“Who's that he's talking to?”
“Ahh . . .” Yurek tipped his head sideways for a better angle. “Kellerman, the public defender.”
“Oh, yeah. Worm Boy. Call him. See if Brandt and him were together,” Kovac ordered. “Find out if Brandt had any legit reason to be there.”
Adler raised a brow. “You think he's a suspect?”
“I think he's an asshole.”
“If that was against the law, the jails would be full of lawyers.”
“He jerked me around this morning,” Kovac complained. “Him and Bondurant are too cozy, and Bondurant's jerking us around too.”
“He's the victim's father,” Adler pointed out.
“He's the victim's rich father,” Tippen added.
“He's the victim's rich, powerful father,” Yurek, Mr. Public Relations, reminded all.
Kovac gave him a look. “He's part of a murder investigation. I've gotta run this investigation as tight as any other. That means we look at everybody. Family always comes under the microscope. I want to step on Brandt a little, let him know we're not just a pack of tame dogs Peter Bondurant can order around. If he can give us anything on Jillian Bondurant, I want it. And I also want to step on him because he's a fucking tick.”
“This smells like trouble, Kojak,” Yurek sang.
“It's a murder investigation, Charm. You want to consult Emily Post?”
“I want to come out of it with my career intact.”
“Your career is investigating,” Kovac returned. “Brandt had a connection to Jillian Bondurant.”
“You got any reason other than not liking him to think this prick shrink would off two hookers and decapitate a patient?” Tippen asked.
“I'm not saying he's a suspect,” he snapped. “He saw Jillian Bondurant Friday. He saw her every Friday. He knows everything we need to know about this vic. If he's withholding information on us, we have a right to squeeze him a little.”
“And make him squeal privilege.”
“He's already singing that song. Skate around it. Stay on the fringes. If we can so much as get him to mention the name of Jillian's boyfriend, that's something we didn't have before. As soon as we confirm the DB is Jillian, then there's no longer an expectation of privacy and we can lean on Brandt for details.
“Something else I don't like about this jerk,” Kovac added, pacing beside the table, the wheels of his brain spinning. “I don't like that he's been associated with God knows how many criminals. I want a list of every violent offender he's ever testified for or against.”
“I'll get it,” Tippen offered. “My ex works in records for the felony courts. She hates my guts, but she'll hate this killer more. I'll look good by comparison.”
“Man, that's sad, Tip.” Adler shook his head. “You barely rank above the scumbags.”
“Hey, that's a step up from when she filed the papers.”
“And Bondurant,” Kovac said, drawing another chorus of groans. “Bondurant won't talk to us, and I don't like that. He told Quinn he was worried about his privacy. Can't imagine why,” he added with a sly grin, pulling the mini-cassette recorder out of his coat pocket.
The five members of the task force present crowded around to listen. Liska and Moss were still out doing victim background. The feds had returned to the FBI offices. Walsh was working through the list VICAP had provided of similar crimes committed in other parts of the country. He would be calling agents in other Bureau field offices, and calling contacts he had in various law enforcement agencies through his affiliation with the FBI's National Academy program that offered training to law enforcement professionals outside the Bureau. Quinn had sequestered himself to work on Smokey Joe's profile.
The tape of Bondurant's conversation with Quinn played out. The detectives listened, barely breathing. Kovac tried to picture Bondurant, needing to see the man's face, needing the expressions that went with the mostly expressionless voice. He had gone over the conversation with Quinn, and had Quinn's impressions. But questioning someone via a third party was a lot like trying to have sex with someone who was in another room—a lot of frustration and not much satisfaction.
The tape played out. The machine shut itself off with a sharp click. Kovac looked from one team member to the next. Cop faces: stern with ingrained, guarded skepticism.
“That skinny white boy's hiding something,” Adler said at last, sitting back in his chair.
“I don't know that it has anything to do with the murder,” Kovac said. “But I'd say he's definitely holding something back on us about Friday night. I want to re-canvass the neighbors and talk to the housekeeper.”
“She was gone that night,” Elwood said.
“I don't care. She knew the girl. She knows her boss.”
Yurek groaned and put his head in his hands.
“What's your problem, Charm?” Tippen asked. “All you have to do is tell the newsies we have no comment at this time.”
“Yeah, on national television,” he said. “The big dogs smelled this shit and came running. I've got network news people ringing my phone off the hook. Bondurant is news all by himself. Bondurant plus a decapitated, burned corpse that may or may not be his daughter is the kind of stuff that transcends Tom Brokaw, headlines Dateline, and sells tabloids by the truckload. Sniff too hard in Peter Bondurant's direction, get the press leaning that way, I'm telling you, he'll blow. We'll be hip-deep in lawsuits and suspensions.”
“I'll work on Bondurant and Brandt,” Kovac said, knowing he'd have to do a hell of a lot better job of it than he'd done that morning. “I'll take the heat, but I need people working them peripherally, talking to friends, acquaintances, and so forth. Chunk, you and Hamill checking around Paragon? Working the disgruntled-employee angle?”
“Got a meeting out there in thirty.”
“Maybe we can talk to someone who knew the girl in France,” Tippen suggested. “Maybe the feds can dig up someone over there. Let us in on some of her back story. The kid was screwed up for a reason. Maybe some friend over there knows if this reason has a name.”
“Call Walsh and see what he can do. Ask him if there's any word yet on those medical records. Elwood, did you get anything back from Wisconsin on the DL our witness is running around with?”
“No wants, no warrants. I called information to get a phone number—she doesn't have one. I contacted the post office—they say she moved and left no forwarding address. Strike three.”
“She give us a sketch yet?” Yurek asked.
“Kate Conlan brought her in this morning to work with Oscar,” Kovac said, rising. “I'm gonna go see what's what right now. We'd better pray to God that girl has a Polaroid memory. A break on this thing now could save all our asses.”
“I'll need copies ASAP for the press,” Yurek said.
“I'll get it to you. What time are you set to play America's Most Wanted?”
“Five.”
Kovac checked his watch. The day was running double time and they didn't have much to show for it yet. That was the hell of getting an investigation this size off the ground. Time was of the essence. Every cop knew that after the first forty-eight hours of an investigation, the odds of solving a murder dropped off sharply. But the amount of information that needed to be gathered, collated, interpreted, and acted upon at the start of a multiple murder investigation was staggering. And just one piece ignored could be the one piece that turned the tide.