36
“Detective Brogan? Brought you a coffee. Don’t get used to it.”
Jake looked up from his computer. Paperwork almost done. His Sunday-morning habit, alone time in the Homicide office, catching up. He was tired from last night’s interview with Patti Vick. She may not need sleep, but he did. He needed answers more.
“Hey, Pam. Back from your honeymoon, huh?”
The homicide squad’s part-time clerk put a steaming paper cup on his desk, then held up her left hand, waggling her ring finger. “I’m now officially Pamela O’Flynn Augusto,” she said. “Back from Maui, extra blond, extra tan, and extra ready to help you keep the peace.”
“That’s some handle,” Jake said. A red light flashed on his desk telephone. From out in the reception area, he heard Pam’s phone ring. An inside ring.
The supe? “Pam, can you handle that for me? I’m in a meeting or something. Unless it’s the supe. You know the drill.”
“Sure, boss.” Pam picked up Jake’s phone. “Homicide.”
She plucked a pencil out of Jake’s BPD-issue mug, held the phone against her cheek, and pulled a white notepad toward her. “Well, he’s in a meeting right now…”
Jake made a “score one” in the air. But Pam was holding the notepad in front of him. On it she’d printed, Tucker Cameron. Register. Front desk. Urgent.
Doomed, as Jane would say. Tuck had blatantly circumvented the required PR protocol. Why had Tuck risked calling him directly? Maybe she knew something. He pointed a finger-gun at his temple, pulled the trigger.
“Fine, bring her up,” Jake whispered. He held out splayed fingers. “Ten minutes. Then call me.”
Tuck appeared at his door two minutes later, tight jeans, knee boots, black puffy vest. Laminated visitor’s pass clipped to one pocket. Notebook sticking out of the other. Pencil through her ponytail. A regular Lois Lane. Without the experience.
“You’re working some big OT,” Jake said. He kept one finger on the report he was reading, signaling he planned to return to it as soon as possible. “What can I do for you?”
Tuck pulled out the notebook, yanked the pencil from her hair. “Hey, Jake. I’m a twenty-four-seven kinda gal. But it’s what you can do for you that brings me to your neck of the woods.”
Jake gestured to her, go on. He didn’t offer her a seat.
Tuck sat in the frayed swivel chair across from his desk. Planted her feet. “Okeydokey. Here’s the scoop: We’re putting together a big takeout on the Bridge Killer investigation. You know, the search for-”
“There is no Bridge Killer, Tuck. No matter how big the Register makes the font on your headlines.”
“Yeah yeah, as you keep saying. But I just came from talking to Arthur Vick, and he told me-”
“Why’d you do that? Talk to him?”
“Well, hey. Victim three? Gotta start somewhere interviewing friends and family. Vick knew Sellica Darden, right? Talked to his wife, too. Anyway, Vick says you guys think he’s the Bridge Killer. Whoa, Jake. That’s huge. I would think you might have wanted to warn the frightened citizens of Boston about that. But, since you have not seen fit to do so, we at the Register are happy to take care of that little item for you. That’s why I’m here.”
“‘You at the Register’? Will ‘take care’ of it?” Jake assessed his options for dealing with this potential nightmare. He arched an eyebrow and took a chance. “You sure you’re comfortable putting Arthur Vick’s name in your paper as a suspect? You’re going to call him a serial killer suspect?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? Are you denying it? Is that an on-the-record denial?”
Jake gave an elaborate shrug. “It’s an on-the-record nothing, Tuck. But you might want to think back a bit, think about what happened to Jane Ryland when she accused Mr. Vick of hiring a prostitute. Not a happy occasion. For anyone involved.”
Tuck blinked at him.
“You might want to leave the police work to the police,” Jake continued. “We’ll determine what the truth is. And when we’re ready to tell you, you can print it. Without fear of a million-dollar lawsuit.”
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it,” Tuck said. Almost pouting. “Police work.”
Jake smiled, benign. “How do you know?”
Tuck consulted her notebook. “Is one of the victims a Kenna Wilkes?”
Jake frowned. Then he stood up, fingertips on his desk. “Kenna-? Miss Cameron, is there something you care to tell me? As you are no doubt aware, if you have information about an ongoing case, you’re required by law to tell us.”
“Bullshit I am.” She crossed her legs, leaned back in the chair. “As you are no doubt aware. So. Nothing on Wilkes?”
“Let me clarify. You’re asking me to comment on some name you pull out of the blue, but you’re not gonna tell me why you’re asking? I don’t think so.” Jake looked at his watch. “Anything else before we say good-bye?”
“Actually, yeah. Let me float another name. Amaryllis Roldan.”
Jane? Had she told Tuck? She was the only one outside of the cops who- Well, no, she wasn’t. Arthur Vick knew that name. And Patti Vick knew it. And Jane wouldn’t have… or would she? Was I wrong to have told her? I can’t think about it now. Whatever the source, Tuck was figuring Roldan as a victim. And yesterday the supe had said to keep that under wraps until next of kin was notified. Which, as yet, had not happened.
Tuck prints that name, and I’m fricking toast.
“What’s this about, Tuck?”
“Say we ignore the Arthur Vick thing for the moment,” she said. “We’re definitely going with the name Amaryllis Roldan as a victim-”
Jake gave her two thumbs up, nodding. “Do that. Really, do. But if it turns out she’s actually a suspect, wouldn’t that be a mess for you? Of course, I’m sure you’re sure of your story. You don’t put stuff in the paper if you’re not sure. So, hey, no comment from me. On this. Or on anything. But I’m sure you know best.”
Jake watched the emotions evolve over Tuck’s face. Doubt. Caution. Fear.
Time to seal the deal.
“I mean, just saying-and this is one hundred percent off the record, background of background. Consider whether perhaps we want Arthur Vick to help us. If he knows her, and maybe she hates him, who knows, and maybe has some kind of a motive your little brain has never even considered. What if she’s the bad guy?”
This was complete idiocy, Jake making it up on the fly, but he could see Tuck weighing it all. She was smart, no doubt, and a good reporter. But at some point a new kid simply doesn’t have the stuff to keep up. He hoped.
Tuck yanked off her Red Sox cap, relooped her ponytail, jammed the cap back on. She stood up, batting her notebook against one palm.
“Keep your seat, if you need a moment,” Jake said. Magnanimous. He sat down again at his desk, tried a sip of coffee. “Otherwise? I have work.”
Jake’s BlackBerry rang. It would be Pam, right on time. “See?”
He waited for Tuck’s reply.
“I’ll call you,” she said.
“Contact Laney Driscoll in PR,” Jake said. His cell rang again. “As you are no doubt aware. And Tuck? I’ll forget to tell him you showed up today ignoring protocol. He hates when that happens. Tends to forget to return calls. We done?”
Now Tuck’s pout was full blown. “You-”
“And don’t forget to return that visitor’s pass.” The phone rang again. “Brogan, Homicide.”
He watched Tuck turn to leave. Walking ever so slowly.
“Cameron,” he called. “Close the door.”