“I never believed Devin assaulted Jimmie,” Reid said calmly. “I don’t think he killed him, either.”
“So why’d you arrest him?” Calla asked in disbelief.
“The evidence couldn’t be ignored,” Reid explained.
Since the evidence was a mass of contradictions, that was the dumbest, most shortsighted reason Calla had ever heard. Bureaucratic nonsense. Still, she made an effort to rein in her temper. Anger would only cloud her thoughts. Somebody needed to display a little sense.
But the injustice burned her up. What kind of Sherwood Forest was the NYPD running?
His expression blank, Devin stared at Reid. “Why don’t you think I’m guilty?”
“The assault was too candy-ass. Not your style.”
“And Jimmie was murdered?”
“The M.E. thinks so,” Reid said. “There was no sign of a struggle on his body or in the apartment, but neither were there previous needle marks. Also, he’d consumed a sedative an hour before his death. The pills were found in a prescription bottle with the label peeled off, but no other evidence of illegal drug use.”
“And if it was suicide,” Devin added, “he didn’t need the heroin. He could’ve swallowed all the pills.”
Reid’s lips turned up in a tired smile. “Exactly.”
Calla wasn’t sure about Devin, but she wasn’t ready to be pals with Reid. “So why are you telling us all this now?”
“I’d like your help.” Reid pulled a thick, accordion-style file from his briefcase. “Based on your stakeout the other night, it’s obvious you’re conducting your own investigation. We might as well combine our efforts. It’s clear somebody’s set you up. If we figure out who’s behind the scheme, we’ll clear your name and find Jimmie’s killer.”
“So you’re dismissing the charges,” Devin said.
Reid winced. “Not yet. As far as anybody other than us and a few key people in the department know, you’re still on the hook for Jimmie’s assault and suspected of his murder.”
Calla barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. “You’re kidding.”
“We don’t know how far the conspiracy reaches,” Reid reasoned. “I want the killer to think he—or more likely in this case she—is getting away with the frame. I don’t want her making any more moves until we have time to investigate.”
“Who are the key people?” Devin asked.
“My captain, Lieutenant Meyer and Anderson from Homicide. I think you know him. He’s been assigned to investigate Jimmie’s murder.”
Devin looked unimpressed by Reid’s we’re-all-on-the-same-team-but-in-secret proposal. “Why should we trust you?”
Reid met Devin’s gaze. “I go after dirty cops. I don’t ruin good ones.” He dropped the file on the coffee table. “That’s everything I’ve got.”
Devin slid his hand down Calla’s back. “What do you think, babe?”
Babe? Delight flooded Calla, both at the unexpected endearment and the realization that he was asking her advice before committing to Reid. “I’m not sure we can trust him, but we could use his information.”
“I agree.” Devin shifted his attention to Reid. “You’ve got a deal.”
Reid didn’t comment on their doubt. He was probably used to other cops treating him with suspicion.
Digging into the case file, they discovered Devin’s fingerprints from only his right hand had been found on the pipe used to assault Jimmie. How likely was it that he hadn’t touched the pipe at all with his other hand? Also, the pipe had been found against the brick wall of the alley, fifteen feet from where Jimmie and Devin fell, which explained why Devin hadn’t noticed it when he regained consciousness.
So Devin had beat up Jimmie, knocked himself out then tossed the pipe away? That dog don’t hunt, as her friends in Texas would say.
“You see those notes about the pipe?” Devin asked her.
“Could it have rolled over there?” Calla mused, glancing at Reid.
“Not that far,” the lieutenant answered. “You can see why I was skeptical from the beginning.”
Like the assault, Jimmie’s murder was planned and organized, but ultimately flawed. Was that because the killer was so focused on revenge that she wasn’t thinking clearly, or because she simply wasn’t intelligent enough to pull off a complicated conspiracy?
“People who think cops are stupid piss me off,” Reid added.
