As Val pushed her chair back to head down to Detective Simpson’s Wednesday 9:00 a.m. investigative team meeting, her desk phone rang.
“Fresh round of shooter warnings,” Gil said. “All three local clinics again.”
“Even Safe Haven?” Val said.
“They reported it first. Then Planned Parenthood. We called the Women’s Health Clinic before they called us. I’ll email you a recording.”
She caught Jan’s eye, sitting across from her, and mouthed “Threats.” Jan nodded and rushed into Petroni’s office.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Val said to Gil. “Does Simpson know?”
“He’s, ah…” Gil cleared his throat. “Second on my list.”
A few minutes later, Val joined Jan, Brenda Petroni, Damari Price, and Shannon O’Reilly around the WAVE Squad’s large blacktop table on the other side of the bullpen. Price set up a laptop with external speakers and a large monitor, and Val played the recording Gil sent. Again, a metallic, slightly garbled robotic voice warned:
If all three murder clinics in the city are not closed permanently by 10:00 a.m. today, more people will die. The would-be killers, not the innocent babies.
They sat in silence for a moment, letting the words echo off the room’s pale painted walls. A loud car horn blared outside, and footsteps in the building’s main corridor grew louder, accompanied by muffled male voices.
“Shit,” Price said. “What do we do now?”
Petroni stood and drew in a deep breath. “City Council is meeting in closed executive session as we speak, considering an order to shut the clinics down temporarily, for safety reasons,” she said in a quiet voice. “We expect Chief McMahon to put out an all-hands order within the hour, with round-the-clock armed guards at each clinic. Don’t be surprised if you get called to take an extra shift.”
“Who’s in charge of setting that up?” Jan asked.
Petroni grimaced. “Detective Parkinson.”
“Seriously?” Jan said. “We need this done ASAP. Old Swizzle Sticks hasn’t done anything fast since the Nixon administration.”
“Not true,” Petroni said with a sour grin. “He downed three piña coladas in ten minutes last Friday at the Blue Line.”
Val shook her head in dismay. The task probably fell to Parkinson out of managerial laziness and availability. By reputation, the man carried the lightest caseload in the Detective Division.
“Any luck on tracing the call?” Shannon asked.
Petroni grimaced. “We’re fighting HIPAA rules to get access. Not looking good for a warrant.”
Val frowned. The Health Information Portability and Accountability Act, great for protecting patients’ privacy, again presented a serious obstacle to the investigation.
“Maybe we should post some uniforms at the clinics,” Price said.
“The staff at Safe Haven would love to keep us on site, twenty-four-seven,” Jan said, all seriousness. “They’re scared shitless.”
“Any good leads from your interviews with them yesterday?” Petroni asked.
Jan puckered her lips for a moment. “Sort of. That Tank Steiger guy from Val’s dojo has a connection and a possible motive, and he may be involved with that Men’s Rights Advocy group Val’s been investigating.”
“What’s the tie-in?”
“An ex of his volunteers there,” Jan said. “Although she wasn’t there Friday during the shooting.”
“Bring him in and roast him,” Petroni said. “Find out what he knows, and if he’s got an alibi for last Friday.” She turned to Val. “You know how to reach him?”
Val’s stomach twisted in knots. Knowing Tank, he wouldn’t come without a fight. “Any chance we can get a warrant?”
“Not as fast as we’d like. So what? We just want to talk to him,” Petroni said. “He’s not a suspect…yet. Anything else?”
The meeting broke up. Jan Morgenstern pulled Val aside. “What’s eating you? I thought you were on board with grilling this guy. Now you have feelings for him?”
Val’s gut churned even more. “We’re working this group to get inside access, remember? If we put him in a sweatbox, alarm bells will go off, and he’ll shut us down in no time.”
“So, what do you suggest? Letting it slide?”
The image of Maya’s crying face flashed in Val’s eyes, the woman torn about whether to terminate her pregnancy—of Tank’s baby. If Tank caught wind of that, he’d have multiple reasons to vent his anger at the clinics.
“Let’s try this another way,” Val said. “Let’s talk more after my meeting with Simpson—which I’m already late for.”
Jan eyed her with skepticism. “Okay. If Petroni asks, though, you’d better be ready to step up and take the heat.”
“I will.”
