Eye of Vengeance (10 page)

Chapter 12

N
ick was still rolling Margaria Cotton’s words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he’d been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff’s Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they’d check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.

Now, as Nick was making his way to his desk, a sports editor grinned at him and said, “Hi, Nick. How you doing?”

The greeting snapped his concentration at first, and then piled onto Cotton’s observation.

“Hey, Stevie. Alright,” Nick answered.

Few people in the place bothered to talk to him these days. The sports guy, Steve Bryant, had told him it was because they didn’t know what to say after Nick returned to work following the accident. The first few weeks, there were the quiet condolences. He’d nodded, thanked them. But he’d never been a gregarious sort. He’d have an occasional beer with the other reporters after a late shift, would toss a good-natured barb across the desk like the one he’d received from Hirschman about the roof photo. But Steve had confided that if Nick was already intimidating with his intensity before the tragedy, he was downright scary when he’d returned.

Loss of compassion? Like Ms. Cotton had said? A scene from an old movie flashed into Nick’s head. A hard-core mercenary is told during a firefight that he’s bleeding. The guy’s rebuttal: I ain’t got time to bleed.

When he got to his desk there was a press release lying in the middle, a one-sheet write-up that had been faxed by the Sheriff’s Office as it had been to every news organization in three counties. Cameron had given everyone all the updated information that Nick had already put in his story for this morning’s edition, including the caliber of the bullet. While his computer was coming up, Nick answered the blinking light on his phone. Three of four messages were from readers who wanted him to know how glad they were that Ferris had been shot, saving them the cost of another trial “for that animal.” None left a name. The fourth call was from Cameron. There was a distinct edge in his voice:

“Nick. Nice job this morning doing an interview of a witness before the detectives could even get to her. Man, you’re gumming this one up, pal.”

Cameron paused, maybe for effect, maybe because he didn’t want to say what he had to say next.

“Detective Hargrave wants to see you himself this afternoon about four. I’ll assume you’ll be here. Believe me, Nick, it might be a once-in-a-lifetime offer. But I’m going to have to be in the room with you, so ease up, eh?”

Nick replayed the message, twice, and then sat back, thinking it through. Hargrave, the wordless one, the man who always turned his back on the media, wanted a sitdown. Did he think Nick had gotten something from Cotton he hadn’t? Maybe he thought she knew the people who had worn the pictures of Cotton’s girls during the trial. That would sure as hell be one of Nick’s moves if he was looking for someone with motive. There had been news coverage of the trial. Nick would have to call Matt over at Channel 10 to see if their film was being subpoenaed. But most of those video shots would have been of the front of the courtroom, not of the gallery. Hargrave also would have known from Cameron that Nick hadn’t covered the trial. He looked up over the cubicles to see if the court reporter was still at her desk. She might have quoted some of the people who’d worn the buttons and had some names and contact numbers. He looked at his watch. It was two o’clock. If the meeting with Hargrave took a while, he’d be pushing deadline later in the day. To be safe he opened up a new screen on his computer and started typing a rough draft of tomorrow’s follow-up story, which at this point wouldn’t be much different factually from today’s, other than planting a quote or two from Ms. Cotton. He could always hope that Hargrave would let loose with something, but he wasn’t planning on it.

It took him an hour to bang out 350 decent words that could pass for a Saturday story on its own if it had to. At this point, he’d have to lead with the only fresh thing he had, which was that police were talking with the mother of the slain children in connection with Ferris’s killing and the investigation was continuing. Nick knew it was bullshit. The investigation was always continuing and most people with half a brain would know that the cops would talk with the girls’ mom. But he also knew that if you phrased it just right, the general reading public would skim it, figure it was close enough to news and give themselves something to gab about at dinner with their friends on Saturday night:

“
How ’bout that shooting downtown? The pedophile guy?
”

“
Yeah, I saw they were talking to the mom of the girls he killed.
”

“
Like she wouldn’t have a big smile on her face, eh?
”

“
Can you believe they were gonna let the guy off?
”

“
The system is all fucked up, you know?
”

“
I’d of hired somebody to kill him if I was her.
”

“
Yeah
?”