Reid’s frustration and exhaustion had clearly allowed him to loosen up, and she was actually beginning to like him. “You figure she planned on you buying Jimmie’s story and not looking too deeply into the inconsistencies?”
“She certainly doesn’t understand cops.”
“No respect for them, either,” Calla pointed out. “If this woman is framing Devin because he arrested her or someone she cares about, she’s getting back at him for doing his duty. Devin’s only the instrument of the law.”
“Unless it’s more personal.” Reid looked toward Devin. “I know I asked you yesterday, but you’re sure there’s not an ex-girlfriend out there who has it in for you?”
Devin looked amused. “Except for the one in prison, no.”
Calla’s hand clenched around the stack of pictures she held. “She’s still there, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Reid’s eyes gleamed as his gaze roved her face. “And it’s nice to see the detective’s choices have greatly improved.”
“Look all you like, Reid,” Devin said, his tone dangerously soft. “But don’t even think about touching her.”
She belonged to Devin, all right. But for how long?
Since that wasn’t a subject she wanted to dwell on, she went back to looking through the photos.
The shots of Jimmie’s battered face and body were graphic and jarring, and Calla felt a moment of pity for the squirrelly thief. What had his partner promised him to go along with the scheme? Money? Could’ve been about sex, too. Or simply revenge against the cop who’d arrested and testified against him.
“I see you considered the idea I had a co-conspirator,”
Devin said, reading from the file.
Reid poured himself more coffee. “I tried to look at the conflicting facts from all angles. If you’d had a partner who’d knocked you out after you’d beat up Jimmie, then he could have tossed the pipe away.”
“Then where are his prints?” Devin argued. “And why leave the pipe at the scene?”
“He wouldn’t.” Reid leaned back in his chair. “Every time I lined up the evidence against you, the results simply didn’t make sense. Especially for a cop.”
After another hour of studying the information and becoming frustrated that a miraculous smoking gun hadn’t appeared, Calla headed to the kitchen for a snack.
At least Reid’s notes and supposition had confirmed their own ideas, and, in her mind at least, her theory about the killer considering herself an avenging angel was not only alive but probable.
Yet how were they going to find her? The cops would ask Jimmie’s neighbors and show them the sketch. And the crime scene techs had collected hair and fibers from the murder scene. She couldn’t possibly have been in Jimmie’s apartment and not left DNA somewhere. So if she was in the criminal database, they’d have a great lead. If not, they—
“Oh, no.” She nearly dropped the block of cheese she’d pulled out of the fridge. “The scrap of gold fabric.”
When she’d shown it to Devin last week, he hadn’t given her much hope that it was connected to his case. But that was before the idea of Jimmie’s partner being a woman emerged.
Across the room, Devin was asking Reid about the angle of the pipe blows, and maybe it was possible for a crime scene expert to determine the height of Jimmie’s attacker.
Her heart pounding with guilt, Calla dug in her purse for the evidence, which she’d sealed in a plastic zip bag. She had the dreaded feeling the lieutenant wasn’t going to be quite as nonchalant as Devin had been.
No fool in the strategy department, she
sliced the cheese and some cured sausage, then assembled the snack on a plate with a variety of crackers. The guys mumbled their thanks, and she waited until their mouths were full before broaching the subject of the item she was holding behind her back.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” she began. When he looked her way, she managed to swallow her nerves. “It’s Colin, right?”
As he nodded, Devin furrowed his brow. Her sweet tone was probably too much.
“I, ah...found this near where Jimmie and Devin were assaulted.” She handed him the plastic bag. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but maybe the lab should do some tests or something.”
“Where?” was Reid’s single, terse question.
“On a shrub at the alley entrance.” Calla didn’t think she would have trusted him with the information before today. “I remember smelling gardenias when I picked it up.”
“From the foliage or the fabric?” Reid asked.
A little put out by his smart-aleck question, Calla crossed her arms over her chest. “Gardenias bloom in the spring.”
“You think it could be something?” Devin asked Reid, though he’d already made his doubt clear.