As Jan shuffled away, a different kind of heat arose inside Val. The kind that resulted from being pissed off at a colleague who said she wanted to help and learn, yet seemed more concerned about pulling rank and covering her ass when things got tough. She wondered if she’d made a mistake in recruiting Jan Morgenstern.
Val wasn’t the only one who arrived late for “Tackle Box” Simpson’s investigative team meeting. Two other plainclothes officers in cheap, drab suits followed her through the door, both men avoiding eye contact with her and Simpson as they filed in.
“Fashionably late again, I see,” Simpson said with a growl. Val chose to assume he meant all three of them. “Since none of you are carrying a box of donuts, I assume it’s because you have late-breaking evidence to share?”
Val glanced at the two men, both of whom stared back at her. “My last meeting ran long,” she said, still standing. “I presume you’ve all heard the latest threat from the Friday the Thirteenth shooter?”
“Allegedly from the shooter,” Simpson said. “I have my doubts. We were just discussing that. Fletcher?”
A curly-haired, pale-skinned man bursting out of a worn three-piece suit wiped sweat from his brow and ruffled through some papers in front of him. “Preliminary forensic analysis of the recording shows anomalies in vocabulary, voice inflection, and tonality,” Fletcher said. “The experts are digging deeper, but—”
“For the record,” Simpson said, “I think it’s a copycat. The differences are compelling. As is the basic tenet that mass shooters rarely strike twice and never in such a short time frame. Wouldn’t you gentlemen agree?”
Some of the men sitting in chairs around the room, again arranged in a U-shape with Simpson standing at the far end, nodded in lackluster agreement. Others pretended to read pages they held on their laps, presumably Fletcher’s report.
“Isn’t it a little too soon to make that call?” Val stood in front of her seat at the base of the U. “Don’t the experts use analytical programs that reverse-engineer the recordings and—”
“We ain’t got time to sit around waiting for high-tech bureaucrats to justify their inflated salaries,” Simpson said. “We have a potential killer out there. The best way to stop him is through good old-fashioned detective work, and the sooner the better. Or would you rather he shoots a few more victims so we can collect more data?”
“Of course not.” Val’s face grew hot, probably flushing red. “I think we need to consider the similarities and the differences. We never released the previous recordings to the public, so how would somebody copy them?” She still hadn’t taken her seat and debated whether she should.
Simpson expressed a loud, disgusted sigh and waved at another detective at the table, a bespectacled, dark-haired man with a swarthy complexion. He cleared his throat. “Our profile of the Friday gunman is of a lone wolf, who knew the anti-abortion protester and either carried a grudge or held opposite, extremist political views. White male, age eighteen to thirty-five—”
“Textbook profile of a random mass shooter.” Val sat and folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me something I can’t read on Wikipedia.”
The bespectacled detective blinked, shrugged, and turned back to Simpson.
“Do you have evidence that would help refine the profile, or better yet, lead to a specific suspect?” Simpson said in a bored tone.
“I’m pursuing leads.” Val’s face flushed again. “Nothing solid.”
“As I suspected. Now, may I have my meeting back?”
Val gave him a wave, indicating she was done arguing. Fletcher, the forensics guy, met her gaze and held his hands up in a sign of surrender, shaking his head.
Simpson went around the room, asking each male member of the team for updates. Nobody else added anything new, but many of them took precious time repeating what they’d reported the day before. After the last man spoke, Val prepared to summarize her findings from Tuesday’s interviews, but Simpson cut her off.
“If nobody has anything else to add, then,” he said, “I’ll see you all in the morning.” He picked up a large blue plastic tackle box from the table behind him and headed toward the door.
“This is ridiculous,” Val muttered, rising from her chair.
Simpson paused, whirled, and glared at her. “Something to add, rookie?”
Val fought the urge to shout, “I’m not a rookie!” Instead, she kept her tone even and low and remained on point. “This seems like a waste of time. We’re treading water here.”
“Please elaborate.” Simpson returned to his spot at the end of the U and slammed his tackle box on the table. “And make it good.”
“Nobody’s thinking outside their own lane,” Val said. “One person looks at profiles, another at fingerprints or ballistics. What about the big picture? What’s our strategy here?”
“That’s my job,” Simpson said. “Perhaps you think you can do better?”