“
Damn straight.
”

When Nick was finished with the draft, he stored it away and turned off the computer. He’d have enough time to stop at the cafe downstairs and grab a cup of coffee and maybe one of those plastic-wrapped sandwiches and he could eat on the way over to the Sheriff’s Office. He hadn’t bothered to look at the rest of the research files that Lori had sent. Later, if he got back early, he thought. Right now he was already getting cranked up for Hargrave. What the hell was the guy going to say? Just chew him out? Hell, he could take that without a sweat. He hadn’t put anything unethical in the story today, and sure as hell nothing that was going to stink up the investigation. The dead man’s name and the caliber of the bullet? The killer knew the name would come out and the bullet caliber was only good in dismissing some of the nut jobs who would call the cops claiming they’d done the shooting.
Oh, yeah? What’d you do him with? A nine-millimeter, you say? Good-bye. Don’t call back again.

No, whatever Hargrave had in mind would be something more than the simple stuff, Nick thought, trying to prepare. But hell with it, he finally whispered to himself, better not to speculate, just let it fall the way it was going to fall.

Nick walked through the front doors of the sheriff’s administration building at 3:50
PM
. As soon as the wash of air-conditioning swept over him he was taking the car keys out of his pocket, fishing the cell phone off his belt, checking to see if he had a pack of gum in his shirt, the foil of which would set off the metal detectors. While he stood in line waiting for his turn to pass through the security screen, he looked up into the huge ornate rotunda. The building had been constructed a few years ago to replace what had been little more than a retrofitted warehouse south of the city. The entryway soared up several floors to an atrium roof that let in the signature sunshine of South Florida. Nick thought it far too ostentatious for a cop shop. But what the hell. Your tax dollars at work.

The deputy on the other side of the electronic gateway nodded as Nick passed through without a beep.

“Where are you visiting today, sir?”

“Media relations,” Nick said and tipped his head to the left where the doors to Joel Cameron’s department were located. He watched for a change in the young officer’s face. Did it change when he was told the press was in the house? But the kid just nodded and was already on to the next person passing through the hoops of post-9/11 decorum. Nick gathered his stuff from a plastic bowl and moved on.

The receptionist just inside Cameron’s office recognized Nick immediately, smiled, asked how he was doing.

“Fine, how are you?” Nick didn’t come here often. Most of his work was done out in the streets or by phone. If he was meeting an inside source, it was usually done at a designated lunch spot, Houston’s on Federal Highway, Hot Dog Heaven on Sunrise. Nick stole a look down the hall into the office. It had the same setup as the newsroom, a smaller version, but the same fabric-covered separators that made you think you had a space of your own. Cameron was at the end of the created hallway, heading his way.

“Thanks for being on time, Nick,” Cameron said, moving briskly, not offering a hand or a greeting. He was carrying a legal pad and checking his shirt pocket for a pen. Nick noted that the pad was brand-new, nothing yet on the top page.

“The detectives want us to meet them upstairs in a conference room,” Cameron said, opening the door to the lobby and holding it for Nick. “We’ll have to get you a pass.”

Nick shrugged at Cameron’s iciness. The media officer had already told Nick that Hargrave was a hard-ass who never talked to the press, or even Cameron, for that matter. Now he’d been told to bring a seasoned police reporter in for a private meet. Nick knew Joel would not only be nervous about what might be said, but also pissed if he had to explain to the rest of the media types who would be howling if word got out of such an exclusive.

While Nick was passing his driver’s license and newspaper I.D. through the bulletproof glass at the admittance office, he said, “So, you gonna give me a clue here as to what’s going on, Joel?”

