Eddie was staring at him defiantly, an ugly grin on his face.
Nick went on, “I don’t think you really leveled with me about why you left the Grand Rapids police.”
Eddie’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I already told you about that bullshit charge.”
“You didn’t tell me you were drummed out for pilfering.”
“Oh, Christ. Sounds like the kinda thing Cleopatra Jones might have told you. You going to believe her, or me?”
Nick pursed his lips. “I don’t know, Eddie. I’m beginning to think I believe her.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said acidly. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“You didn’t say it wasn’t true.”
“Did I cut corners? Sure. But that’s it. You can’t believe everything you hear. People talk some crazy shit.”
69
Audrey’s desk phone rang, and she checked the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t poor Mrs. Dorsey again. But it was a 616 area code, which meant Grand Rapids, and so she picked it up.
A woman was calling from the Michigan State Police crime lab who identified herself as an IBIS technician named Susan Calloway. She was soft-spoken but authoritative-sounding, her voice arid, devoid of any warmth or personality. She gave the case number she was calling about-it was the Stadler homicide-and said, “The reason I’m calling, Detective, is that I believe you asked us to see if we could match the bullet in your case with any others, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, it seems we got a warm hit on IBIS.”
Audrey knew a fair amount about the Integrated Ballistics Identification System. She knew it was a computerized database of archived digital images of fired bullets and cartridges that linked police and FBI crime labs across the country. It was sort of like AFIS, the fingerprint-matching network, only the fingerprints here were photographs of bullets and casings.
“A warm hit?” Audrey said. That term she hadn’t heard before, though.
“I mean a possible hit,” the woman said, her bland voice betraying the tiniest hint of annoyance. “To me, it looks quite similar to a bullet recovered in a no-gun case in Grand Rapids about five, six years ago. Six years ago, to be precise.”
“What kind of case?”
“The file class is 0900-01.”
That was the Michigan state police offense code for a homicide. So the gun used to kill Stadler had been used six years earlier in another homicide, in Grand Rapids. That could be significant-or it could mean almost nothing. Guns were bought and sold on the black market all the time.
“Really? What do we know about the case?”
“Not much, Detective, I’m sorry to say. I have only the submitting agency’s case number, which won’t do you much good. But I’ve already called over there and asked them to bring over the bullet in question so I can do the comparison.”
“Thank you.”
“And as to the question you’re probably about to ask-how long will this take?-the answer is, as soon as I get the bullet from the GR PD.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to ask that,” Audrey said. She thought: Only because it would rankle if I did ask. If you had no juice with these firearms examiners, you’d better be as sweet as pie. “But I appreciate the information.”
Interesting, she thought. Very interesting.
She took a stroll across the squad room and over to Forensic Services, where she found Kevin Lenehan slumped over his desk, arms folded, a dim shadowy tape playing on a TV monitor, numbers racing across the top of the screen.
She put a hand on his shoulder, and he jolted awake.
“Hey,” she said, “you don’t want to miss the guy in the Nike Air sneakers and the Raiders jacket.”
“I hate my life,” he said.
“You’re too good for this kind of work,” she said.
“Tell that to my manager.”
“Where is she?”
“Maternity leave. Noyce’s my manager these days. Aren’t you tight with him?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Kevin, listen. Could you take another look at my recorder? I mean, unofficially and off the books and all that?”
“When? In my voluminous spare time?”
“I’ll owe you one.”
“No offense, but that doesn’t really work on me.”
“Then how about out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Not much there,” he said.
“Kevin.”
He blinked. “Let’s say, hypothetically now, that I had ten minutes for a coffee break that I decided to spend chasing the great white whale out of a personal obsession. What would I be looking for anyway?”
70
“I just tried Fairfield,” Marge said over the intercom, “but Todd’s assistant said he’s out of the office for the day, so I left a message.”
“Can you try his cell? You have the number, right?”
“Of course.”
Of course she did. She never lost a phone number, never misplaced an address, could pull up a name from her file in a matter of seconds without fail. God, she was the best.
There was a certain etiquette to making phone calls, which she appreciated. If she called Todd’s office and he was there, she’d put Nick on before Todd picked up. That was how it worked. Nick had always hated the telephone brinksmanship, where someone’s assistant would call Marge, be put through to Nick, and then the assistant would say, “I have Mr. Smith,” and Nick would say, “Okay, thanks,” and then Mr. Smith would get on, as if he were too busy even to suffer a few seconds of being on hold. It was demeaning. Nick had devised his own way around that. He’d instructed Marge to tell the assistant, “Put Mr. Smith on, please, and I’ll get Mr. Conover.” That usually worked. So when Marge placed calls for him, he didn’t like to play Mr. Smith’s game. Todd picked up his own cell phone, of course-who didn’t?-so Nick dialed the call himself.
Todd answered right away.
“Todd, it’s Nick Conover.”
“Oh, hey, man.” No background noise. Nick wondered whether Todd actually was in his office anyway.
“Todd, we’ve got some funny things going on around here, and we need to talk.”
“Hey, that’s what I’m here for.” Like he was a shrink or something.
“Two massive deals just fell through because they each, separately, heard that we’re planning to shift all manufacturing to China.”
“Yeah?”
“Any truth to it?”
“I can’t be responsible for gossip, Nick.”
“Of course. But I’m asking you now, flat out-man to man-if it’s true.” Man to toad, he thought. Man to weasel. “If you guys are even exploring the idea.”
“Well, you know how I feel about this, and I’ve let you know. I think we’re eroding our profit margins by continuing to operate these old factories in Michigan like it’s nineteen fifty-nine or something. The world’s changed. It’s a global economy.”
“Right,” Nick said. “We’ve been through all that, and I’ve made it clear that the day Stratton stops making its own stuff is the day we’re no longer Stratton. I’m not going to be the guy who shuts down our factories.”
“I hear you,” Todd said testily.
“I’ve already laid off half the company as you guys asked me to. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done. But turning Stratton into some kind of virtual company, a little sales office with all the manufacturing done eight thousand miles away-that’s not going to happen on my watch.”
“I hear you,” Todd said again. “What are you calling for?”
“Let me repeat the question, because I don’t think I heard your answer. Is there any truth to these reports that you guys are negotiating to move our manufacturing offshore, Todd?”