She drew a deep breath. “We’re investigating some overlaps between this case and the VeroniCare break-in—”
“You think the shooter is a cat burglar?” Simpson said. Several of the men laughed. “Or perhaps we should be looking in salons and spas for a heavily armed middle-aged woman getting a manicure?” More laughter.
“This isn’t funny,” Val said. “He’s killed two, wounded two more, and remains a viable threat—”
“That’s your opinion,” Simpson said. “Forgive me if I prefer the analysis of a more seasoned professional.”
“Do you all agree with this—?” Val stopped herself from saying “idiot” and let her question hang. She scanned the room. A few heads nodded. Most pretended not to hear.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do whatever you want, all of you.” Val headed for the exit. “If you’re not willing to stand up for yourself and your own professional integrity and for the safety of this community—”
“Officer Dawes!”
Val, already in the hallway, whirled around at the call of her name.
Simpson glared at her from the door, red-faced, shaking with rage. “If this is what you consider professional behavior and being part of a team, don’t bother to return.” He stepped back into the room and slammed the door behind him.
Val fumed on her fast walk back to the WAVE Squad office and on the ride over to the dojo. Jan insisted on driving, which Val welcomed. In her mood, she represented a danger to any rude or distracted driver that crossed her—and in Clayton, both were a dime a dozen.
“What’s eating you, anyway?” Jan asked her after a few minutes in the car. “Besides the usual nonsense Simpson dishes at his stupid meetings.”
“You know about that?” Val asked.
“He has a reputation. Which is why I didn’t volunteer to join you.”
“Well, you can’t join me now. He kicked me out. Petroni’s going to be pissed.”
Jan frowned. “What’d he do this time?”
Val tossed her hands in the air. “I had the temerity to suggest we shouldn’t blindly accept Simpson’s hasty conclusion that the new warnings were a copycat.”
Jan stared at her for a long second or two. “He said that?” Someone honked and she swerved back into her own lane. “What a damned moron. Did anyone else call him out on it?”
Val cursed and shook her head. “Not one of them. The entire room sat there, bowing their heads. Damned sheep!”
Jan laughed. “Careful. You’re sounding as bad as the incels now.”
Val shot her an angry glare but said nothing.
Jan cleared her throat. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. So, did you tell him it might be a good idea to wait for the tech dudes to trace and analyze the call?”
“I am unqualified to make that point, apparently. By virtue of having a uterus instead of a penis.”
Jan laughed again. “Welcome to The Clayton Old Boys Club, otherwise known as the police department.”
“Well, I’m neither male nor old, so I’m screwed,” Val said, but Jan’s commiseration softened her anger.
Jan waved her off. “You think it’s tough being a young woman cop? Try being an old, fat, gay woman cop.”
Val scoffed. “You’re none of those things.”
Jan laughed again. “I’m definitely gay, cop, and female. The rest is a matter of opinion.”
Jan’s good-natured, sardonic banter put Val in much better spirits for interrogating a witness, particularly a testosterone-boosted man like Tank Steiger. The conversation sharpened her mental claws and gave her a boost of energy. Her earlier nagging doubts about partnering with Jan diminished.
They arrived at the dojo about 10:00 a.m. and found Tank wandering around, shouting instructions and his caustic brand of encouragement to participants of the morning session. A few minutes later, he dismissed the class and noticed the cops waiting for him.
“Dawes!” Tank strode over to them, a genuine smile on his face. “Did you come by for a warm-up for tonight’s fight?”
Val stared at him a moment, her mind drawing a blank. Then she remembered: she’d agreed to take part in the exhibition match that night. “Uh, not exactly. This is my partner, Detective Morgenstern. Detective, this is Richard Steiger. Is there someplace we can chat in private?”
“Call me Tank.” He led them into a tiny office in the back of the dojo, between the men’s and women’s lockers. “What’s this all about?” He pointed to a few metal-framed chairs and sat in a rolling chair behind his desk.
They sat, and the chairs proved as uncomfortable as they appeared. “We’re following up on some leads related to last Friday’s shooting at Safe Haven,” Jan said, “and wondered if you could help fill in some gaps in our information.”
Tank stiffened in his chair, frozen for a moment. Then his expression turned curious. “I don’t know anything about that shooting. Honestly, I don’t see how I can help.”
