McKenzie dreaded the unavoidable meeting and had no idea how it would play out. Driving across town, he kept an eye on the rearview mirror and his forty-cal at the ready in the passenger seat. Three days had passed since the Sawyer arrest, and at last Jorgensen had reached out for a confidential meet. Wanting to try and establish a tactical advantage, McKenzie pulled into the usual meeting place twenty minutes ahead of schedule. But the familiar black Crown Vic was already there, parked in the shadows.
Frustrated, McKenzie shut off his engine, tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, and approached Jorgensen’s car on foot. The vehicle was idling smoothly, with the dark windows rolled up. McKenzie stood outside the car like a child waiting for a scolding. After a full minute, he bent over to peer through the window.
“So much for your eyes on the street, eh, Detective?”
The voice came from behind him. McKenzie stumbled as he turned and fell back against the car. His gun clunked heavily on the metal door. Jorgensen emerged from the shadows, the round orange glow of his cigar illuminating his head and face. The padded shoulders of the chief’s black camel hair trench coat cut a very impressive figure. A matching fedora was pulled low over one eye.
“Jesus, Chief.” McKenzie tried to control his anxiety, but it came through loud and clear. “Scared the shit outta me. Coming out of the woods that way.”
“Sorry. Nature called. Had to piss.”
McKenzie took a deep breath. In terms of gaining the upper hand, advantage Jorgensen.
The orange circle grew brighter as Jorgensen took a long draw on his cigar. “It would appear our missing man poked his head up, wouldn’t you say?”
“You called it, Chief. This guy is one crafty bastard.”
“Right in the middle of Newberg.” Jorgensen’s words were slow and measured. “You want to tell me how a con of his ‘pedigree’ can work freely enough in my town that he can pull off this kind of bullshit?”
“I know it looks bad, Chief,” McKenzie said, “but we’re going to be all right. I’m telling you, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear this Sawyer woman actually did the killing.”
“The problem is, you don’t know better,” Jorgensen said. “From the beginning you haven’t known jack shit. Now we’re stuck navigating a high-profile murder case against an officer’s wife. Do you realize the media attention that will cause?”
“We can handle this, Chief. The case is solid. I’ve convicted plenty of shit bags on a lot less.”
Jorgensen continued to stare, and said, “Run the case down, Detective. Tell me where we’re at.”
“First off, manner of death is homicide. No doubt about that. Single stab wound to the torso. The victim, Louis Carson, was standing at the time he sustained the wound. May have even been lunging forward. Bled to death on the floor. The coroner puts time of death between nine and ten o’clock at night. The Sawyer woman can’t account for herself.”
McKenzie’s tone changed to display levity. “I’m tellin’ ya, Chief, either this gal has some shit-ass bad luck, or your boy Harlan really knows how to set the hook.”
“Continue.” The chief did his best to sound bored, but McKenzie figured he had the man’s interest.
McKenzie went on. “When it comes to an alibi, she’s screwed. Her husband says she was with her father at Newberg Convalescent. We checked with the on-duty staff. No one recalls seeing her after seven P.M. No one recalls seeing her leave, and that includes the staff at the front desk. There is no surveillance equipment or security. Course there’ll be no interview of Lars. He’s about as talkative as a crown of broccoli.”
“So where does our boy fit in?” Jorgensen asked. “What’s his role?”
“I figure he made the original call.” McKenzie said. “Came in on nine one one from a payphone. That was at about ten o’clock. Gave up some good stuff. Sounds of screams. Green minivan. Pretty good description matching Sawyer. Like I said, the boy really knew how to get the ball rolling right at Sawyer’s wife.”
“People are going to want to know who this star witness is.”
“So happens he hung up before we got his name. But we’ve got the nine one one recording, and that’ll be a big hit in court.”
Jorgensen looked off into the distance as he asked his next question. “What can I tell the public about the efforts being made to ID this caller?”
“A canvas didn’t find any witnesses. The patrol dogs threw some dust on the phone, they even swabbed it for DNA. Got nothing but a jumbled mess of a couple hundred samples. No way to follow up. Assuming our guy ain’t planning on stepping out of the shadows, that lead ain’t shit.”
“This case sounds like it could use another witness or two,” Jorgensen said. “A witness that actually speaks.”
McKenzie jumped in. “Already taken care of, Chief. Got just the guy. Says he saw a green minivan, driven by a woman, leaving the area that night. The timing with the nine one one call would make it around the time of death.”
“How convenient.” McKenzie smiled until Jorgensen went on. “I don’t want this case riding on the word of some dope fiend who might cave when someone puts the screws to him.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s got plenty of skin in the game.”
McKenzie pulled a miniflashlight from his coat pocket and a notebook from the pocket of his jeans. He lit up his notes to see if there was anything he had forgotten to cover.
“Good physical evidence all the way around. Pictures of the suspect in the victim’s home. Fingerprints in the kitchen area, on the computer keyboard, the light switch. Hell, Chief, son of a bitch even left us the weapon and blood transfer. Pulled the knife right out of Sawyer’s trash can, found a spot of blood on the rear door of the Sawyer home. I’ll put up a week’s pay that the blood will come back to our victim.”
McKenzie shut his notebook and looked up to signal he was done. “I’d say you gotta admire the man’s work. Course, Sawyer’s wife is no dummy. Clammed up quick. The only statement we got was her initial alibi. I got a contact at the DA’s office. Tells me the public defender assigned to the case has been trying to reach out for a deal. Talking about pleading to manslaughter. They want to go self-defense. Can you believe it? Sawyer’s wife is gonna be a convicted killer?”
“What else?” Jorgensen asked.
“What else?” McKenzie replied, allowing himself a slight air of superiority. “You mean other than all the shit I just covered? You mean what more than her own frickin’ attorney is already trying to plead her out? You mean what more than that?”
“I mean, how can this thing fall off the rails? Ben Sawyer’s not going to just lay down for this shit if he smells a con. You’ve told me how great the case is. Where can Sawyer come along and punch a hole in it?”
“I don’t see it, Chief.” McKenzie was matter-of-fact. “This Lee guy put a lot of thought into this shit. Course, he had plenty of time to think it through, wouldn’t you say?”
Jorgensen ignored the joke. “I told Sergeant Boyd that due to the sensitive nature of this case, I wanted my most senior detective as lead. That’s you. Boyd wasn’t too happy about it, but he’ll go along. Just make sure you keep everyone else at arm’s length. No backup. Nobody riding second chair on this. Don’t even tell Boyd any more than necessary. You hear me?”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Chief.”
“Don’t kid yourself, McKenzie. This isn’t about confidence. I need to know that I won’t have some supercop digging too deep on this thing.” Jorgensen opened the driver’s door of his car and settled into the leather seat.
“I need my boy on this case. That’s you, right, Doyle? You’re my boy?”
McKenzie knew how he had to reply. “Yeah, Chief. If that’s how you see it. I’m your boy.”
Jorgensen clamped down on his cigar as the window went up, making him disappear behind the dark glass. He drove away and left McKenzie standing alone in the middle of the deserted parking lot.