48

Lauren wrapped her green-and-white checkered scarf around her head and face like a mummy as she and Reese approached the side door of police headquarters the next day. Despite closing off road traffic except for emergency vehicles on Franklin Street all the way from Pearl to Church Street, the media lined the sidewalk from end to end. Across Church Street, media vans took up every available parking spot (and even some that weren’t), including blocking the sidewalks.

Lincoln Lewis had brought Ricky Schultz in for questioning. Reese had been finishing packing up his baseball cap collection when they got the texts from Marilyn to get their asses down there.

They’d been at headquarters well into the evening, and sleeping in late that day had been an absolute luxury. Lauren had watched Reese load a box, then his big duffel bag into his car while she sipped her coffee. Watson followed him back and forth to the car, tracking snow across the hardwood floor and spraying her with droplets when he decided to give himself a good shake.

Reese had been living in the house he inherited over by Cazenovia Park before her attack, but it was tiny. Lauren had to fight back the offer of just letting them stay with her because she knew that was the empty nest in her heart talking. Still, it was painful to watch him pack up his and Watson’s stuff. Then they got the text messages.

Reese got ready to swipe in the side door, mindful not to kick over any of the plastic soda bottles sticking out of the snow that people used as ash trays on their smoke breaks. One of the report technicians from the Narcotics squad stood shivering just inside the doorway, cigarette posed between her fingers, taking a long drag. She looked up at them, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and said, “This is nuts. Can’t even get down the damn street.”

Reese pulled his card through the reader. “Careful. Those cameras can pick up every word you say.”

“Yeah? Well, screw them.” The chubby middle-aged redhead chuckled loudly. “I got some words for them, all right.”

Riley and Reese walked past her into the building, which seemed strangely empty until Lauren remembered all the administrative report technicians had already been moved to the new building, leaving this end of the first floor a ghost town. They took the elevator to the third floor in silence, not trusting that any reporters hadn’t somehow found their way into headquarters.

Lauren unwound the scarf, letting it hang around her neck. “They already know what you look like,” Reese commented as they stepped off the elevator. “I don’t know why you even bothered.”

“Maybe I should let them film me. It’s better than that stupid departmental picture they keep showing.” The department took a photo of every officer and detective in their class A uniform every couple of years. Andy, the police photographer, told her it was so if she ever got in trouble, the brass would be able to put her in a photo array with other cops. Of course, that was also the picture the department released to the press.

They could hear the chaos before they even opened the Homicide wing’s door. Every detective working was stuffed in the hallway, talking, drinking coffee, nosing around for the scoop. Every head swiveled to Reese and Riley when they walked in, then the crowd went silent, staring.

For exactly one and a half seconds. Then they went back to rumor mongering, speculating, and gossiping.

“This is great. Downstairs it’s a circus, upstairs it’s a sideshow.” Reese pushed past Vatasha Anthony and Reggie Major, who were standing by the breakroom door, both with coffee mugs in their hands. Vatasha gave Lauren the stink eye as she passed. Almost getting murdered had not warmed their frosty relationship one bit.

“They got him in the big room,” Reggie called after them. “Joy’s in there with Ricky and his lawyer.”

Lauren half turned, “Thanks, Reggie.”

The primary interrogation room was straight back through the main office. Another smaller, narrow room was to its immediate left. There you could watch through the two-way mirror and listen through the intercom system that had been installed in the eighties and had never been updated. The state-of-the-art camera inside the room fed into the media center, where you could watch and listen on monitors. The sound was crystal clear and the picture perfect, but it wasn’t the same as standing three feet from the suspect, watching every twitch, hearing every stutter—close enough that if the glass should shatter, you could reach out and touch them.

Lauren could see the red light over the interrogation room door was lit, indicating an interview was happening. The door was shut, the frosted glass had a piece of paper taped to it that read QUIET. INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS.

The door to the room next to it was ajar. It had to be kept dark, so you couldn’t see through the two-way glass. It was like stepping into the world’s smallest movie theater. Standing-room capacity: three. Lauren pushed open the door, slipping inside. Reese followed, shutting it behind him.

Lincoln Lewis was standing in front of the mirror, arms folded across his chest, staring into the glass. He stepped sideways to make room when Riley and Reese came in, but he didn’t look away from his client. Lauren found herself sandwiched between Lewis and Reese in the claustrophobic closet. Lewis was wearing one of his simple, expensive suits, complete with his signature red bow tie. Lauren could smell just a hint of cologne on him, mixed with soap, like he had showered right before he had come to headquarters. Lewis had a pair of silver-rimmed glasses resting on his nose that Lauren hadn’t seen him wear before, his eyebrows pulled down to the frame as he watched Ricky.

Ricky Schultz was sitting with Joy Walsh, directly in front of them. Wearing the same ill-fitting suit he had on Saturday night, Ricky’s cheeks were blotchy, with more angry red patches splashed across them. The mole that Lauren thought he should have checked seemed inked into the side of his face, dark and jagged. It was hard not to stare at it when you looked at him.

Lauren broke the silence by whispering, “Shouldn’t you be in there with your client?” You had to keep it down in the narrow space or your voice would bleed over to the interview room.

Lewis shook his head. “He said no. Richard Schultz denies any knowledge of his brother’s involvement with the shooting of Gabriel Mohamed, and he certainly didn’t know anything about Vince’s attack on you.”

Lauren took in Ricky’s body language: annoyed, cocky, and angry. He’d been in Joy’s seat too many times to say the wrong thing. Of course he’d give a statement denying any knowledge. As long as his brothers kept their traps shut, he’d be just fine.

