The Trials of Nikki Hill by Dick Lochte, Christopher Darden

side. “I got my reasons.”
    “Fine,” she said, “but dislike him on your own time and keep me out of it.”
    He regarded her with such rare seriousness she almost didn’t recognize him. Then he grinned and said, “Fair enough. Le’s go see what my partner’s been up to.”
    They found Goodman in some sort of trophy room. One wall was filled with certificates of honor and awards. On another hung glossy photos in uniform black frames—the late TV newswoman with a vast array of major celebrities and world figures, including the president and first lady, taken in the Oval Office.
    “Maddie must have had a sense of humor,” Goodman said. “She put this one of her and Clinton right next to this one of her and Saddam Hussein.” He turned to Morales. “Find anything interesting at Jamal’s?”
    “
Nada,
’cept the
pendejo
lives like a pig. Cock-a-roaches playin’ soccer in the shower. Dirty sheets on the bed. Moldy dishes in the sink.”
    “But nothing in all that dirt to indicate he’s our man,” Goodman said.
    “They still goin’ over the place, but you don’t need no microscope to know he didn’t beat nobody up there lately.”
    Nikki was confused. “Wasn’t the murder committed here?” she asked.
    “That’s one of the problems with body dumps,” Goodman said. “Takes a while to find the crime scene. This may be the place, but the techs aren’t sure.”
    Morales pointed to the wall of photos. “Jamal’s got Maddie’s photo on
his
wall, autographed.”
    “Well that’s sort of interesting,” Goodman said. “Any other pictures?”
    Morales looked dejected. “The friggin’ wall is just like that one. Covered with showbiz pictures. Mainly women, but some men. Even got a signed photo of Selena.”
    “We know he’s not guilty of that one,” Nikki said. One of the framed items on the awards wall caught her eye. Madeleine Penniston Gray had won a special certificate of honor for her work at the Florida State campus radio station fourteen years before. From Florida State to the White House to the county morgue, in less than fifteen years. Fast traveling, but going nowhere.
    “Mind giving me a quick tour of this place, detective?” she asked Goodman.
    “If my knees can stand it,” he said. “Lots of stairs.”
    He led them through the oddly designed building, waiting every now and then while Nikki poked around. He saved the possible murder scene for last. In the pale green room, he pointed out the metal orb that might have been the death weapon. Then he showed them the gold bracelet.
    Nikki examined it, noted the inscription, and passed it to Morales, who studied it for a few seconds and said, with enthusiasm, “Aw’right. Now we got the
vago
.”
    “What’re you talking about?” Goodman asked.
    “Right here,” Morales said, wiggling the baggie with the bracelet. “ ‘M. We’ll always have Paris. Love, J.’ ‘J’ for Jamal.”
    Goodman shook his head. “That boy look like somebody who’d be rememberin’ Paris with Maddie Gray?”
    “Hey, amigo, we both been aroun’ long enough to know these loco showbiz broads get a taste for somethin’ different every now and then.”
    “Does Jamal strike you as the kind of dude who’d buy a little gold knickknack and put a tender inscription like that on it?” Goodman asked.
    “You know, Eddie, you startin’ to think too damn much. It’s an old fart’s habit—thinkin’ ’stead of doin’.”
    Nikki saw color come to Goodman’s cheeks. “Well, this old fart doesn’t believe in tossing a guy in jail just to be doing something.”
    “Deschamps belongs in jail, damn it. You can’t see he’s dirty, you better get glasses. Whose side you on in this anyway?”
    “Side?” Goodman suddenly shouted. “This isn’t a fucking football game!”
    The senior detective’s outburst caught Nikki by surprise. She remembered the battles Blackie and Carlos would get into, but they were both aggressive and hot-tempered. Her initial