let the hand he’d extended to Garfield drop, “thanks for agreeing to meet with us.”
“Of course,” he said, though the scowl on his face suggested he was thinking better of it now. He looked around the lobby, which teemed with uniformed cops and civilians. “How ’bout we step into my office, huh?”
De Silva took them up an elevator, then down a labyrinth of cramped hallways. Turns out, his offer of an office was sarcastic. His desk was one of many in a detective’s bull pen, which was only slightly less cacophonous than the lobby they’d left behind. Once there, he shunted them into a tiny, windowless conference room that looked like it might have been a converted broom closet.
“Sorry about the accommodations,” he said. “I’m sure Uncle Sam takes care of you Federals just fine, but us lowly city cops consider it a good day if the AC stays on. Now, what can I do for you?”
Thompson tamped down her irritation at De Silva’s tone. Friction with local law enforcement was part and parcel of working for the Bureau—and anyway, she reminded herself, it was Garfield who kicked off this particular pissing contest. She tried a smile. In her current exhausted state, it came out a grimace, and likely did more harm than good.
“I was wondering what you could tell us about the Cruz murder,” she said.
“I assume you read my report.”
Garfield snorted. “If that’s what you wanna call it,” he said.
Thompson glared at him. De Silva bristled. “What’re you trying to say, Agent? ”
Garfield leaned back in his chair and showed De Silva his palms. “Just that it was a little slight, is all.”
“Through no fault of mine, pal, I can assure you. We traced the shot back to a vehicle, and the vehicle back to a long-term airport parking lot. The owner was at some kinda conference in Reno and had no idea it was even missing. The Crime Scene guys tell me the interior of the vehicle was a bust for prints and DNA, on account of our perp bleached the living shit out of it and wiped down all the surfaces he touched—including his shell casings and gun. And, yeah—the rifle was left behind, but its serial was filed off, so no luck there, either. Somehow every security camera for blocks around went down hours before the shooting, so we’ve got no footage of either the shot o r Cruz getting hit, and eyewitnesses were no better. Edgar Morales, the owner of the building, is hiding behind a wall of lawyers— we can’t get a straight answer as to whether he was even in the country when the shit went down. We spent hours canvassing the area, and the best we could come up with was a valet for the hotel the shooter’s car was parked at who said our suspect was, and I quote, ‘a white dude, maybe, in a ball cap, aviators, and a bushy beard.’ That beard, by the way, was fake—we found it bleached white in the center console. And when we called around to costume shops in town trying to find out where he got it, we rolled a donut. We worked the trail. The trail ran cold. As simple as that. Whoever killed Cruz knew what he was doing—and my guess is, he’s long-ass gone by now.”
“Look, Detective, we appreciate your efforts,” Thompson said, flashing a glance at Garfield, “and I’m sure my partner didn’t mean to imply your investigation was anything less than thorough and professional. In fact, your expertise could prove invaluable to us. If you’d be willing to take us out and walk us through the crime scene, maybe help us track down some known associates of the vic—”
But De Silva cut her off. “Listen, lady, much as I’d just love to drop everything and help you out, the Cruz case ain’t exactly a priority. This whole goddamn state’s a war zone. In Miami-Dade alone, we’ve had fifty-four murders so far this year. Three hundred cases of sexual assault. Well over two thousan d aggravated assaults. A full third of those cases haven’t been cleared yet. Most likely, they never will be. If I
“Of course,” he said, though the scowl on his face suggested he was thinking better of it now. He looked around the lobby, which teemed with uniformed cops and civilians. “How ’bout we step into my office, huh?”
De Silva took them up an elevator, then down a labyrinth of cramped hallways. Turns out, his offer of an office was sarcastic. His desk was one of many in a detective’s bull pen, which was only slightly less cacophonous than the lobby they’d left behind. Once there, he shunted them into a tiny, windowless conference room that looked like it might have been a converted broom closet.
“Sorry about the accommodations,” he said. “I’m sure Uncle Sam takes care of you Federals just fine, but us lowly city cops consider it a good day if the AC stays on. Now, what can I do for you?”
Thompson tamped down her irritation at De Silva’s tone. Friction with local law enforcement was part and parcel of working for the Bureau—and anyway, she reminded herself, it was Garfield who kicked off this particular pissing contest. She tried a smile. In her current exhausted state, it came out a grimace, and likely did more harm than good.
“I was wondering what you could tell us about the Cruz murder,” she said.
“I assume you read my report.”
Garfield snorted. “If that’s what you wanna call it,” he said.
Thompson glared at him. De Silva bristled. “What’re you trying to say, Agent? ”
Garfield leaned back in his chair and showed De Silva his palms. “Just that it was a little slight, is all.”
“Through no fault of mine, pal, I can assure you. We traced the shot back to a vehicle, and the vehicle back to a long-term airport parking lot. The owner was at some kinda conference in Reno and had no idea it was even missing. The Crime Scene guys tell me the interior of the vehicle was a bust for prints and DNA, on account of our perp bleached the living shit out of it and wiped down all the surfaces he touched—including his shell casings and gun. And, yeah—the rifle was left behind, but its serial was filed off, so no luck there, either. Somehow every security camera for blocks around went down hours before the shooting, so we’ve got no footage of either the shot o r Cruz getting hit, and eyewitnesses were no better. Edgar Morales, the owner of the building, is hiding behind a wall of lawyers— we can’t get a straight answer as to whether he was even in the country when the shit went down. We spent hours canvassing the area, and the best we could come up with was a valet for the hotel the shooter’s car was parked at who said our suspect was, and I quote, ‘a white dude, maybe, in a ball cap, aviators, and a bushy beard.’ That beard, by the way, was fake—we found it bleached white in the center console. And when we called around to costume shops in town trying to find out where he got it, we rolled a donut. We worked the trail. The trail ran cold. As simple as that. Whoever killed Cruz knew what he was doing—and my guess is, he’s long-ass gone by now.”
“Look, Detective, we appreciate your efforts,” Thompson said, flashing a glance at Garfield, “and I’m sure my partner didn’t mean to imply your investigation was anything less than thorough and professional. In fact, your expertise could prove invaluable to us. If you’d be willing to take us out and walk us through the crime scene, maybe help us track down some known associates of the vic—”
But De Silva cut her off. “Listen, lady, much as I’d just love to drop everything and help you out, the Cruz case ain’t exactly a priority. This whole goddamn state’s a war zone. In Miami-Dade alone, we’ve had fifty-four murders so far this year. Three hundred cases of sexual assault. Well over two thousan d aggravated assaults. A full third of those cases haven’t been cleared yet. Most likely, they never will be. If I
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