her into the ambulance.
“Whoa,” Kavanaugh exclaimed. “Cassandra Wentworth from The Eye ? What’s she doing in that awful sweater, Smith sonian? I thought she wouldn’t be caught dead in those!”
“You’re right about that. But she’s not dead.”
“So far. So it’s someone hacked off about that Sweatergate thing?”
Lacey shrugged. Kavanaugh didn’t need any help with the obvious. They had no more time to talk before a youngish po liceman approached and wanted Lacey’s statement. He took her out of earshot of the young and hungry reporter and Lacey filled him in on the details of how she found Cassandra. But he didn’t believe her.
“A boy? In a shepherd’s robe? And he’s gone now? Right.
You been drinking, miss?”
“No, officer, and all I can say is: This is the District.”
The cop appraised her and took in the alley. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lacey repeated the story the child had told her. She retraced the path from Cassandra to the Dumpster for the officer’s ben efit, and there hanging on the Dumpster she noticed a tiny piece of torn fabric. Its blueandwhite threads matched the little shepherd’s robe. She pointed this out. The cop sighed. His part ner came over to look.
“So now you believe me?”
The second cop gave her a slight inclination of his head. “It’s the District, ma’am.” He reached for the scrap of fabric. “Hey, don’t touch that,” the first cop said. “We’ll let the foren sics boys pick that up.”
The second cop looked at him and laughed. “Forensics. For the lab.”
“Yeah, forensics.” They both laughed. “Right. They’ll be all over that. At the lab.”
A detective finally showed up, a tired middleaged black man named Sam Charleston from the Second District. The uni formed officers stood aside and Lacey repeated her story to him.
“So, you’d describe this suspect as black or white or what?” “Suspect? He’s a witness, detective,” Lacey said. “And he’s a mix of Asian, black, and maybe some white. Just my guess.” Detective Charleston rolled his eyes. “No one on the beat’s going to stop and figure that one out. Not even a place on the report for all that. What’s his skin look like? Dark, light, medium?”
“Medium lightish, maybe, but—”
“Okay, we got an Hispanic teenager,” he called to the young cop. “In a blueandwhite jacket. Put it out.”
“Hispanic? Wait, I don’t know that,” Lacey cut in, “and ac tually it was a shepherd’s robe, not a jacket, and he did say fif teen, but then he said twelve and—”
The detective threw her a look that stopped her cold. “Yeah, that’s our suspect.”
“No! I didn’t say that,” Lacey protested. “He’s not a suspect!
He’s a witness. He called for help.”
Charleston stroked his jaw. “Right. Maybe he was just wait ing to hit you over the head too. Take your Christmas shopping money, credit cards, phone. Maybe he had an accomplice that ran away before you made it to the alley. You show up, he in vents a cover story.”
“You think he’s lying about the candy cane? Who would make that up?”
“People will say anything. Let’s say I’m openminded.” “But I really don’t think this kid hurt Cassandra!” She won dered if the little shepherd really could have had something to do with the attack. The kid wouldn’t know about Sweatergate. How could he? “The attack on Cassandra was personal. Sort of a grudge. What would some little boy have against her? What’s the kid’s motive?”
“Motive?” The detective snorted. “Who cares about his mo tive? All I care about is who did what. Assault in an alley, vic tim hit in the head? Pretty common. We’ll see if we got us a serial.”
“Cassandra wrote an editorial about Christmas sweaters. It was negative. Lots of people were angry, writing emails—” Lacey froze. That could have been her on the ground, attacked by one of the angry emailers.
“I hate the holidays.” Detective Charleston
“Whoa,” Kavanaugh exclaimed. “Cassandra Wentworth from The Eye ? What’s she doing in that awful sweater, Smith sonian? I thought she wouldn’t be caught dead in those!”
“You’re right about that. But she’s not dead.”
“So far. So it’s someone hacked off about that Sweatergate thing?”
Lacey shrugged. Kavanaugh didn’t need any help with the obvious. They had no more time to talk before a youngish po liceman approached and wanted Lacey’s statement. He took her out of earshot of the young and hungry reporter and Lacey filled him in on the details of how she found Cassandra. But he didn’t believe her.
“A boy? In a shepherd’s robe? And he’s gone now? Right.
You been drinking, miss?”
“No, officer, and all I can say is: This is the District.”
The cop appraised her and took in the alley. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lacey repeated the story the child had told her. She retraced the path from Cassandra to the Dumpster for the officer’s ben efit, and there hanging on the Dumpster she noticed a tiny piece of torn fabric. Its blueandwhite threads matched the little shepherd’s robe. She pointed this out. The cop sighed. His part ner came over to look.
“So now you believe me?”
The second cop gave her a slight inclination of his head. “It’s the District, ma’am.” He reached for the scrap of fabric. “Hey, don’t touch that,” the first cop said. “We’ll let the foren sics boys pick that up.”
The second cop looked at him and laughed. “Forensics. For the lab.”
“Yeah, forensics.” They both laughed. “Right. They’ll be all over that. At the lab.”
A detective finally showed up, a tired middleaged black man named Sam Charleston from the Second District. The uni formed officers stood aside and Lacey repeated her story to him.
“So, you’d describe this suspect as black or white or what?” “Suspect? He’s a witness, detective,” Lacey said. “And he’s a mix of Asian, black, and maybe some white. Just my guess.” Detective Charleston rolled his eyes. “No one on the beat’s going to stop and figure that one out. Not even a place on the report for all that. What’s his skin look like? Dark, light, medium?”
“Medium lightish, maybe, but—”
“Okay, we got an Hispanic teenager,” he called to the young cop. “In a blueandwhite jacket. Put it out.”
“Hispanic? Wait, I don’t know that,” Lacey cut in, “and ac tually it was a shepherd’s robe, not a jacket, and he did say fif teen, but then he said twelve and—”
The detective threw her a look that stopped her cold. “Yeah, that’s our suspect.”
“No! I didn’t say that,” Lacey protested. “He’s not a suspect!
He’s a witness. He called for help.”
Charleston stroked his jaw. “Right. Maybe he was just wait ing to hit you over the head too. Take your Christmas shopping money, credit cards, phone. Maybe he had an accomplice that ran away before you made it to the alley. You show up, he in vents a cover story.”
“You think he’s lying about the candy cane? Who would make that up?”
“People will say anything. Let’s say I’m openminded.” “But I really don’t think this kid hurt Cassandra!” She won dered if the little shepherd really could have had something to do with the attack. The kid wouldn’t know about Sweatergate. How could he? “The attack on Cassandra was personal. Sort of a grudge. What would some little boy have against her? What’s the kid’s motive?”
“Motive?” The detective snorted. “Who cares about his mo tive? All I care about is who did what. Assault in an alley, vic tim hit in the head? Pretty common. We’ll see if we got us a serial.”
“Cassandra wrote an editorial about Christmas sweaters. It was negative. Lots of people were angry, writing emails—” Lacey froze. That could have been her on the ground, attacked by one of the angry emailers.
“I hate the holidays.” Detective Charleston
Similar Books
