Magozzi looked at Gino. ‘What do you think?’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘Okay, Gloria. I’ll tell you what you do. Tell them we need to see that file, to have it faxed over here, and we’ll be down to take a look at it when we’re finished up here.’
‘They’re not going to do that. They’ve got a cover on that file, I told you.’
‘I know. Tell ’em anyway.’
‘And when they refuse?’
‘Fuck ’em,’ Gino said.
Gloria scowled at him. ‘You fuck ’em. I’ve got standards.’ She turned and clopped away down the hall.
Langer and Peterson were getting ready to leave when Gino and Magozzi reentered the room.
‘We’re on mall relief in an hour,’ Langer explained.
‘Sit tight for a minute,’ Magozzi said. ‘I want everybody’s take on these Monkeewrench people.’
‘Good,’ Langer took a seat happily. ‘I want to see the cop-hater who carries all the time. MacBride, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, this should be good.’ Louise walked up to the coffeemaker and grabbed a cup. ‘Shoot-out in the task force room.’
‘I’ve got a uniform at the door. No one gets past one of my men with a weapon.’ Freedman glowered at her as she passed his chair.
She smiled and patted his huge head. ‘I know that, honey. Just kidding.’
‘Did everyone see that?’ Freedman looked around at the others. ‘She called me honey and she patted my head. That’s sexual harassment.’
‘In your dreams, baby.’
‘Now she called me baby. I don’t have to take this . . .’
Magozzi looked on from the front of the room, feeling a little like a grade-school teacher watching a class of miscreants spin out of control, and that was all right. In this job, jumping from murder to mischief in the space of a second was par for the course. Maybe essential.
Gino stepped over to stand beside him, smiling as he watched Louise shaking a donut over Freedman’s head, dusting him with white powder. ‘Keystone cops,’ he said.
‘Yep.’
‘You gonna let MacBride and her crew walk in and see this?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘You do the time, might as well do the crime.’
‘Magozzi?’ Chief Malcherson was standing at the board of victim photos. ‘Just out of curiosity, who was the killer in the game?’
Magozzi got busy adjusting his tie. ‘The chief of police, sir.’
27
When the Monkeewrench entourage filed into the room, the ambient temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. Magozzi wasn’t sure if the human iceberg leading the pack was responsible or if it was the collective hostility of a roomful of defensive cops. If it was the latter, MacBride seemed utterly oblivious to the chilly reception.
She was wearing the same canvas duster and high English riding boots she’d worn at the Monkeewrench loft the day before. Everything black, right down to the jeans and T-shirt beneath. He’d already decided that for this woman it wasn’t a fashion statement, more like a uniform that served a function he hadn’t completely figured out yet. He put the jeans and T-shirt off to comfort, and the duster to hide the gun, but the boots were a mystery. They were that thick, rigid leather that never yields, made for riding, not walking, and you had to think they were hot and uncomfortable as hell.
The duster flapped open as she walked, exposing the empty leather holster, and most of the eyes in the room went to that. Nothing made cops more nervous than armed civilians.
Her hair swung as she turned to face the room, as dark and loose as her eyes were cool and steady, and while the cop in Magozzi bristled at the arrogance of her demeanor, the artist in him was struck again by that kind of pure physical beauty that makes you take a quick mental step backward, simply because you don’t see it very often.
None of which mitigated her irritating bitchiness one iota.
He gave her a curt nod, which she returned in kind, along with a searing glance that seemed to be a challenge of some sort. Just what she was challenging, he had no idea. His competency? His suit? His existence on the planet? Maybe all of the above. But he had no interest in petty brinksmanship right now; he only cared about what she had to say.
Magozzi watched the faces of his detectives shift from angry to curious as the bizarre assemblage gathered in a cluster close to the door. Grace MacBride in her fox-hunter/gunslinger garb; Roadrunner towering in bright yellow Lycra, looking disturbingly like a pencil; the husky, leather-clad Harley Davidson with his ponytail and beard; fat Annie Belinsky in an impossibly orange getup, exuding sensuality no Playboy centerfold had ever come close to; and Mitch Cross, whose conservative appearance looked positively eccentric next to the others. Magozzi still couldn’t quite figure him into the picture. He stood off to one side, looking confused, displaced, and on the verge of meltdown.
Cross and Chief Malcherson had a lot in common, he realized – right down to the expensive suits and the high blood pressure. Maybe the two of them could get together later for beers and Xanax.
Gino stared at the group with the dull disbelief of a World War II vet suddenly transported to Woodstock, then moved back along the wall, distancing himself.
Magozzi didn’t waste any time with polite preambles or introductions. ‘Ms MacBride, you have our curiosity and attention.’
Grace didn’t waste time with niceties, either. She took a step forward and delivered her information abruptly, with all the emotion of one of her computers spitting out data. ‘I received an e-mail last night with a memo line that read, “From the Killer.” ’
There were a few soft snickers from the detectives. MacBride waited them out. ‘The message itself was much more creative, a clever modification of the game’s opening graphics screen.’ She looked at Magozzi. ‘Has everyone seen what the opening graphics page is supposed to look like?’
Magozzi nodded. ‘Part of their handouts. “Want to play a game?,” right?’
‘Right.’ She returned her attention to the room. ‘The sender manipulated those graphics so instead it said, “You’re not playing.” ’
Magozzi felt a little chill creep up his spine. Patrol Sergeant Freedman dispelled it almost immediately with an impatient bass rumble.
‘You’re probably going to get a million of those, now that the media’s got the Monkeewrench connection. Somebody’s just yanking your chain.’
Grace nodded at the big black cop. ‘That’s what we thought last night. But another message came this morning.’ She took a deep breath and exhaled silently. Magozzi supposed that was the Grace MacBride version of an attack of nerves. ‘This one said, “Wilbur bit his hand. No accounting for taste. Are you ready to play yet?” ’
No one in the room moved. No one even blinked.
Grace looked from face to face. ‘Well? Was that his name? The victim on the paddle wheeler?’
Gino pushed away from the wall. ‘Yeah, that was his name. And it wasn’t released to the press. Neither was the bite mark. Which is real interesting. Looks like you people have information only the shooter would know.’
Grace nodded woodenly. ‘Then there’s no doubt. The e-mails are from the killer.’
‘Or one of you is the killer,’ Gino was quick to suggest. ‘Sending yourselves e-mails, coming to play with the stupid cops . . . one scenario’s as good as the other.’
A soft, disgruntled murmuring rose from the Monkeewrench crew. Grace shot them a quick glance and they went silent.
‘You have copies of the e-mails?’ Magozzi asked.
She shook her head. ‘They were programmed to erase after they were opened.’