Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (15 page)

“She might have a concealed weapon permit. We can check. Hard to find a Margrave resident without one. Lotta snakes around here, both the two-legged and the four-legged kind.”

“OK,” Gaspar said. “That’s one possible source of old prints. Probably others. Is everything else that should be in the file actually here?”

“Seems to be.” Roscoe nodded, preoccupied with the papers in her hand. If she thumbed through them too many more times, she’d rub the ink off the pages.

The clock showed 10:57 a.m. Maybe GHP would never call. Maybe the boss was wrong. He’s not God, as Gaspar kept reminding her. But Kim’s gut, what she’d come to recognize as her second brain, disagreed.

“What’s involved in the background check?” Gaspar asked.

“Standard Homeland Security forms,” Roscoe replied.

Kim was thoroughly familiar with those forms and the procedures they required. Smart choice. Presented several possible fingerprint record opportunities. Roscoe was a small town top cop, but she was a good one. Kim would have enjoyed collaborating with a cooperative Roscoe under different circumstances. Maybe one day, they would actually be on the same team. Assuming Roscoe wasn’t the dirty cop Gaspar believed her to be.

To confirm, Kim said, “So pre-hire, you checked criminal records, gun licenses, credit report, education and employment, drug tests, lie detector, physical exam, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Gaspar said, “And all of that’s still here, for both Harry and Sylvia. Sylvia’s fingerprints and print report are the only things missing. No medical records?”

“Relevant medical records would be there if we had any,” Roscoe replied.

Gaspar said, “Maybe we can get those from the insurance company?”

“We’re self insured. She didn’t get any medical care through us. I’d have known about it. I file an annual report,” Roscoe said, inattentive.

Gaspar looked at Roscoe until she met his gaze. He raised one eyebrow; she grasped the point quickly. A woman Sylvia’s age should have had at least some medical care in the five year period. Sylvia herself looked well cared for and Gaspar lived in a house full of females, so he knew. Records existed. For sure.

The phone screamed silence. Twenty-six minutes. 11:01 a.m. What the hell were those guys doing out there, anyway? Kim’s stomach snake thrashed around, fully alert. She gulped coffee to calm and distract, but coffee wasn’t working any longer. She asked, “How about tax returns?”

She loved tax returns. She requested them on every case. Tax returns contained a gold mine of information if you knew how to read them. Predictable, comforting, recognizable digits securely held in proper boxes. Much better than dealing with people. Figures lie and liars figure, she knew. But Kim understood lies and liars; she liked numbers better.

Roscoe, it seemed, did not.

“No.” She dropped papers on the desk. A few fluttered to the carpet. “No tax returns. No DNA. No cavity searches. No video of her mother giving birth. No goddamned place to look besides those two folders. No old fingerprints. Got it?”

Kim held both hands palm out in mock surrender. Roscoe bent down to collect the documents she’d dropped on the floor.

Gaspar asked, “How about tax returns for Harry after they married? If they filed jointly, that would be a start.”

Roscoe straightened up. Without a glance, she stalked out and slammed the door behind her. But she didn’t do anything worse.

“That went well, don’t you think, Mrs. Lincoln?” he said lightly.

“Just great.”

Gaspar stood, stretched, walked around the room as if he was mulling things over. Might have fooled someone else, but Kim recognized his pain relief routine. He said, “Don’t worry, Sunshine. She’s got to come back eventually. It’s her office.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Roscoe came back five minutes later, looking unconcerned. Kim said, “Beverly, we can figure this out. You’re looking for fingerprints, but what you really want to find is Sylvia, right?”

“Duh,” Roscoe said.

“Sylvia seemed out of place here, don’t you think? You said she wasn’t a local. So why did she come here? With respect, Margrave isn’t exactly the town every sophisticated girl like Sylvia dreams about, is it? Surely she didn’t just get off a bus and walk into town looking for a job in the local police station?”

Kim saw the briefest glint of surprise.

“What?” she asked.

Then the surprise softened to puzzlement. Roscoe leafed through the papers in front of her.

Gaspar said, “What?”

No answer. Kim waited to explain how to find Sylvia.

Tax returns.

Unlike fingerprints, tax returns weren’t kept forever. The IRS normally held them for three years. Prior returns had to be somewhere, and Kim knew where they hid.

And tax returns knew where Sylvia hid.

The clock on the wall showed 11:06 a.m. What could the GHP possibly be doing with that Chevy for more than thirty minutes before notifying the correct homicide team? Sure, the first officer on the scene didn’t want to make a mistake and set the wrong jurisdiction in motion. But this was GHP’s beat. They had to know who to call. Even those two yokels from yesterday couldn’t be
that
dumb.

Then Roscoe sighed and said, “Sylvia Black applied for her job here because Finlay recommended us. Sylvia had been living in DC and wanted to relocate. He told her he’d come from Margrave. Made it sound idyllic, she claimed. Peaceful. Just what she wanted.”

And there it was. The connection. Under different circumstances, Kim might have cheered.

#

Finlay’s name roused Gaspar pretty fast. He handed the personnel folders back to Roscoe and asked, “Did Sylvia say why she wanted to relocate?”

Roscoe hesitated before answering.

“Jealous boyfriend,” she said.

“She give you a name?” Gaspar asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Not Finlay himself, right?”

“No.”

“How do you know, if she didn’t give you a name?”

Roscoe didn’t answer. Kim sipped her coffee, unsure. Even five years ago, Finlay was a long way up the food chain from an aspiring administrative aide. Unless he had some sort of personal relationship with her. But she couldn’t see Finlay risking everything for Sylvia Black. He seemed too, well,
smart,
at the very least.

She asked, “Did you ever ask Finlay about Sylvia? For a reference, maybe?”

