"I think her first name's Mary Beth. If it is, then her maiden name was Brennan, although she might've gotten married along the way and changed it. She lives – lived – somewhere in Exeter, which is a little town–"
"I know where Exeter is, Sergeant," Thorwald said. "What I'm uncertain about is exactly what you know. I'm hearing 'think', 'might've', and 'somewhere'. None of that exactly inspires confidence in your information. Do you have an ID on the victim, or don't you?"
Karl had her pegged, all right. Hunt – or something like that.
I took a deep breath and let it out, in an effort to calm myself down a bit. Then I said, "I used all those qualifiers because I wanted to be precise about what I know at this point, and what I don't. I think it's highly probable that the female vic started life – and maybe ended it – as Mary Beth Brennan. I'll probably have more solid information in a day or so, including an ID based on a screen cap of the woman's face, if you'll loan me that DVD again, or let me burn a copy."
"Why 'a day or so', Markowski?" Greer said. "You holding out on us?"
Control. Keep calm. Shooting FBI agents is a felony, even if they deserve it.
"I'm not holding out anything," I said. "It's just that the situation's complicated. Here's why."
I told them about my initial mistaken ID of the victim, then about my phone conversation with Lacey the next day. I left out the part where she threatened to deny me access to her beautiful ass forever if I didn't spill the beans – it would've given them the wrong impression, both about Lacey and about me.
When I was done, both Thorwald and Greer were looking at me with the kind of expression you see on a Statie when he pulls you over for doing fifty in a school zone.
"I cannot believe," Thorwald said, "that you would be so unprofessional as to reveal the very existence of these videos, let alone the contents of one, without clearing it with us first."
"I would have," I said, "but you two haven't been around the last two nights. And I understand that you refused to give your contact information to our PA."
McGuire looked at me, then at Thorwald. "You haven't given us any way to contact you?"
"That information is released on a 'need to know' basis," Thorwald said.
"And you don't think that these officers," McGuire said, "who are working on the case that you brought to us, might have a need to know how to get in touch with you?"
"Messages left at the local FBI field office will be forwarded to us," Thorwald said primly. "And right now I don't wish to be distracted from the issue of Sergeant Markowski's carelessness in revealing what is essentially confidential information."
"I didn't give it to the New York Times," I said, "or even to the Times-Tribune. I told a veteran detective who knows how to keep her mouth shut."
"A veteran detective who's now got an emotional involvement in the case," Greer said.
"Some people are funny that way," I said. "When you tell them that one of their close relatives has been tortured to death, they get all upset."
"I still say you shouldn't have told her," Thorwald said. "She could have been shown one of those screen caps you were talking about earlier, and asked to make an identification of the woman in the photo."
"Yeah, that would work," I said. "You show Lacey Brennan a photo of a woman's face and ask, 'Is this your sister?' And when she wants to know why you're asking, you say 'Sorry, that's classified information.' I'm ninety-nine percent certain she'd tell you to–" I turned to Karl. "What's that expression she uses?"
"You mean 'Go fuck yourself'?"
"That's the one." I turned back to the Feebies. "She'd tell you to go fuck yourself. And you know what – she'd be right."
The two FBI agents looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then Thorwald gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, since the cat's out of the bag, we may as well make use of it. I'll need contact information for this Detective Brennan."
I gave her a tight smile. "Sorry. That's classified."
She glared at me, then turned to McGuire. "Lieutenant, would you please tell your officer to–"
"All right," I said. "All right. What I meant was, it would be a bad idea to try to talk to Lacey about this today."
Instead of asking the question, Thorwald just gave me raised eyebrows.
"Because she's still in the initial hours of grieving," I said, "and because right now she is either a) drunk, or b) viciously hung over. You shouldn't try to talk to her in either condition."
"Unless you enjoy being told to go fuck yourself," Karl said. "And if that's your kink, we can save you the ride to Wilkes-Barre and do it for you right here."
"Let me talk to her," I told Thorwald. I tried for a reasonable tone of voice. "Tomorrow. If you'll give me a screen cap of the victim's face, I'll show it to her. If she IDs it as her sister, then I'll get all the information I can from Lacey about her."
"I thought you said the two women weren't close," Thorwald said, but she sounded like she was trying for reasonable, too.
"I did, but Lacey also told me that they exchange Christmas cards, so she'll have the address, at least. I'll get that, along with the sister's current last name and anything else that Lacey knows. Just give me twenty-four hours, fortyeight at the most. What do you say?"
"I say you ought to–" Greer began, but Thorwald made a sharp gesture and cut him off like a guillotine. "Very well, Sergeant," she said calmly. "If you'll give me your email address, I'll have some screen caps made, showing only the victim's face, and send them to you. When you have some information about said victim, I'd like to know about it. Fair enough?"
I gave her a nod. "Fair enough."
Her voice was mild, but the message in her eyes was the same one you'd get from a high school bully whose torments have been interrupted by a teacher: "We'll finish this later."