Collateral Damage by H. Terrell Griffin

thing to save a life, like a nurse or doctor, but it’s so much more when somebody puts saving your life in front of saving his own.”
    â€œThat’s some motivation you’ve got there, friend. Be careful that you don’t get too close to the fire. You could get burned.”
    We ate a leisurely lunch, talked of things of little seriousness, laughed a bit, exchanged a couple of jokes. Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Dispatch. I’ve got to take this one. Sorry.”
    She left the booth and walked outside. She was back in a couple ofminutes, put a ten dollar bill on the table and said, “Duty calls. I’ve got to interview a lady who lost her watch at the airport in Detroit last March. Says she needs a police report for the insurance company.”
    I laughted and handed her the ten. “This one’s on me.”
    â€œWouldn’t that fall under bribing a cop?”
    â€œIt might, but you can trust me. I’m a lawyer.”
    She laughed, snapped the bill out of my hand, and left.
    I went from the restaurant to the police station. I stood inside the waiting room and watched the dispatcher finish a telephone call. She rolled her chair over and opened the sliding glass window that separated her from the public.
    â€œHey, Matt,” she said. “Who’re you here to see today?”
    â€œHey, Iva. Is the chief in?”
    â€œSure. Let me tell him you’re here.”
    She shut the little window and picked up the phone. She said a few words, hesitated, hung up, and motioned me through the door that led to the offices in the back of the building. I walked down a short hall and knocked on the open door of Chief Bill Lester’s office. His head was down reading a memo, one of dozens strewn across his desk top.
    He looked up. “Come on in, Matt. Damn paperwork gets bigger and bigger. How’re you doing?”
    Bill Lester was my fishing and drinking buddy and the guy with whom I regularly shared a grouper sandwich at the Sports Page Bar and Grille in downtown Sarasota.
    â€œYou gotta come out from under that mess sometime. You want to meet me for a beer at Tiny’s this afternoon after work?”
    â€œIt’s a date. But you didn’t just stop by to offer me a beer.”
    I told him about Doc Desmond and that I wanted his permission for J.D. to show me the police investigative file. I also told him what I wanted to do with any information I turned up.
    â€œMight as well, Matt. We’re at a dead end here. Who knows? You might turn up something that we can hang our hat on. Tell J.D. to give you the file and any help she can. I worry that I’m not keeping her busyenough. I know several agencies around here that would jump at the chance to hire her.”
    â€œI don’t think she’s going anywhere, Bill, but I’ll put her to work.”
    â€œGo for it. Keep me in the loop.”
    The chief went back to his paperwork and I headed home. I called J.D. and told her what Lester had said and asked if she’d like to drop by my cottage later that afternoon. She said she’d make a complete copy of the file and bring it with her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The file was not large, not for a murder investigation. J.D. explained there just wasn’t much to go on. Very little evidence. There were statements from witnesses, but none of them were even sure where the shot came from. They had been on the beach and saw young Desmond fall backward when the slug tore into his chest.
    J.D. and I were sitting in my living room, the file spread out on the coffee table. I was sipping from a can of Miller Lite and the detective was easing into a bottle of Chardonnay, one glass at a time. It was a little after five in the afternoon. The sun was moving toward the west, toward the sea into which it would soon sink. I looked at my watch. We had about three hours until sunset. The day was clear with a smattering of clouds hanging low over