Another voice-it had to be the young cop-answered, “What are you…”
And then there was a second of dead silence.
Dutton whispered, “They know.”
Alec nodded. He motioned to Dutton to cover the steps while he slowly edged closer to the railing so he could see what was happening.
Tanner was losing it, pacing back and forth, defensively throwing accusations at the twins. Lyle shoved the cop toward Tanner and pulled a gun.
It all went to hell then.
Chapter Seven
“So are you in, Regan?” Sophie asked.
“Of course I am.”
“I knew you would be,” she said. “You’re always telling me I’m a sucker for lost causes…”
“Actually, that’s what Cordie tells you.”
“Yes, but you’re a sucker too.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Regan asked.
Cordie was just finishing her cheeseburger. She waved a fry in Sophie’s direction and said, “You’re going to be late. Didn’t you tell me you had a meeting at one-forty-five?”
“I need to talk to Regan first,” Sophie said. She turned her full attention on her friend and said, “I need you to read the diary as soon as possible, but definitely before tonight. It won’t take long. Mary didn’t write in it every night. I think it’s only forty-some pages. You know what? Maybe you could read it after Cordie and I leave. And then…”
“Yes?”
She took a breath and blurted out, “I need another favor. I need you to go to the police station and find out if anything has been done with the investigation. Cordie went last time, so it’s your turn.”
“My turn? I just joined in this-”
“It’s still your turn,” Sophie pointed out.
“Why can’t you go to the police station?” Regan asked.
“Are you serious? I’m a reporter. They won’t tell me anything.”
Before Regan could say a word, Sophie said, “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You too, Cordie. So I’m not a full-fledged investigative reporter yet, and, yes, I know you know I haven’t written any big exposes yet, and I’ve been working my butt off on the advice column at the paper for almost five fuckin’ years, but honestly, Regan, you should have more faith in me. You too, Cordie,” she said again. “Everything’s going to change soon. You’ll see.”
“I have complete faith in you,” Regan protested. “And I wasn’t thinking…” She suddenly stopped arguing and laughed. “You’re really good, Soph, with the guilt thing.”
“She’s a pro all right,” Cordie said.
“I was trying to guilt you, wasn’t I? Old habits die hard, I suppose. But I still can’t go to the police station because there are always reporters hanging around in case something big happens, and one of them will surely recognize me and want to know what I’m doing there. I know how busy you are…”
“I can make the time,” Regan promised.
Sophie was thrilled. “You do understand why I don’t want any other reporter snooping around, don’t you? This is my investigation. I want to be the one to nail Shields and get justice for Mary Coolidge.”
“And maybe get yourself a Pulitzer?” Cordie asked.
Sophie smiled. “That’s a one-in-a-billion possibility, but one can always hope. That’s not why I’m doing it, though.”
“We know,” Cordie said. “Shouldn’t you get going, Soph?”
Sophie looked at her watch and groaned. “I’m gonna be late. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said as she grabbed her purse. “Will one of you pay for my lunch? I’ll pay for dinner tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Cordie said.
“What time are you picking me up?” Sophie asked. “And who’s driving?”
While Cordie was answering, the sleazebag and his babycakes girlfriend caught Regan’s eye as they strolled out of the restaurant. Cordie noticed the change in her friend’s expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“That creepy old man hanging all over that twelve-year-old.”
Cordie turned and spotted the couple. “She isn’t twelve. She’s got to be at least eighteen. Otherwise he could get busted.”
“And he’s what? Sixty?”
“He could be,” she said. “And the age difference bothers you because…”
“It’s disgusting.”
“And?”
“You’re sounding like a therapist.”
“I just think you ought to admit why you’re so disgusted. The couple remind you of your creepy stepfather and his sleazy bride.”
“Of course they do.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I thought I was helping you make a breakthrough.” She smiled then. “You really need to lighten up a little. It’s time.”
Regan nodded. She knew Cordie was right. She just wasn’t sure how to go about it.
“I’ve had the most horrible morning. Have you got time for me to do some whining?”
“How much whining?”
“A bunch.”
Cordie laughed. “I can give you ten minutes. Then I’ve got to leave.”
Regan immediately launched into her complaints about her job, her brother Aiden’s constant interference, and her run-in with his assistant, Emily. When she told Cordie that Henry had caught Emily snooping in her office, Cordie was incensed and said, “You need to fire her ass.”
Regan’s eyes widened. Cordie laughed. “I’m starting to sound like my students. You do need to fire her, though.”
“I can’t. She’s Aiden’s assistant. He has to fire her,” she said. “But knowing you’re as outraged as I am makes me feel better. I’ve done enough whining for now. I think I’ll order another iced tea and read this diary. Then I’ll walk over to the police station. I’m going to stay positive,” she added.
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to believe that the day is going to get better.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. And good luck with Detective Sweeney.” Before Regan could ask why, she added, “He’s the man you’ll have to talk to about the investigation. He’s a real piece of work.”
“I’m not worried. How bad can he be?”
Chapter Eight
Detective Benjamin Sweeney, known by his initials, B. S., to all the other detectives in the department, was having a worse than usual bad day. It started at five-thirty a.m., when he woke up with a hangover that felt like a jackhammer drilling behind his eyeballs. The only medicine that would take away the hallucination and stop the pain was what had caused it in the first place, another stiff drink of bourbon, which he downed in two thirsty gulps. It burned his throat and took the hair off his tongue. Bleary-eyed, he gargled Listerine to hide the smell of the booze, got dressed, and went to the dentist. At seven he had a bad root canal. By nine the shot of novocaine had worn off, and he was in agony. Then, at ten, the sun vanished, heavy dark clouds moved in, and he got soaked running from his car into a roach-infested apartment building with his partner, Lou Dupre. They climbed four flights to stare down at the decomposing body of a young twentysomething female. There were empty crack vials littering the room. Sweeney figured one druggie had offed another. No real loss that he could see.
He also knew there wouldn’t be any identification on the victim-that would have been too easy-and of course he was right. There wasn’t. Usually he could complain enough to make Dupre do all the paperwork and the running around in circles before the file was put in the “still pending” drawer, which Sweeney had secretly labeled “who gives a damn.”
Today, however, Dupre wasn’t cooperating. He called Sweeney an asshole, told him he was sick and tired of his constant bitching, and insisted he was going to have to get off his lazy fat ass and start pulling his own weight.