leaving for breakfast and the autopsy, Matt had e-mailed a copy of the file to Henry Rollins, a forensic analyst from the Photography Unit whom he had worked with many times while assigned to narcotics. He’d sent a copy to himself as well but at the moment didn’t want to take the time to boot up his computer, log on to the network, and download the file.
He needed reassurance more quickly than that.
He needed something to break the spell Lane had cast over their investigation of Hughes’s murder. No matter how ridiculous the assertions Lane made might seem, Matt needed to see the video one more time to feel it.
He clicked open the file and watched as the clip began playing on the screen. He could see Hughes’s silhouette in the SUV. He could make out the figure of a man in a hooded sweatshirt standing by the driver’s-side door with his gun up and ready.
“Who the hell are you?”
Matt turned to the door and saw the two detectives he’d passed in the hall staring back at him. Both appeared to be in their forties but shared little else in form other than the heavy look in their eyes. The big round one on the left had dark hair, olive skin, and a goatee. The short one on the right looked thin and gaunt, with gray hair and pockmarked cheeks.
“Matt Jones,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
A moment passed, but then their eyes flushed with recognition.
“The new guy?” the big one said.
Matt nodded. The two detectives walked into the room with outstretched hands. The big one did most of the talking, introducing himself as Joey Orlando and then pointing to his partner at the homicide table, Edward Plank. Plank seemed preoccupied with the video playing on the laptop. Once Orlando noticed, he looked back at Matt and seemed uncomfortable as well.
“You caught a tough break,” he said. “The toughest. Anything we can do, anything at all, just ask.”
Plank nodded but kept his eyes on the screen. When Matt turned to the laptop, the gun was flashing, and Plank was shaking his head in disbelief.
“Anything at all,” Plank said in a low voice.
Grace walked in and tossed a FedEx envelope on his desk. Matt watched as his eyes went from the video clip on the laptop to the spines of the murder books Lane had given him to read.
“You guys meet?” Grace said.
Orlando nodded. “Just now.”
“Good,” Grace said. “I think you’re gonna like it here, Jones. Orlando and Plank are two of the best.” He turned to Orlando. “I need to talk to Jones. How ’bout you two guys giving us a minute?”
“Sure,” Orlando said. “Good meeting you, Jones.”
Matt nodded back just as Grace began closing the door. “Same here,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
Grace pushed the laptop aside as he sat down, the surveillance video still rolling in a loop on automatic replay.
“Cabrera told me that Lane was a wreck. He thinks that whoever killed Faith Novakoff murdered his partner. Now the killer’s out to get him. It sounds to me like Lane hit the wall and needs help.”
Matt didn’t say anything. He was troubled by Cabrera’s “private” talks with Grace. This time it seemed innocent enough. Still, there was a theme to it, a rhythm, and he didn’t like it.
Grace glanced at the binder with Millie Brown’s name on the spine. “He and Hughes stopped by about a week and a half ago. They showed me pictures from the Novakoff crime scene. They wanted to hear how things went with the Brown investigation.”
“What did you say?”
“That I felt sorry for them, Jones. That I was glad it was their case and not mine.”
Matt slipped a piece of nicotine gum between his cheek and gum, wishing it was a Marlboro.
“You called it a copycat,” he said.
Grace nodded. “Harris hung himself. He’s dead. And we had him by the short hairs. There was too much evidence. Too many people coming forward. Every move we made pointed in the same direction. That’s why he hung himself. He listened to the deputy DA’s opening
He needed reassurance more quickly than that.
He needed something to break the spell Lane had cast over their investigation of Hughes’s murder. No matter how ridiculous the assertions Lane made might seem, Matt needed to see the video one more time to feel it.
He clicked open the file and watched as the clip began playing on the screen. He could see Hughes’s silhouette in the SUV. He could make out the figure of a man in a hooded sweatshirt standing by the driver’s-side door with his gun up and ready.
“Who the hell are you?”
Matt turned to the door and saw the two detectives he’d passed in the hall staring back at him. Both appeared to be in their forties but shared little else in form other than the heavy look in their eyes. The big round one on the left had dark hair, olive skin, and a goatee. The short one on the right looked thin and gaunt, with gray hair and pockmarked cheeks.
“Matt Jones,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
A moment passed, but then their eyes flushed with recognition.
“The new guy?” the big one said.
Matt nodded. The two detectives walked into the room with outstretched hands. The big one did most of the talking, introducing himself as Joey Orlando and then pointing to his partner at the homicide table, Edward Plank. Plank seemed preoccupied with the video playing on the laptop. Once Orlando noticed, he looked back at Matt and seemed uncomfortable as well.
“You caught a tough break,” he said. “The toughest. Anything we can do, anything at all, just ask.”
Plank nodded but kept his eyes on the screen. When Matt turned to the laptop, the gun was flashing, and Plank was shaking his head in disbelief.
“Anything at all,” Plank said in a low voice.
Grace walked in and tossed a FedEx envelope on his desk. Matt watched as his eyes went from the video clip on the laptop to the spines of the murder books Lane had given him to read.
“You guys meet?” Grace said.
Orlando nodded. “Just now.”
“Good,” Grace said. “I think you’re gonna like it here, Jones. Orlando and Plank are two of the best.” He turned to Orlando. “I need to talk to Jones. How ’bout you two guys giving us a minute?”
“Sure,” Orlando said. “Good meeting you, Jones.”
Matt nodded back just as Grace began closing the door. “Same here,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
Grace pushed the laptop aside as he sat down, the surveillance video still rolling in a loop on automatic replay.
“Cabrera told me that Lane was a wreck. He thinks that whoever killed Faith Novakoff murdered his partner. Now the killer’s out to get him. It sounds to me like Lane hit the wall and needs help.”
Matt didn’t say anything. He was troubled by Cabrera’s “private” talks with Grace. This time it seemed innocent enough. Still, there was a theme to it, a rhythm, and he didn’t like it.
Grace glanced at the binder with Millie Brown’s name on the spine. “He and Hughes stopped by about a week and a half ago. They showed me pictures from the Novakoff crime scene. They wanted to hear how things went with the Brown investigation.”
“What did you say?”
“That I felt sorry for them, Jones. That I was glad it was their case and not mine.”
Matt slipped a piece of nicotine gum between his cheek and gum, wishing it was a Marlboro.
“You called it a copycat,” he said.
Grace nodded. “Harris hung himself. He’s dead. And we had him by the short hairs. There was too much evidence. Too many people coming forward. Every move we made pointed in the same direction. That’s why he hung himself. He listened to the deputy DA’s opening
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