Reid laid the bag on top of the file. “Probably not.”
“Your guys still missed it,” Calla said smartly.
“Unless it was caught there after we left,” Reid reminded her. “When did you two go by?”
Calla sighed. “The next day.”
Reid shrugged. “I’ll have the techs at the lab look at it. You never know.”
The guys dug into their snack again, and Calla joined them. Food was comfort and inspiration according to Shelby. And they could use some of both.
When Reid’s phone rang, he moved into the kitchen to talk, and Calla moved into Devin’s lap. “What should Reid’s gang name be?”
He pressed his lips beneath her jaw. “He doesn’t get one. He’s a reluctant ally.”
“What do you make of his backdoor deal?”
“There are rumors Reid’s due a promotion. If he clears me, he could get captain’s bars.”
“Maybe he simply wants to help a fellow cop. Seems to me he’s risking quite a bit by coming to you. Wouldn’t the prosecutor have a fit if he found out?”
“He would. Which is why we have to keep quiet and find Jimmie’s killer ASAP.”
“Given all the contradictory evidence, Howard might be able to get your assault charge dismissed now. You still want to throw your lot in with Reid?”
“We need him,” Devin reminded her. “It would be nice to do this as a team.”
Devin wanted to play nice with others? A few months ago, Calla would’ve never believed it possible.
“That was Detective Anderson,” Reid said, approaching them. “He’s at Jimmie’s place and wants us to come by, see if you can spot anything we missed. You know him better than either of us.”
“Wonder if he has a gold lamé jacket hidden in the back of his closet?” Calla commented as she pushed to her feet.
After she dressed in jeans and sweater, she gave Sharky a cat treat, then tucked him in his basket. On the way out the door, she was both excited and encouraged. Before they were fighting against the system. Now that they were back on the inside, sort of, anyway, she had a whole new respect for the establishment.
Still, they probably ought to bring their inside man into the fold, legend-wise. “Hey, Colin, what do you know about Robin Hood?”
* * *
AT JIMMIE’S APARTMENT, Devin introduced Calla to Detective Carl Anderson and hoped she didn’t take his rumpled brown hair and disordered clothes as a measure of his capabilities. His eyes were sharp as a blade.
The apartment was one room and spare, with a generic navy blue chair and sofa that were probably rented, a TV rested on a plastic milk crate and a beige lamp on a wobbly end table.
“Not much in the fridge but leftover Chinese food and beer,” Anderson began. “We’ve dusted for prints. Haven’t found any but the vic’s.”
So none of the people they saw Sunday night came to this apartment? Had he actually slept while the suspect went inside? Could the woman that set off a wrong note have had nothing to do with Jimmie, after all? Had it been a wild leap brought on by desperation for some kind of solid lead? “How long’s he been here?”
“Three weeks,” Anderson said.
“And no visitors?” Devin asked, surprised. Jumpin’ Jimmie scored a Manhattan address and hadn’t invited anybody over? “Wait. No other prints?”
Anderson smiled. “None.”
“He’s only been here a few weeks. Where are the former tenant’s prints? The furniture has to be rented, which equal moving guys’ prints.”
“There’s a bill from the rental company on the kitchen counter,” Anderson told him.
Reid glanced around, suspicion clear in his eyes. “Somebody wiped the place.”
“Oh, yeah.” Clearly annoyed, Anderson gestured to the room at large. “I see why you brought me in, Colin. This whole deal’s off. One, it’s too neat in here. Where’re the empty soda cans and beer bottles? The TV remote is tucked neatly in the end table drawer. Two, how’d Jimmie afford this place? The forestry service ain’t hirin’, last I heard.”
“Excuse me?” Calla broke in. “Forestry?”
“Jimmie’s squirrely,” Devin explained. “The woman was the only single person we saw. Everybody else was a family or couples.”
“She kept her face turned away from the porch light,” Calla reminded him. “Do you mind if I look around?”
