was hiding something.

And then he stopped himself from going down that lonely, forbidden path. She was a cop. Duly vetted. Dedicated to the department. The truth was that he was becoming jaded from years on the force, and that was dangerous; he was becoming suspicious of anyone he met.

Even his own partner.

Ridiculous, he told himself as he pushed out his chair; he was jumping at shadows.

But no matter how hard he tried to bury them, his doubts had a nasty way of always cropping up again, like weeds gone to seed in fertile soil.

He’d just have to deal with them.

But he’d watch his step. Johnson, like everyone else in his life, would have to prove herself before he trusted her.





CHAPTER 10


A few minutes later, Thomas met Johnson outside the door to the lieutenant’s glassed-in office. Lorna, a fussy sixtyish woman with a dour expression and rimless glasses, waved them inside.

The lieutenant gestured them into the two empty side chairs facing his old, metal desk and got down to business. Which was his style. A man of few words, efficient work ethics, and no patience for nonsense, he’d worked in the department for over thirty years, was a recent grandfather, and followed the Portland Trail Blazers religiously. He was bald and clean-shaven, his slacks forever creased, his boots spit-polished to a mirror shine. There were bits of basketball memorabilia in his otherwise austere office; two pictures, one of he and his wife on a beach in front of palm trees, the other of two toddlers in striped pajamas and Santa hats, along with the faint tinge of a recently smoked cigarette in the air. At six foot six, he used his height as a form of intimidation when he needed it and though he’d gained forty pounds since his days as a college star forward, he was still a force to be reckoned with. He knew it and used it to his advantage.

“Let’s get down to it.” He slipped a pair of readers onto the end of his narrow nose. “You’re up to speed on the McIntyre case.” He glanced up.

Johnson said, “Yes, sir,” and Thomas nodded.

“Course you are. Isn’t everyone? The whole damned world. I’ve already started getting calls, and Norah will hold a press conference.” He sighed and shook his head. “I guess we need to go through the motions.” He glanced over the tops of his half-glasses. “Waste of time, if you ask me. I worked the case, you know.”

“I saw your name in the file,” Thomas said, and Johnson gave a curt nod.

“Worst thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot in twenty-eight years on the force. Car wrecks, natural disasters, hunting accidents, but . . . a family like that. All of ’em hacked to death—” His lips flattened and he shook his head. “Anyway, the way I see it, the case was solved, suspect found, arrested and convicted a long time ago. Case closed.” He gnawed at his lower lip and his eyes narrowed. “Or I thought so. But now . . . the higher-ups want us reopen it. Mainly because of public opinion and the fact that we screwed up way back when. It’s a publicity nightmare, y’know?”

Again he checked for acquiescence and got it.

“Good. So, we’ll reopen. You”—he motioned to Thomas—“are in charge. It pisses me off that this happened, but there it is. The press and public are going to demand that we find another killer, and that’s . . . well, let’s face it, that’s most likely impossible. We got our man and we know it.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “But let’s go through the motions. And by that I mean, look through everything. Check the evidence, statements, autopsy reports, photos, whatever . . . go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Interview witnesses if they’re still alive and if they’ve moved, call them.”