stood up, too fast, when he walked into the room. “What are you doing here?” she said. “You’re early.”
“I work here.” Tomlin circled around to where she stood and examined the lock. She’d jimmied the thing with a nail file. “What are
you
doing?”
“It was unlocked,” she said. “I was looking for staples.”
“Bullshit.”
She was silent for a minute or two. “I’m so sorry,” she said finally, her lower lip trembling. “My boyfriend just dumped me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Tomlin glanced down at the open desk drawer. The cocaine and the cash. She had to have seen it. He studied her face, her pretty, scared eyes. “Get out,” he said.
“No.” She reached for his arm. “Mr. Tomlin, please. Please don’t fire me.”
He shook her away. “Get out of my office.”
She stared at him, tears in her eyes. Tomlin held her gaze until she looked down again, at the nail file on the thin carpet, the desk drawer still partially open. Something hardened in her expression. “What are you waiting for?” Tomlin asked her. “I said get out.”
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder. “That’s a lot of cocaine.”
“It’s not cocaine.” Tomlin slammed the drawer closed. “It’s none of your business. Get out.”
“Bullshit.” She turned to look at him slowly, a new look in her eyes. She wasn’t scared anymore, Tomlin realized. She was
smiling
. “So what are you, a drug dealer or something? Does your wife know about this?”
“For Christ’s sake.” Tricia’s smile widened. Tomlin rubbed his forehead, looked at her again. Then he looked down at the drugs. “So what?” he said. “I’m supposed to just forget this?”
Tricia shrugged. “If you want,” she said. She started for the door. Brushed by him, close. “We can pretend this never happened, if that’s what you want. I won’t say a damn thing if you don’t try and fire me.”
She could ruin everything,
Tomlin thought. He suddenly felt light-headed. Then Tricia stopped in the doorway. “But pretend is so boring.” She looked back at him again with that same funny smile. “Maybe we can have fun instead.”
18
D OUGHTY WASN’T AROUND when Windermere arrived in CID the next morning. She wasn’t surprised; it was early, not even eight, and the office was skeleton-crew barren. Besides, Doughty never showed up before nine.
Windermere kept her coat on as she booted up her computer. She printed off every security cam still she could of the Midway suspect, the Prospect Park suspect, Robbinsdale, and Lowry Hill, and then she turned off her computer again and rode the elevator back down to the garage.
The drive to Saint Paul took twenty minutes, downtown to downtown on I-94. Windermere passed the turnoff for Midway en route. She looked up and out of the Interstate trench and tried to figure out why the guy had chosen Midway, when every other job seemed to confirm Doughty’s theory that the suspect was a Minneapolis local.
She picked up her phone and called Doughty’s cell. Rang through to voice mail the first try, but he picked up the second. “Doughty, it’s Windermere.” She could hear a baby crying in the background, another kid yelling something. “Got a lead in Saint Paul. Check it out.”
She explained her findings, Prospect Park leading to Midway and the E-Z Park receipt. “We’re watching this guy evolve, Bob,” she told him. “He’s getting more and more dangerous as he builds up his confidence.”
Doughty yelled something at the kid. Then he came back on the line. “So what are you saying?”
“I think we should broaden our search for this guy,” she said. “Midway’s his first score, from what I can tell. It’s a rookie job. Could tell us more about him than anything later.”
“Most of his scores are in southern Minneapolis,” Doughty replied. “I’m making good headway with my local contacts.”
“This first job, though, Bob, this is the big one. It’s probably closer to
“I work here.” Tomlin circled around to where she stood and examined the lock. She’d jimmied the thing with a nail file. “What are
you
doing?”
“It was unlocked,” she said. “I was looking for staples.”
“Bullshit.”
She was silent for a minute or two. “I’m so sorry,” she said finally, her lower lip trembling. “My boyfriend just dumped me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Tomlin glanced down at the open desk drawer. The cocaine and the cash. She had to have seen it. He studied her face, her pretty, scared eyes. “Get out,” he said.
“No.” She reached for his arm. “Mr. Tomlin, please. Please don’t fire me.”
He shook her away. “Get out of my office.”
She stared at him, tears in her eyes. Tomlin held her gaze until she looked down again, at the nail file on the thin carpet, the desk drawer still partially open. Something hardened in her expression. “What are you waiting for?” Tomlin asked her. “I said get out.”
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder. “That’s a lot of cocaine.”
“It’s not cocaine.” Tomlin slammed the drawer closed. “It’s none of your business. Get out.”
“Bullshit.” She turned to look at him slowly, a new look in her eyes. She wasn’t scared anymore, Tomlin realized. She was
smiling
. “So what are you, a drug dealer or something? Does your wife know about this?”
“For Christ’s sake.” Tricia’s smile widened. Tomlin rubbed his forehead, looked at her again. Then he looked down at the drugs. “So what?” he said. “I’m supposed to just forget this?”
Tricia shrugged. “If you want,” she said. She started for the door. Brushed by him, close. “We can pretend this never happened, if that’s what you want. I won’t say a damn thing if you don’t try and fire me.”
She could ruin everything,
Tomlin thought. He suddenly felt light-headed. Then Tricia stopped in the doorway. “But pretend is so boring.” She looked back at him again with that same funny smile. “Maybe we can have fun instead.”
18
D OUGHTY WASN’T AROUND when Windermere arrived in CID the next morning. She wasn’t surprised; it was early, not even eight, and the office was skeleton-crew barren. Besides, Doughty never showed up before nine.
Windermere kept her coat on as she booted up her computer. She printed off every security cam still she could of the Midway suspect, the Prospect Park suspect, Robbinsdale, and Lowry Hill, and then she turned off her computer again and rode the elevator back down to the garage.
The drive to Saint Paul took twenty minutes, downtown to downtown on I-94. Windermere passed the turnoff for Midway en route. She looked up and out of the Interstate trench and tried to figure out why the guy had chosen Midway, when every other job seemed to confirm Doughty’s theory that the suspect was a Minneapolis local.
She picked up her phone and called Doughty’s cell. Rang through to voice mail the first try, but he picked up the second. “Doughty, it’s Windermere.” She could hear a baby crying in the background, another kid yelling something. “Got a lead in Saint Paul. Check it out.”
She explained her findings, Prospect Park leading to Midway and the E-Z Park receipt. “We’re watching this guy evolve, Bob,” she told him. “He’s getting more and more dangerous as he builds up his confidence.”
Doughty yelled something at the kid. Then he came back on the line. “So what are you saying?”
“I think we should broaden our search for this guy,” she said. “Midway’s his first score, from what I can tell. It’s a rookie job. Could tell us more about him than anything later.”
“Most of his scores are in southern Minneapolis,” Doughty replied. “I’m making good headway with my local contacts.”
“This first job, though, Bob, this is the big one. It’s probably closer to
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