Red Light (38 page)

"I'm not at
liberty to discuss that at this time," Glandis said. "Next?
Susanne?"

"Was
Sergeant McNally involved with the woman?"

Glandis shook his
head. "Sergeant McNally was part of a Vice Detail operation to curb outcall
prostitution in the county."

"Then
he knew Ms. Whittaker?"

"They
had worked together on a limited basis, yes."

"Was
there a personal relationship?"

"I'm
not at liberty to discuss that at this time. Next? Dan?"

"Where
is Sergeant McNally right now?"

"In
the protective block at the county jail."

"Have you
recovered the murder weapon, and if so, can you describe it?"

"We impounded a
forty-five caliber Colt automatic belonging Sergeant McNally. It is in our
crime lab as we speak, undergoing a battery of firearms, toolmark and ballistic
analyses. Next? Brice?"

"Did
you find the silencer?"

"We
have a warrant to search for such a device."

"McNally's
property, or somewhere else?"

"I'm
not at liberty to—"

"How's
it look for special circumstances and a death penalty?"

Merci cringed at
Brice's tone of voice, making light of the idea executing Mike McNally. She saw
Glandis redden, too.

"What do you
mean?" asked Glandis. "
How's it look?
This isn’t a
circus
here, Brice, this is a man's life. And a woman's."

"The
woman's life is over. So, special circumstances or not?"

"That isn't our
decision. We made an arrest based on evidence. You can talk to the district
attorney about that. Next? Bowman?"

"Mel,
did he act alone?"

"We
believe so."

"What
was his motive?"

"We
don't know yet. We're looking at a couple of possibilities."

"Do
you have a witness?"

"I'm
not at liberty .. ."

Merci saw Gary Brice
turn in his seat and look back at her. He peered at her over the tops of his
glasses, a gaze of pointed question of the fact that she and Zamorra weren't up
there at the table instead Wheeler and Teague. She shook her head slightly,
looking away.

Brice was the only
reporter who knew about her off-duty relationship with Mike—so far as she knew.
Did reporters gossip like cops? Maybe not. Given the bigness of this breaking
story, none of them had thought to ask why one team of detectives had started
the investigation and another had taken it over. Gary Brice, she knew, was
waiting to ask her in private.

Zamorra whispered in
her ear, reading her mind again like it was easy, "Tell him it's none of
his damned business. Or I will."

"I
can do that," she murmured back.

"Meet me in the
conference room when you get done with him. I've got something."

She nodded and headed out.

• •

Brice caught up with her
in the hall and Merci took him outside. She put on her sunglasses against the
perfect after-storm sunshine, walking fast with Brice beside her.

"I
could have used a heads-up on this one," he said.

"We
arrested him last night, Gary. Late."

"What
gives—first it's your case and now it's not."

"Mike and I are
friends, you know that. It's just a matter of common sense and procedure."

"Conflict
of interest."

"You
could call it that."

"So,
how do I describe your relationship with Mike, in my paper?"

"Good friends,
if you have to at all. The meat of this story isn't Mike and me. It's
Mike."

"The meat of
this story is how you caught him. Help me out here, Merci."

"I'm under a
gag, Gary. As the case progresses, I'll be able to give you more."

"You haven't
given me a damn thing. Come on, Sergeant—put yourself in my position. I've got
a story. A sheriff's deputy arrested for the murder of a prostitute he was
working with. I've got sheriff investigators—one of them the suspect's ...
friend—finding him out.
How?
What was your first break? How'd you even
start
looking
at one of your own?"

She thought before
she spoke. "The crime-scene evidence led us to suspect him. Interviews
confirmed the suspicion. A search warrant turned up crucial evidence. There.
Want me to write it for you?"

"What
crime-scene evidence?"

"I can't be
specific, Gary. We're trying to build a case right now. I don't want to hang
him in the
Journal.
We want a fair trial."

"He
was banging her, and she was going to blackmail him, right?'

She felt the anger
jump into her face, fought the instinct to clutch the reporter's throat with
both her hands and pinch his head off.

"I
can't comment on that."

"I
think you already have."

"What
in the hell do you mean?"

"I
thought you were tipping me that way."

Merci stopped and
looked at him. "I just told you I can't comment on that."

"Well,
can you explain this?"

Gary Brice reached
into his coat pocket and pulled out a stapled collection of papers. He stepped
forward, to her side, holding them firm in both hands but out in front of her,
so she could see them. He flipped slowly through the collection. There were
eight pages in all. Each was a photocopy of a greeting card or letter—the ones
between Mike and Aubrey Whittaker. Merci recognized some of them from Whittake
apartment, others from Mike's home in Modjeska. One was the card that went
missing from the lab almost one week ago. Reflexively, she reached out for
them, but Brice snapped them away and folded them back into his pocket.

"Don't
mess with my living," he said.

"When?"
she asked quietly. "How?"

"U.S. mail,
yesterday afternoon. They made about half sense then. Full sense now."

"Do
you still have the—"

"Yeah, it's a
standard legal size, no return address, a regular stamp. The handwriting is
childish or wrong-handed. It came to my home. I got it for you in the car if
you want it. It's in a plastic bag that locks D.C. stands for Dark Cloud—that's
Mike. Aubrey or AW are self explanatory. Right?"