Val’s uncle, Detective Valentin Dawes, schooled her at a young age: “Whenever someone declares their honesty,” he’d said many times, “they’re probably lying.” She readied her ballpoint pen to take notes. Jan had insisted on taking the lead, and in this situation, Val was grateful.
Jan leaned back, her hands folded over her belly, and smiled at Tank. “We’re hoping you could provide some background on one of the clinic’s volunteers. Someone you once dated. Fayra Ireland?”
Tank stiffened again, his eyes widening before he broke out the fakest smile Val had ever seen. “How’s Fay doing?” he said. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“How many years?” Jan’s pointed tone startled Val for a moment.
“Three or four. We dated for a while, and ah, things didn’t end well between us.”
Val nodded. His last remark squared with her knowledge of their relationship.
“You’re aware, then, that Fay volunteers a few days a week at Safe Haven?” Jan said.
Tank spread his hands. “I wasn’t aware. Not that it pertains to me. I, ah, have no use for their, um, services.” His eyes narrowed. “Nor will I ever.”
Which confirmed for Val that Maya still hadn’t informed him of her pregnancy.
“You don’t approve of what they do there?” Jan asked.
“I disagree philosophically, yes,” he said. “Not enough to shoot up the place.”
Val and Jan exchanged a brief glance.
Tank emitted a nervous laugh. “You don’t actually consider me a suspect?” He stared at each in turn. “Come on. Dawes! How long have you known me? Have I ever given you reason to believe I would resort to that type of violence?”
Val said nothing, staring at her notepad and pretending to record Tank’s reply.
“You do run a dojo and a private fight club,” Jan said.
“An amateur mixed martial arts sparring league.” Tank’s voice rose. “I teach self-defense. To men and women. As you know.” He glared at Val.
“Why did you and Fay break up?” Jan asked.
“None of your fucking business.” He stood. “I’m sorry, our time is up. I have a class to teach.”
“Not yet,” Jan said. “Where were you between nine and eleven a.m. on Friday, September 13?”
“What the fuck is this?” Tank stomped around his desk toward Jan and Val, who stood, blocking his exit.
“Answer the question,” Jan said.
Tank glared at her, then at Val. “Here,” he said. “Opening and running this joint, like I do every day.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Jan asked.
“Yes. Dozens of people.”
“Names?”
“Stevie Ray, for one,” Tank said, “and everyone who came to the morning drop-in session. I can get you the sign-in sheet if you need.”
“That would be great,” Val said, her tone encouraging, trying to lower the temperature of the interview.
He crossed his arms, waiting for them. “You gonna let me out so I can go get the sheet? It’s at the front desk.”
Jan heaved a deep breath, standing firm, but Val stepped aside. Tank pushed between them, bumping both of them with his elbows as he passed.
“Well, this was a mistake,” Jan said in a low voice.
“In so many ways,” Val said.
“We should’ve brought him downtown,” Jan said. “Rule of thumb: never interview someone in their own space. It gives them the upper hand. I should have insisted.”
Val’s ears burned. “The interview didn’t go south because of where we were. It went sideways because you pushed him too hard, too fast. We needed a softer touch here.”
“Now you’re schooling me on how to be a detective?” Jan chuckled. “Boy, you do live up to your rep. Val Dawes, always thinks she’s the smartest person in the room. You’ve got a lot to learn, rookie.” She turned toward the office door, still standing ajar after Tank’s exit. Val slammed it shut before Jan could reach it.
“Listen to me,” Val said, her voice heated but low volume. “First, I’m no longer a rookie. Second, I’ve closed three of the biggest cases this department faced over the past year, when I was a rookie. I didn’t do it by thinking I knew all the answers. I did it by listening to people and gaining their trust. By collecting and examining clues, and not being stuck in old-fashioned gumshoe-style detective methods. I sure didn’t do it by alienating potential witnesses in the first thirty seconds of an interrogation!”
The door opened again, interrupting Jan’s reply. With a sly smile, Tank handed Val a photocopy of Friday’s sign-in sheet, with his own signature, and Stevie Ray’s, at the top, both time-stamped: 8:47 a.m.
“Ladies,” he said. “If there’s nothing more…I trust you can show yourselves out.”
Val cast a sour glance at Tank, then at Jan, and strode out of the office, across the dojo floor, and onto the street.