When Marco disappeared down the hallway Sue Ellen slipped into his arms. “Awkward, huh?”
Tony nodded. “You could say that. Marco’s reputation is that he’s a really good guy. He’s probably discreet.”
Sue Ellen ran her hand across Tony’s chest. “If you were here he could go home for the night. I’d be well guarded.”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
“Coward,” she teased, pushing back from him. “I’ll tell him if you’re afraid to.” It occurred to Tony at that moment that Sue Ellen had no reservations about who knew they were involved or what they would think. She was moving the relationship forward, making it clear that she wanted him around and it felt pretty good. She kissed him; softly at first then more urgently. Tony heard Marco walking through the living room, heard the front door open and close. He didn’t need his eyes open for that. Sue Ellen was a terrific kisser. Then the front door crashed open.
“Tony. Sue Ellen.” Giordano’s tone of voice wasn’t playful or teasing, it was harsh and commanding. Something was wrong. Tony led the way through the room.
Marco had his pistol out and pointed to the hallway chair with his free hand. A bright brass bullet, a 9mm it looked like, was sitting on the middle of the seat. Sue Ellen’s eyes widened in surprise and a little bit of fear. Tony frowned, angry. Marco was already on his phone, calling for backup, getting more bodies on scene. Garcia was swaggering all right, and it was working.
Marco put a hand over the phone and turned to Sue Ellen.
“Pack a bag.”
Ray was alone in the squad room. He’d shut off some of the lights and had his feet up on his desk. The cafeteria mug had a scant half-inch of amber liquid in it, a tot of Dewars from the bottle he kept hidden in the bottom drawer. He didn’t want to go home. Ray wanted to think. He wanted to roll what they had about the case around in his brain in the silence of the deserted squad room, with just a taste of liquor to tease him into thinking he was relaxing.
He’d heard about the threats from the Latin Kings. It bothered him on two levels. Ray was worried about his niece, of course. It didn’t matter if it was the Latin Kings or the Surrentos or los Vatos Locos, any of these gangs were capable of violence and havoc. It was a matter of time until one, or even all of them acted out-acted on their malevolent impulses and openly challenged the authority they disregarded.
Someone had told him, someone from the Gang Strike Force, not long ago, that gang members outnumbered police officers something like three to one. Ray hoped they all stayed dumb and kept shooting at each other. A war in the streets was unthinkable. He preferred his murders one at a time.
Ray also worried that the threats would affect de Luca, distract him. He liked the young man and thought he showed some promise. De Luca had instincts, thought processes that neither Ray nor anyone else could ever teach, critical to untangling lies and obscurities and mis-directions, critical to solving cases. And, he thought, it’s his first murder. It would be important to clear this one. Ray’s first murder was still open, unsolved, and it haunted him.
It wasn’t a daily anguish, sometimes not even weekly. But every so often he remembered the little girl who was violated and murdered and left like so much trash in a dumpster so long ago. They didn’t have the DNA tools back then but it didn’t matter. He’d put what they had into the system and didn’t get any hits. The last time was three years before, he remembered, and thought maybe he’d try again.
The phone caught his eye. He had a call to make and his ruminations and the whiskey had been convenient excuses for not making it. Not that he was afraid of making the call-well, maybe a little-but not for any reasons relating to the case. At least he hoped not.
She answered on the third ring. “This is Lakisha.”
“Ray Bankston. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Rayford, I was thinking about you earlier this evening.”
I was thinking about you too, he thought, but didn’t say.
“No, it’s not too late at all. I was just reading.”
“Anything interesting?” Ray read police reports and interview transcriptions, coroner’s reports and department bulletins. He tried to remember the last book he’d read.
“Have you ever read anything by Walter Mosley?”
“I’ve heard the name, but no. I don’t have much time to read novels.”
“True crime being so much more interesting than detective stories?”
Ray chuckled softly. “Not really. I’d give anything to be able to get to page two hundred and know who the killer is, though. Know that when I picked the book up that all of the mystery was there, in the one book.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“The reason I called…”
“The true crime, of course. Deanna’s murder.”
“I neglected to ask you a question or two.” Ray wondered if she knew he’d done it intentionally so he would have an excuse to call her, maybe see her again.
“Yes?”
“Where were you Monday morning, early?”
“I was here at home. Sleeping.”
“How to say this…ah…can anyone corroborate that?” He heard her laugh, not directly into the phone but as if she was holding it at her side. Ray had never thought of the word corroborate as funny.
“Well, Mr. Marland is away; out of the country, actually. The pool boy is off for the season, and while I have my eye on a certain man we haven’t been able to spend much time together.” Ray wondered if she was flirting, if she was talking about him.
“Any phone calls? Deliveries? Can you think of anything to support that?” There was a pause in the conversation. She was thinking.
“I’m afraid I was sort of a lay about on Monday. In fact, I don’t think I went out at all. I’m sure of it.” Ray Bankston’s life was in constant motion. He had a hard time imagining staying home all day, not talking to anyone, not even the time he’d been laid low by the flu. Still, Lakisha Marland wasn’t much of a suspect. None of the ‘Go Girls’ were at this point.
“I spent the day writing. I’m a writer you know.” No, he didn’t know that. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a recluse when I’m working on a book.”
“What do you write? I don’t spend much time in bookstores.”
“Erotica. I write about sex, Rayford.” Ray’s mind blanked for a beat. It wasn’t until he heard her laughing again that it rebooted. Erotica?
“I’m sorry,” she said, getting her voice under control. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was teasing.”
“Well, someone has to write it I suppose.”
“Good comeback. I’m sorry. Actually, I write mysteries and you wouldn’t have seen my name in the bookstores because I publish under a psuedonym.”
“Apology accepted. I’ll tell you, you got me with that one though.”
“Good. I meant to.”
Ray made himself stay on task. “I just had a thought. Do you write on a computer?”
“Of course.”
“I think the problem’s solved.” Ray caught himself smiling. “Your entries will have a time stamp on them. Were you working early?”
“Monday? I think I sat down about seven. I’d been puzzling over a scene and had some thoughts during the night. That happens often.”
“I’ll need to see the computer, have you open some files for me.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s after ten, Lakisha. A little late?”
He heard disappointment in her voice. “Hmm…I suppose.”
“I’ll be by in a day or two. The data isn’t going anywhere.”
“Okay.”
“Another question. Does Scott Fredrickson manage any of your husband’s money?”
“No. What an intriguing thought, though.” She paused, playing with the scene in her mind. “The husband is doing something with the funds, what…money laundering or something? An investment goes terribly bad, thousands disappear. And the wife is killed as a warning or revenge. Complicated.”
“Thinking of a plot twist for your latest book?” Ray was enjoying the conversation but in the back of his mind he was worried. A mystery writer’s imagination could skew his own thinking if he listened too hard, or shared too much. He’d have to be careful with what he said around her.