Anderson shrugged. “A woman’s perspective couldn’t hurt. I really hate chick killers.”
Calla angled her head. “Why is that?”
“They’re meaner,” Anderson said simply.
“Good to know.” Calla turned and headed straight to the door at the far end of the room that had to lead to a bathroom.
Curious, Devin followed her.
“I know Anderson and his people checked here,” she said before he could ask. She wrapped her hand in the scarf around her neck before opening the doors beneath the sink. “When you’ve got one room, where else are you gonna hide stuff?” She glanced back at him. “Did anybody check the oven?”
Strangely amused and aroused by her crafty thinking, Devin knelt beside her. “No idea.”
“They should.” She searched the small area, knocking on the walls when nothing jumped out at her. “I’ve been watching too many spy movies.” Blowing out a breath, she pushed to standing—and gasped.
“Those are gardenias.”
As she reached for the ceramic pot of white flowers, Devin grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch.”
“Don’t you think that’s a wild coincidence?” she asked, pointing at the arrangement beside the sink.
“No. With this case, there are no coincidences. Evidence? Maybe.” Devin leaned past the door way. “Anderson, come look at this.”
“Flowers?” Anderson questioned, clearly skeptic of how they could be significant. “Yeah, we saw them, dusted the pot. No prints there, either.”
“What about the flowers themselves?” Calla asked.
“Not gonna get anything clear,” Anderson said. “Why bother?”
Again, Calla wrapped her hand in her scarf as she eased one of the blossoms from the vase. “I’d bother, and I’d check the stems.”
“This is about that scrap of gold fabric?” Anderson asked. “Reid gave it to me for the lab to look at. Said it had a floral-like scent.”
Calla grimaced, no doubt because of the vague description, then extended the blossom. “Gardenias.”
Anderson’s gaze moved to Devin. “You think there’s anything here?”
The chances that the flowers were connected to the case and would lead to a significant development were so low they were in the single digits. But Calla had been steadfastly loyal to him through everything. No way he’d hurt her feelings by doubting her now. “Could be,” he said.
“What the hell.” Anderson took the blossom with
his gloved hand, then scooped the arrangement off the sink. “We ain’t got nothin’ else.”
12
The New York Tattletale
Farewell Toast and Getting Toasted in Style
by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger
(And proud of it!)
This is one of those unfortunate days when I have to fall back on a cliché—do you want the good news or the bad news first?
Since I can’t leave you with tragedy, here’s the scoop on the bad, bad stuff.... Remember the guy who accused the hottest cop in NYC of assault? (Yes, I know it was last week! Focus, people!) Well, he’s crossed that great Brooklyn Bridge in the sky. No victim, no trial, right? Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say? The cops have closed ranks on this one, and so far, nobody’s talking. (Don’t fret, my lovelies, I shall not be dissuaded!) In the meantime, I’m thinking what all of you must be: murder charges can’t be far behind....
Not that mayhem and murder are going to stop this steadfast reporter from checking out the latest martini bar in Midtown tomorrow night. I know, I know, darlings, been there, done that so many times we’ve lost count. But Swizzle makes an amazing pomegranate martini with extract from the seeds—which is supposed to be healthy or something, but who cares about that? You’ll look as cool as hip-hop legend Cameo (who’s rumored to hang out there on Thursday nights). Plus, Swizzle is the place for the latest trend in mixology—cocktail popsicles. Not just cool, frozen!
Keep calm and keep your ears tuned,
—Peeps
* * *
“IF I EVER GET MY HANDS on that Peeps Galloway, I’m going to teach her the definition of assault—up close and personal.”
Tossing the trashy paper aside, Calla accepted the martini Victoria handed her. “Blue?” she asked, staring at the tinted liquid in the glass.
Victoria held up her own glass. Her drink was purple. “Shelby’s experimenting for a wedding. The bride wants cocktails to match her bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“O-kay.” Calla took a sip. The concoction was sweet with a hint of something tropical. “Not bad.”
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