“Your lieutenant won't reassign you?”
“Fowler's on my side. He put me on the support team on the QT. I'm supposed to keep my head down and my mouth shut.”
“How long has he known you?”
“Long enough to know better.”
Quinn found a weary laugh. “Sam, you're something.”
“Yeah, I am. Just don't ask too many people what.” Kovac grinned, then it faded away. He dropped the last of his cigarette into an empty diet Coke can. “It's no ego trip, you know. I don't need my name in the paper. I don't care what goes in my jacket. I've never looked for a promotion, and I sure as hell don't expect to ever see another.
“I want this scumbag,” he said with steel in his voice. “I should've wanted him this bad when Lila White was killed, but I didn't. Not that I didn't care about her, but you were right: I went through the motions. I didn't hang in, didn't dig hard enough. When it didn't wrap up fast, I let it slide 'cause the brass was on my case and she was a hooker and hookers get whacked every once in a while. Hazard of the profession. Now we're up to four. I want Smokey Joe's ass on a platter before the body count goes up again.”
Quinn listened as Kovac said his piece, and nodded at the end of it. This was a good cop standing in front of him. A good man. And this case would break his career more easily than it would make it—even if he solved the mystery. But especially if the answer to the question turned out to be Peter Bondurant.
“What's the latest on Vanlees?” he asked.
“Tippen's riding his tail like a cat on a mouse. They pulled him over on Hennepin to ask about his buddy, the electronics dealer. Tip says the guy about shit his pants.”
“What about the electronics?”
“Adler checked out the guy's Web page. He specializes in computers and related gizmos, but if it plugs into a wall, he can get it for you. So there's nothing to say that he isn't up to his ears in recording equipment. I wish we could get a search warrant for his house, but there isn't a judge in the state who'd give us one based on what we've got on this mutt—which is nothing.”
“That bothers me,” Quinn admitted, tapping a pen against the file on Vanlees. “I don't think Gil's the brightest bulb in the chandelier. He's a good fit to the profile on a lot of points, but Smokey Joe is smart and he's bold, and Vanlees seems to be neither—which also makes him a perfect fall guy.”
Kovac fell into a chair as if the weight of this latest concern made the burden all suddenly too much for him. “Vanlees is connected to Jillian, and to Peter. I don't like that. I keep having this nightmare that Bondurant is Smokey Joe, and that no one will listen to me and no one else will look at him, and the son of a bitch will get away with it.
“I try to dig on him a little and he damn near gets me fired. I don't like it.” He pulled out another cigarette and just ran his fingers over it, as if he hoped that alone might calm him. “And then I think, ‘Sam, you're an idiot. Bondurant brought in Quinn.' Why would he do that if he was the killer?”
“For the challenge,” Quinn said without hesitation. “Or to get himself caught. I'd go with the first in this case. He'd get off on knowing I'm here and unable to spot him. Outsmarting the cops is big with this killer. But if Bondurant is Smokey Joe, then who's his accomplice?”
“Jillian,” Kovac offered. “And this whole thing with her murder is a sham.”
Quinn shook his head. “I don't think so. Bondurant believes his daughter is dead. Believes it more strongly than we do. That's no act.”
“So we're back to Vanlees.”
“Or the Urskines. Or someone we haven't even considered.”
Kovac scowled at him. “Some help you are.”
“That's why they pay me the big bucks.”
“My tax dollars at work,” he said with disgust. He hung the cigarette on his lip for a second, then took it away. “The Urskines. How twisted would that be? They whack two of their hookers, then do a couple of citizens in order to make a political point.”
“And to push suspicion away from themselves,” Quinn said. “No one considers the person trying to draw attention.”
“But to snatch the witness staying in their house? That's titanium balls.” Kovac tipped his head, considering. “I bet Toni Urskine can grow hair on hers.”
Quinn went to his wall of notes and scanned them, not really reading the words, just seeing a jumble of letters and facts that tangled in his mind with the theories and the faces and the names.
“Any word on Angie DiMarco?” he asked.
Kovac shook his head. “No one's seen her. No one's heard from her. We're flashing her picture on television, asking people to call the hotline if they've seen her. Personally, I'm afraid finding someone else in that car last night was just postponing the inevitable. But, hey,” he said, dragging himself up out of his chair, “I am, as my second wife used to call me, the infernal pessimist.”
He yawned hugely and consulted his watch.
“Well, GQ, I'm calling it. I can't remember the last time I slept in a bed. That's my goal for the night—if I don't pass out in the shower. How about you? I can give you a ride back to your hotel.”
“What for? Sleep? I gave that up. It was cutting into my anxiety attacks,” Quinn said, ducking his gaze. “Thanks anyway, Sam, but I think I'll stick to it awhile yet. There's something here I'm just not seeing.” He gestured to the open casebook. “Maybe if I stare at it all a little longer . . .”
Kovac watched him for a few moments without saying anything, then nodded. “Suit yourself. See you in the morning. You want me to pick you up?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Uh-huh. Well, good night.” He started through the door, then looked back in. “Say hello to Kate for me. If you happen to talk to her.”
Quinn said nothing. He did nothing for a full five minutes after Kovac left, just stood there thinking Kovac had a hell of an eye. Then he went to the phone and dialed Kate's number.
30
CHAPTER
“KATE, IT'S ME. Uh—John. Um, I'm at the office. Give me a call if you get the chance. I'd like to go over some points in these victimologies with you. Get your take. Thanks.”
Kate stared at the phone as the line went dead and the message light began to flash. A part of her felt guilty for not picking up. A part of her felt relieved. At the core she ached at the lost opportunity to touch him in some way. A bad sign, but there it was.
She was exhausted, stressed out, overwhelmed, feeling as low as she had in years . . . and she wanted John Quinn's arms around her. She hadn't taken his call precisely for that reason. She was afraid.
What a rotten, unwelcome feeling it was.
The office was silent. She and Rob were the only ones left in their section. Rob sequestered in his office down the hall, no doubt writing a long and virulent report to file in her personnel jacket. On the other side of the reception area, in the county attorney's offices, there were any number of assistant prosecutors at work preparing for court, strategizing and researching and writing briefs and motions. But for the most part the building was empty. For all intents and purposes, she was alone.
Her nerves were raw from spending hours listening to the voice of her dead client confessing her fears of being hurt, her fears of being raped, of being killed, of dying alone, and Kate's own voice reassuring her, promising to look out for her, to get her help, fostering a false security that had ultimately failed Melanie Hessler in the worst possible way.
Rob had insisted on playing the tapes over and over, stopping and rewinding in sections, asking Kate the same questions over and over. As if any of it would make any difference at all. The cops didn't want to hear about the subtle nuances of Melanie's speech. All they wanted to know was if Melanie had expressed a fear of anyone in particular in the last few weeks of her life.