Hard To Handle. Kylie Brant
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The kid’s memory is probably influenced by a recent horror flick he watched.”
Gabe lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. But the presence of a second guy in the apartment would explain the shots fired. That never did seem like Lenny’s style.”
“D’Brusco might have changed his style after his last stint at Hill.”
That was entirely possible, Gabe silently conceded. It had been courtesy of Gabe that Lenny had been the state’s guest for a second time after Gabe had busted him for fencing. D’Brusco had only been out for two years, and apparently had changed his favorite con. He’d come to Gabe and Cal’s attention recently when they caught a money-laundering assignment he figured in. Gabe still had trouble believing that Lenny had risen to such a level. Working with that kind of money meant D’Brusco was playing in the big leagues. Apparently, he’d not only changed his habits, he’d also learned some new skills in prison.
The lieutenant was speaking again. “Just be aware that this case is attracting some attention from above. I fielded a call regarding it today from the deputy chief.”
Gabe’s low, tuneless whistle conveyed his appreciation of the fact. Given the chain of command in the CPD, the deputy chief’s inquiry meant that the interest was being generated several authority rungs higher, maybe even from the superintendent of police himself.
“Any clue what their interest is?”
“That wasn’t shared with me. However, a private source informed me that Justice has been sniffing around the investigation.”
Gabe went still. “Justice? Which agency?”
Burney shook his head. “That I don’t know. Just thought you should be aware that the case might be getting some profile.” He stood, indicating that the meeting was at an end. Gabe’s hand was on the doorknob before the lieutenant’s wry tone sounded again.
“Oh, and Connally—” he waited until the detective looked over his shoulder before finishing “—you might want to rethink that second job. You know how the department feels about detectives moonlighting.”
Grinning, Gabe opened the door. “If you say so, sir, but it seems a shame to waste a god-given talent. I figure I’m a natural.”
Too bad, he thought, an hour and a half later as he eyed the computer console before him balefully, that he wasn’t a natural at technology. The damn thing had already eaten his report once, and he’d had to painstakingly retype it. Cal would have made some wiseass comment about garbage in, garbage out, but then Cal understood things like computers and DVDs, the new technology rage that he’d once tried to explain to Gabe. His efforts had been in vain. Gabe had considered it a major feat when he’d learned to program his VCR. His talents, he’d explained to his partner, time and again, lay in other areas.
Once he’d collected his hard copy, his attention shifted to the woman who’d lingered in the back of his mind since she’d thrown them out of her apartment. Meghan Patterson. He typed her last name into the crime data base and waited for the computer to finish processing.
Despite his partner’s assessment of his intentions, his interest in the woman was purely professional. Well, okay, he admitted, drumming his fingers lightly on the keyboard, maybe he’d admired her in a purely detached sort of way. He could only figure one good reason for a woman to scrape her hair up on top of her head the way she’d worn hers. He doubted very much, however, that she’d worn it that way with the intention of allowing a man to take it down, a pin at a time. He gave a purely masculine grin at the mental picture.
A good cop got to be an expert at sizing people up. It certainly didn’t mean he was attracted to her, which was a good thing, because he had a long-standing distaste for dishonesty. Regardless of her reasons, Meghan had lied to him yesterday, and that alone was enough to keep him wary of her. There were, he’d found, simple facts in life that had to be accepted because they couldn’t be changed. Trees had their leaves, oceans had their tides, and women had their secrets. He knew that. And knowing was reason enough to keep the females in his life at a comfortable distance.
The search yielded forty-seven Pattersons for whom arrest warrants had been issued or by whom complaints had been filed. He was unsurprised when he failed to find Meghan’s name. He scanned each report, but could find nothing to match the little information she’d given them about her sister. He switched to the Internet and accessed the Tribune’s archives. He found several references to news articles in which Meghan was mentioned, and he went through them in reverse order, starting with the oldest.
The first he read had his eyebrows climbing. He hadn’t realized the woman he’d spoken with this afternoon was part of the Tremayne dynasty. The connection implied old money, historic homes and very public divorces. Meghan’s mother was the sole heiress to one of Chicago’s wealthiest families and, from what Gabe could remember, had done her part to keep the family name in the news with the frequent breakups of her marriages.
It occurred to him then to wonder if Meghan had been married. He scrolled down the articles, but found no details to support the idea. Patterson had probably been her father’s name.
He skimmed through several more clippings, most having appeared in the social registry featuring Meghan being escorted to lavish fund-raisers. It was interesting to note that none of the pictures showed her with the same guy twice, although they all shared a polished, worthless look that made them interchangeable.
He paused to read a couple that mentioned her career in the art world and clicked impatiently on the most recent selection.
The picture unfolded in slow-motion, which, given the age of the district’s computers, was the way the Internet seemed to work most of the time. It was an invasive close-up shot, the kind the media was noted for, focused on Meghan, Danny and an older woman. The trio were dressed in black, and the photo had been snapped as they filed out of a church. Behind a casket.
The headline screamed at him, and he read the article quickly, his stomach dropping a little lower with each paragraph. He stared at the screen after he’d finished, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Damn his luck. His earlier certainty about persuading Meghan to allow Danny to cooperate slipped several notches. He remembered the gist of the case involving Sandra Barton; who didn’t? It had been splashed all over the news for weeks, and the only place news traveled faster than in the media was within the department itself. He now understood why Meghan might hold the police responsible for her sister’s death.
On some level, he really couldn’t blame her.
He’d lost his appetite for the steak he’d been promising himself all day, so Gabe got a couple of fast-food sandwiches before heading to Brewsters. The bar was a local hangout, its customers mostly cops, and a favorite of his and Cal’s. Of course, Cal hadn’t made regular appearances there since his marriage. Becky kept him on a pretty short leash, which was another reason Gabe steered clear of serious relationships. He had a long-held aversion to being confined.
He felt at home as soon as he pushed open the door and inhaled the secondhand smoke that all the ordinances in the world couldn’t successfully ban. Returning the greetings of some of the regulars, he found a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender to bring him his usual.
When the bottle of beer was set before him, he took a comfortable swallow, before a man slipped onto the stool beside him. Casting a sideways look, he groaned aloud. “I’m here to relax, McKay. I don’t want any hassle.”
The blond man beside him raised his brows. “Hassle? Me? I was just hoping for some friendly conversation with one of CPD’s finest.”
Gabe took a long pull from his beer. “I heard a joke the other day that made me think of you. You know what you call ten thousand reporters at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.” He chuckled at the other man’s expression. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course.” Dare McKay raised a finger, and the bartender slid an iced mug of beer toward him. “Besides, that joke is probably referring to the paparazzi,