“I can’t say that I even have a clue,” Cameron said, still not looking Nick in the eye. “If Hargrave wanted to leak something to you, Nick, he should’ve just called you on the phone like the rest of your sources do.”

Yeah, Nick thought, Cameron’s pissed.

When the officers inside the security fishbowl passed a temporary I.D. back at Nick, he clipped the badge onto his shirt pocket, listened for the electronic click of the lock on the adjoining door and then followed Cameron into the main offices. They immediately took a right and got onto an escalator rolling up to the second floor. When did they start putting escalators into police headquarters? Nick thought as they rose. The world, my man, has changed.

At the end of a hallway that Nick knew led to the executive offices, Cameron stopped and hesitated at a door just shy of the double entrance to the sheriff’s own suite. He carefully knocked twice and then entered, again holding open the door so that Nick would have to walk through first. Nick quickly recognized the room as the conference area where he had once conducted an interview with the sheriff during an election year. Nick had always hated politics, but, as the senior police reporter, it was in his job description to cover the sheriff’s race. The only redeeming aspect was that the assignment only had to be done once every four years.

The room was dominated by a long, polished maple conference table and at the other end sat Hargrave and a sheriff’s lieutenant Nick recognized as head of special operations. Against the wall behind them stood a middle-aged man whom Nick judged to be a lawyer by the cut of his suit and tie. He had a file opened in his hands and did not look up as they entered, never a good sign, Nick thought. It was Cameron’s job to make introductions.

“Gentlemen,” he began, a slight catch in his throat. “Mr. Mullins is here as requested. Mr. Mullins, this is Lieutenant Steve Canfield.”

Canfield stood up as Nick worked his way down the length of the table on the side opposite Hargrave and offered his hand.

“I believe we’ve met,” he said, “at one news conference or another.”

Nick had had few dealings with Canfield but respected him. He had started as a street cop and rose to be commander of the department’s SWAT operations and then implemented the first community policing program as a captain in a rough neighborhood in the northwest section of the county.

“It was actually during a training exercise at the abandoned Margate hospital when you were running SWAT, sir,” Nick said, shaking the lieutenant’s hand. “Probably four, five years ago when I was putting together a magazine piece.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” he said and then sat.

Nick detected a movement from the mystery man when he had mentioned the SWAT exercise. The man had slightly lowered his file and Nick caught his eyes peering at him over the top edge of the paperwork.

“And you know Detective Hargrave,” Cameron said, “who you met the other day.”

Hargrave nodded but did not look up from his hands, which were clasped and resting on the table before him. Nick extended his own hand but, instead of presenting a handshake, turned his palm up to show the indentations that were still visible from its time pressed into the stones on the roof of the diagnostic center.

“Yesterday, in fact,” Nick said and then withdrew the hand.

“OK, please,” Lieutenant Canfield quickly said. “Fellas, let’s sit and talk about some concerns.”

As they pulled out chairs, Nick could see Cameron’s uneasiness as he cut his eyes from the lieutenant to the man still standing at the wall. Canfield picked up on the mood of the room.

“Guys, this is Agent Fitzgerald, who is an observer from a, uh, federal agency who will be sitting in.”

Fitzgerald raised his eyes again and nodded. Hargrave stared at his hands. Cameron said nothing, but scratched something onto the pad he’d now placed on the table.

“OK. We all know why we’re here,” Canfield began.

No one at the table responded. The statement had perhaps caught them all cynically thinking, No, we don’t know why the hell we’re here. Why don’t you tell us?

“Detective, you’ve got a homicide case that’s still fresh. I know you want to work that with every advantage available, and I know you’ve got your methods.

“Mr. Mullins, you’ve got a job to do as a member of the press covering this incident and we all respect that. You’ve been quick to come up with information that you’re presenting to the public, and we respect that too.”

Both men nodded their agreement to the obvious and let the silence force Canfield into saying something they didn’t already know.