Roscoe considered that one for a while, searching her memory. Her tone softer, sentences slower, she said, “I don’t think so. We had an opening. Sylvia applied. We liked her. Her background checked out. There didn’t seem to be any reason to go further, I guess.”

Gaspar asked, “How did Sylvia know you had a job opening?”

“I don’t know,” Roscoe said. “Five years is a long time to remember details like that.”

Gaspar asked, “How long have Sylvia’s fingerprints been missing?”

“No idea.”

“That’s a lot of screw ups on your watch, Chief. Your one and only prisoner escapes by walking out the door. With the full cooperation of your desk sergeant. Prints and print reports were removed from the accused’s confidential file. You don’t even know when that happened, let alone how. Awfully convenient, don’t you think? “

“You think I pulled Sylvia’s personnel file out today just to screw with you?”

Kim asked, “Why did you? Retrieve the file today, I mean? You booked Sylvia, right? Took prints? Why pull the old file? Looking for confirmation? Discrepancies? Or what?”

Roscoe ran her fingers through both sides of her hair. “Or what, I guess.”

“Meaning?” Gaspar pressed.

Roscoe held up the papers she’d collected during her brief absence. “This is her booking file. We took new prints yesterday. Sent them in last night. Report from AFIS came back just before you arrived. They say no such person is on record.”

She tossed the folder across to Gaspar. It landed in his lap and slid to the floor. He bent to pick it up, and winced. Something wrong with his right side. Not just his leg.

“Walk me through it,” Kim said, and watched Roscoe’s body language. She figured Roscoe had sound instincts. And she’d been on the job a good long time. Pride and anger and duty and uncertainty all crossed her expressive face. She liked her independence. She hated that help was required. Kim understood.

Roscoe said, “I’ve always been careful about fingerprints. Even with DNA now, fingerprints still solve cases. Early in my career, it was my job to take prints, and handle the reports.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Gaspar said.

Roscoe smiled. The first genuine smile they’d seen from her today. She had a nice smile, Kim thought. Kind. Like a nurse in a dental office, maybe.

“But,” Roscoe said, drawing the word out and mocking Gaspar a little, as she stared directly at Kim, “I learned how important fingerprints really are when I met Jack Reacher.”

The statement startled. Not what they were expecting. Not at all. Roscoe smiled. She enjoyed the upper hand. Who didn’t?

“How so?” Kim asked.

“You know about Joe Reacher’s murder now, right?”

“We have some open questions,” Kim said. “But we know Jack was mistakenly accused and later released when his alibi was confirmed.”

“Yes,” Roscoe said. “Jack Reacher was innocent.”

Kim said nothing. She doubted Jack Reacher was innocent, whether he had an alibi or not. Jack Reacher hadn’t been innocent since Moses was a boy. But Kim need to kill time until the call came. Reacher was a better topic than the Chevy.

Roscoe took another breath, and held it, and let it go. She said, “Joe Reacher’s fingerprints weren’t processed correctly. We got a false negative. And we didn’t know that until after Jack’s alibi had been confirmed. So we lost a lot of valuable time.” Her voice trailed off into memories. Whether good or bad, Kim couldn’t say.

Gaspar said, “Not to mention you accused and arrested the wrong dude.”

Roscoe flushed crimson. “If you’re trying to provoke me, Agent Gaspar, keep it up.”

Gaspar gave it right back. “You did accuse Jack Reacher of killing his brother, didn’t you? And you were wrong. You’re telling me you did that based on a false fingerprint report?”

Roscoe shoved back, rapid fire. “I didn’t accuse Jack Reacher of anything. Chief Morrison accused him.”

“And then Chief Morrison got killed. So let’s see: Bad fingerprint work, two murders, one false arrest. All coincidence? Or Margrave PD incompetence?”

“There was no incompetence.”

“Who was dirty, then? Finlay?”

Silence in the room. Bewilderment in Roscoe’s eyes.

She said, “Finlay? Dirty?”

Then she burst out laughing. Genuine laughter. She laughed like a kid watching cartoons. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She held her stomach in pain as the laughter kept on coming. She was still laughing when Brent knocked and opened the door.

Was the woman mentally unbalanced?

#

Kim looked at the clock to mark the time. It was 11:22 a.m. Forty-eight minutes since the GHP arrived at the scene; five to ten minutes to call in the plate, exit the cruiser, get over to the Chevy, and look inside to find the body. Two to five minutes to call and wait for backup. Talk it over before choosing first responders and making the call. Total lapsed time forty-one to forty-six minutes.

Way too long.

Which meant the Chevy was not Roscoe’s case.

So why were they calling at all?

The stomach snake already knew.

“Chief?” Brent had looked fresh and clean the day before. Now weary eyes and sallow skin marked him a man who knew he’d screwed up. Maybe he was the one who released Sylvia to the impersonators last night, after all.

Roscoe picked up a tissue and wiped away the tears of laughter from her eyes.

She said, “Yes, Brent, what is it?”

She was still almost giggling. Odd behavior, to say the least.

“We’ve got a situation,” Brent told her, as if another problem was the very last thing he wanted to report. “GHP just notified us. They’ve found another body.”

“Homicide?”

Brent nodded. “Likely. On the interstate, by the cloverleaf at the county road.

“Who is the victim? Do they know?”

Brent squirmed. Squared his shoulders. Lifted his head. Confessed perhaps the second worst possible news in his world at the moment. “It’s that lawyer. L. Mark Newton. The one picked up Sylvia Black last night.”

Kim and Gaspar looked at each other. Gaspar raised his eyebrow.
The imposter is dead already?
Followed quickly by,
Why would the boss care about him?

“Any sign of Sylvia?” Roscoe asked.

“Long gone,” Brent said. “Looks like she killed him, too. He was shot just like Harry. Two in the back of the head.”