if he’d broken wind.
“At the Sun , we don’t generally preview stories,” she intoned.
“Neither do I,” said Corso, “but, as much as I hate to agree with Hawes twice in the same day, I want to make sure our asses are covered on this one.”
She thought it over. “As much as the precedent pains me, you’re no doubt right. After all, exclusives like this don’t drop on one’s doorstep every day.”
“Nice touch, by the way, the room at the Carlisle. The watchdog and all,” Corso offered with a grin.
She looked offended. “It was my Christian duty. Could we, after all, have the young woman’s group home inundated with the press?”
“As long as we have her to ourselves, we have the story to ourselves.”
She gave Corso a wicked smile. “At best, we’ll get a day out of the Carlisle,” she said. “By this time tomorrow, the hounds will have found her.”
“There’s lots of hotels.”
“My thinking exactly.”
She got to her feet, stretched, and then checked her watch.
“You haven’t done anything like this in a while.”
“I remember how.”
“Are you sure you have the stomach for it? It’s going to be New York all over again. Whatever personal space you’ve cut out for yourself in the past couple of years is going to be gone.”
“Did I miss the part where you left me a choice?”
She raised an eyebrow. “As you just so poignantly pointed out to me, Mr. Corso, choices come in all sizes and shapes.”
“Yeah, but some of them are easier to live with than others.”
She smiled that wicked smile again.
“Every form of refuge has its price, Mr. Corso.”
Chapter 6
Monday, September 17
5:05 P.M. Day 1 of 6
Corner of Fifth and James. The Public Safety Building is notched hard into the side of the hill, sentencing an entire city block to perpetual shade. Connected by a seventh-floor covered walkway to the King County jail, the complex is a remnant of an age when signs on the freeway implored the last person leaving town to please turn out the lights. A pair of ten-story poured-concrete monuments to fiscal restraint, they looked remarkably like waffles standing on end and were quite easily the ugliest buildings in the city’s gleaming downtown core.
Two officers at the front desk. Blue shirts, sitting way up high in the power position. Typical city cops. If your aorta wasn’t severed, they were going to finish what they were doing before they bothered with you. Corso reached up and dropped a business card faceup in front of the older of the two. When neither of them so much as glanced at the card, Corso asked, “Either of you remember the officers of record in the Trashman killings?”
Without looking up, the young cop said, “Densmore’s the three. I don’t—” He suddenly frowned and looked desperately toward his lap, as if the older cop had grabbed him by the balls. The older cop locked his eyes on Corso and said, “You mean back in ninety-eight?” Corso couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw some color drain from the younger man’s face. “Yeah,” said Corso.
“Chucky Donald was one of them. He’s a lieutenant in the East Precinct. Him and whoever was his partner at the time. I think the guy pulled the pin a couple years back.” Corso thanked him and wrote Donald’s name in his notebook.
“Help you with something?” the older one asked. He now held Corso’s card with his fingertips, as if it were radioactive.
“I need to see whoever’s in charge of public affairs.”
“Dorothy Sheridan,” the older cop said. “She’s in a meeting.”
“Does she have an assistant?”
“Bunches,” he said with a sneer. “They’re all in the meeting.”
Corso searched the cop’s face for some indication as to whether the guy was busting his balls for fun. Officer John McCarty, according to the name tag, wasn’t, however, offering any hints. When in doubt, keep talking, asking questions—anything to keep a dialogue going. “Do you have a direct number
“At the Sun , we don’t generally preview stories,” she intoned.
“Neither do I,” said Corso, “but, as much as I hate to agree with Hawes twice in the same day, I want to make sure our asses are covered on this one.”
She thought it over. “As much as the precedent pains me, you’re no doubt right. After all, exclusives like this don’t drop on one’s doorstep every day.”
“Nice touch, by the way, the room at the Carlisle. The watchdog and all,” Corso offered with a grin.
She looked offended. “It was my Christian duty. Could we, after all, have the young woman’s group home inundated with the press?”
“As long as we have her to ourselves, we have the story to ourselves.”
She gave Corso a wicked smile. “At best, we’ll get a day out of the Carlisle,” she said. “By this time tomorrow, the hounds will have found her.”
“There’s lots of hotels.”
“My thinking exactly.”
She got to her feet, stretched, and then checked her watch.
“You haven’t done anything like this in a while.”
“I remember how.”
“Are you sure you have the stomach for it? It’s going to be New York all over again. Whatever personal space you’ve cut out for yourself in the past couple of years is going to be gone.”
“Did I miss the part where you left me a choice?”
She raised an eyebrow. “As you just so poignantly pointed out to me, Mr. Corso, choices come in all sizes and shapes.”
“Yeah, but some of them are easier to live with than others.”
She smiled that wicked smile again.
“Every form of refuge has its price, Mr. Corso.”
Chapter 6
Monday, September 17
5:05 P.M. Day 1 of 6
Corner of Fifth and James. The Public Safety Building is notched hard into the side of the hill, sentencing an entire city block to perpetual shade. Connected by a seventh-floor covered walkway to the King County jail, the complex is a remnant of an age when signs on the freeway implored the last person leaving town to please turn out the lights. A pair of ten-story poured-concrete monuments to fiscal restraint, they looked remarkably like waffles standing on end and were quite easily the ugliest buildings in the city’s gleaming downtown core.
Two officers at the front desk. Blue shirts, sitting way up high in the power position. Typical city cops. If your aorta wasn’t severed, they were going to finish what they were doing before they bothered with you. Corso reached up and dropped a business card faceup in front of the older of the two. When neither of them so much as glanced at the card, Corso asked, “Either of you remember the officers of record in the Trashman killings?”
Without looking up, the young cop said, “Densmore’s the three. I don’t—” He suddenly frowned and looked desperately toward his lap, as if the older cop had grabbed him by the balls. The older cop locked his eyes on Corso and said, “You mean back in ninety-eight?” Corso couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw some color drain from the younger man’s face. “Yeah,” said Corso.
“Chucky Donald was one of them. He’s a lieutenant in the East Precinct. Him and whoever was his partner at the time. I think the guy pulled the pin a couple years back.” Corso thanked him and wrote Donald’s name in his notebook.
“Help you with something?” the older one asked. He now held Corso’s card with his fingertips, as if it were radioactive.
“I need to see whoever’s in charge of public affairs.”
“Dorothy Sheridan,” the older cop said. “She’s in a meeting.”
“Does she have an assistant?”
“Bunches,” he said with a sneer. “They’re all in the meeting.”
Corso searched the cop’s face for some indication as to whether the guy was busting his balls for fun. Officer John McCarty, according to the name tag, wasn’t, however, offering any hints. When in doubt, keep talking, asking questions—anything to keep a dialogue going. “Do you have a direct number
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