Merci nodded but said
nothing. She turned and started off around parking lot, Brice beside her. The
morning air was cool and she jamrmed her hands into her windbreaker. She tried
to make her voice as convincing as possible, but even Merci could hear the emptiness
of her promise.

"Gary, you sit
on those for one week, and I'll make sure you get something better."

"There
is
nothing better. What I've gotten from you so far is the honor of sitting in a
press conference with every other reporter in the county, watching Mel Glandis
sweat peanut butter. Thanks. That was a real help."

She shook her head,
stopped and turned. "I can impound those letters as evidence."

"I
already copied them. I got copies of the copies. Come on."

She studied him,
wished she had a fire hose to blow him out into the street. "All right.
You've got the letters. You've got the front-page story for two weeks. And I'm
going to ask you not to write it."

"Why?"

"Because you're
obstructing justice. You're trying a man in the press. It's wrong and you
shouldn't do it."

Brice
laughed quickly. "It's my
job."

"This
is more important than your job."

"Wrong. This is
what I have: Mike McNally, good cop, a single man, tries to help prostitute,
prostitute does what prostitutes do—she tries to make a profit on it. Suggests
blackmail. We can now factor in Merci Rayborn, a lady cop who was the staunch
friend and lover of Mike. She heads the investigation for a while, then gets
called off it when the arrows start pointing to her guy. That's a damned good
story, and you know what? It's the
truth.
So don't tell me I'm a bottom
feeder for wanting to tell the truth. There are people out there in this world—
known as citizens—who've got a right to know. I happen to believe in that
right. I happen to believe it's part of what makes this country great. I'm
writing the story. I'm using file photos of you and Mike and Aubrey Whittaker.
I just need two things from you."

She said nothing.
Brice backed up a step. "One—tell me the whole thing, start to finish, in
your own words. I'll use them and I won't change them. You can help me edit the
copy to protect Mike, protect your case against him, whatever you want. I've
never made an offer to let anybody edit my copy before, just to let you
know."

"I
won't do that and I never will."

"I
understand. Two—how do you feel right now?"

"Oh,
crap, you're down to that level?"

"Believe
it or not, it matters.
How does this make you feel?"

"On
the record or off?"

"Gimme
both."

"On the record,
Gary, it saddened me to see him arrested. Off the record—it broke my fucking
heart."

He looked at her a
little strangely then, like he was seeing some part of her for the first time.
"How do you spell that modifier?"

She turned and
started back. Brice caught up and walked along beside her, not speaking.

"Gary? I'll make
you one last offer. You kill that story and I'll give you something
better."

"What's
better than this?"

"The
truth."

"What's not true
here? Name me one thing I've said that isn't the truth?
One thing!"

She bit her lip and
walked. She had no answer for that, other than the obvious.

"You're
being used."

"But
I'm enjoying it quite a bit."

"Something
bad is going to come."

"Oh,
and don't tell me—you don't want to see me get hurt."

"It's not that.
I wish you were in a guillotine right now. I'd drop blade."

"I
might have to work that into my story."

"I
tried, Gary. I tried to get through to you."

"Hey,
don't give up on me. You've got my numbers."

At the steps to the
Sheriff's Building entrance Merci could see group of reporters around Mike's
defense attorney, Bob Rule. He looked' at her, then back to his group.

She broke in off the
other direction, following Gary Brice to car. The handwriting on Brice's
envelope looked to her just like writing on the envelope with the key inside.
She guessed there'd be prints.

One source, she
thought: leading me to Bailey, and using the press to punish Mike.

Crisis mode in the
Sheriff's Building. Merci could feel it when she walked in: grim looks, all
business, and a tightness in the air that seemed to amplify sound while
everybody tried to be quietly efficient. Brighton's door was closed. Glandis
was locked to a telephone, sweat rings advanced from armpit to chest. The
captains conferred around the desk of the undersheriff and the uniforms all
seemed to have their chests out.

She
found Zamorra in the conference room alone, slouched in a chair at the big
table, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him. She shut the door behind her
and sat across from him.

"Someone
leaked to Brice at the
Journal,"
she said. "I think it's the
same party who sent me the Bailey key. Brice now has copies of Mike's letters
to Whittaker. Of Whittaker's letters back. He's going to run with the three-way
romance gone bad—Mike, her and me."

"Get Brighton to
call his publisher."

"I'll
try. But it won't work. This is meat and potatoes for the
Journal.
It's
a great damned story."

"Can you lean
back? What do you have on Brice?"

"Nothing."

She
sighed, then spoke very quietly. "Look, Paul. We're off the Whittaker
case, right?"

"Right."

"But we've got some
loose threads, right?"

Zamorra smiled just a
little. "Loose threads are exactly what we have."

"So
we can tie them up, our way of helping Wheeler and Teague, right? Our
responsibility?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Good.
Then what did you get?"

"Some
kind of coat, maybe a heavy shirt, on the floor of Aubrey Whittaker's kitchen.
Man's or woman's, they can't say. But they can say its got dark gray, purple
and sea-green fibers in it. In the struggle, the garment got caught on the
corner of the drawer. I pulled eight strands out of the wood. Found two more on
the floor."

"Who's
they?"

"Friends on the
San Diego P.D. I ran the fibers down there Tuesday, got the call last night. I
documented it all, everything. So the chain evidence is tight."