“You really think that’s true?” Lauren asked Lewis.

Now he did look at her. “They found nothing during the search of his apartment. Nothing on his phone and nothing in his personal effects. I have to give it to you, Lauren—you’re tenacious as hell. What I can’t believe is that you caught the guy who stabbed you, they’ve arrested the man who killed Gabriel Mohamed, and you’re still not satisfied. You have an almost obsessive need to entirely destroy the Schultz family.”

“I don’t want to destroy anyone. I just want all the guilty people in jail where they belong.”

“How noble of you,” he mused softly, turning his attention back to Ricky. “But as plausible as it is to believe the three brothers loved each other so much they’d cover up a murder and kill to keep a secret, it’s equally plausible that Vince and Sam hid their crimes from their big brother to protect him as well.”

Reese made a snorting sound. Lauren gave him an elbow.

The three were standing so close in the darkness that their shoulders touched. Lewis was so tall he had to hunch forward slightly so that his head didn’t hit the ancient audio equipment that hung from the ceiling. He wasn’t wearing a top coat; he must have draped it over a chair in the office or hung it on the coat tree someone had pulled out of the garbage somewhere and stuck in the corner by the door. Lewis looked like he was watching his nephew’s communion video, not the interrogation of a former police officer.

Ricky was looking at Joy with amused contempt. “You think I’d tell Vince to stab a fellow officer? Just to steal a file? On a case I worked my balls off on? Look at my notes in that file. I worked that case hard.”

“But your brother Sam was never a suspect,” Joy pointed out.

“Why the hell would he be? I’m just as shocked by all this shit as you folks are. My two brothers are going to jail. The people at my mother’s assisted living home thought she had a heart attack last night. She’s in Mercy Hospital right now hooked up to a heart monitor. She’s eighty-eight years old.” He thrust his finger toward Joy’s face to make his point. “If I’d have known my brothers were up to this, I would have brought them in myself.”

She flinched but kept the interrogation going. “What about the pictures of you and Sam in the police car immediately after the shooting?” she pressed. Lauren could see the crime scene photos spread out on the desk next to Ricky.

“It was freezing out. My rookie brother was walking the beat. I let him warm up in my car. He didn’t say anything about anything and I sure as hell didn’t suspect him.”

Convincing. Lauren clenched her jaw as she watched his performance. But you’re a professional liar. Your brothers wouldn’t have made a move without asking you first.

“It’s hard not to believe him,” Lewis said in the smooth, confident voice that lulled juries to his side.

“He let his brother walk away from murdering a teenager.”

“He had no knowledge of that and no history of being heavy-handed when he was on the job. He was a good cop.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when my doctor checks on how well my sutures are healing next week. Want to see my scars?”

His eyes dancing over Lauren’s face, a smile creeping across his mouth as he gave her a quick glance up and down. “That’s an interesting offer. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to take a rain check. Excuse me.” He carefully inched behind her and Reese, making his way to the door. “It’s time I cut this interview off.”

“This is wrong, Lincoln,” Lauren’s voice raised a notch as he got past Reese and opened the door.

Lewis paused, half in and half out of the room, hand on the knob. “You got two of the three brothers. You won. Be happy with that.” He slid out, closing the door behind him.

“You okay?” Reese asked. Through the window they could see Lincoln Lewis enter the interview room and Ricky getting to his feet.

“No.” Lauren pushed past Reese out into the main office. Ricky and Lewis walked out together, Lincoln plucking a camel coat off the back of a chair as he passed.

Lauren followed them down the stairs, vaguely aware that Reese was by her side. She was fixated on the back of Ricky’s head, with its greasy comb-over, bobbing down with each step he took. Ricky didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge her in any way, but Lauren knew he was aware she was behind him. Dandruff was sprinkled across each shoulder of his suit jacket; his winter coat was draped over his arm.

Greasy, dirty, disgusting excuse for a human being. Lauren tried to mirror Reese’s cool, calm exterior, but knew she was only being marginally successful as they reached the first-floor landing. Outside the Church Street door, reporters were already pressed to the glass, filming, shouting, and pushing each other for position. Stopping short of the doorway, Lewis turned back to Reese, “Can we get a little help here?”

“Very little,” he answered dryly, then looked down the hallway where two uniformed officers were milling around by the entrance to the property office. “Hey, guys? Could you make a path for our friends here?”

The two young coppers nodded and proceeded to hold open the door and simultaneously hold back the press. The shorter officer yelled at the crowd, “Coming through, people! Don’t block the sidewalk! Get out of the way!”

Lewis grabbed Ricky’s coat and threw it over his head, covering it as he led him out of the building. The two coppers followed along, cutting a path for them through the cameras and questions. Lauren and Reese brought up the rear, catching the attention of one astute cameraman. “Aren’t you the detective who got stabbed?” he asked. Cameras swung around to capture both Lauren and Ricky walking on the sidewalk through the unshoveled snow.

A young Latina reporter stuck a microphone in her face. “How does it feel to watch Richard Schultz walk away?”

Lauren stopped, and Reese did as well, watching Lincoln Lewis rush his client to a waiting black sedan with tinted windows. How does it feel? Camera flashes went off all around her. Her eyes narrowed as Ricky was driven off. He covered up a murder, he tried to have me killed, and he possibly beat Joe Wheeler to death. Two out of three isn’t good enough.

Lauren turned and walked back into headquarters.

This wasn’t over by a longshot.