White refused to talk and lawyered up. Tiegs, on the other hand, reverted to his old ways and sang like a love-struck canary. Franklin left the interrogation room whistling, confession in hand, intent on finalizing the plea before White’s counsel could recommend a similar tactic.
“Per that agreement you just signed, I’ll need a list and the whereabouts of the stolen items. Otherwise, you can consider our deal invalidated,” I told Tiegs.
Tiegs clamped a sweaty hand over a greasy cowlick. “Shit, I don’t know what we took. There was lots of stuff—some jewelry, some cash, a couple of laptops.”
“Anything else?”
“A bottle of oxy,” he said with some reluctance. “And a cell phone. I remember because I thought it was weird someone would leave cash lying around but keep a cheap cell phone in a safe.”
“Where was the safe?”
“Behind the sofa. It was one of those sleeper ones, you know, with the springs.”
“Was it in the apartment on the first floor?”
“Yeah, but not in the one Mike shot that girl. We didn’t take nothin’ from that apartment.”
I cocked my head toward a shoulder and resisted sinking my fangs into his throat. “We’ll make sure the judge gives you a medal. Where’s the stolen property?” Rather than answer, he picked dirt from a callous between his fingers. “If White decides to punt first, it’s game over for you.”
He wiggled his spine straight and said, “In my basement behind a bunch of bricks.”
“You’re going to show me exactly where. And if it doesn’t pan out, I’ll make sure you share a cell with White, after I tell him how your testimony put him away.”
Franklin drove, his eyes often snaking over the rearview mirror. I positioned myself sideways in the passenger seat—one arm slung over the seatback—and kept an eye trained on Tiegs, more a reflex from my training at the academy than a necessity. Once inside the house, I persuaded Tiegs down basement stairs slickened by mold and layers of debris, keeping a firm grip on his shirt collar.
“Are those the bricks?” Franklin asked past a sneer as he gestured toward three rows of bricks restacked unevenly beside a grimy water heater. “May as well be a neon sign, asshole.”
Tiegs kept quiet as I secured the items within evidence bags, careful to store the electronics separately.
With White in lockup and Tiegs in holding—the plea agreement awaiting final approval—I handed off the stolen property to forensics.
“The phone belongs to Detective Reed,” I told the investigator, “so if you could make it a priority, I’d appreciate it.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “She left her cell phone in her apartment? Personally, I’d sooner leave my cosmetic bag at home.”
I shrugged. “I assume it’s her personal phone. She probably doesn’t need it when she’s on duty.”
“The department provides the detectives cell phones?”
I grinned. “Just another one of the perks. Let me know when you’re finished with it.”
“Will do.” I started to walk away, and she called me back. “Oh, Detective. I’ll need a signature . . . you know, chain of custody and all that.”
“Oh, right. I know I’ve got a pen here somewhere,” I said, patting down my pants. I tugged a ballpoint pen from my pocket, inadvertently dislodging Dylan’s card I’d tucked away earlier. I watched it freefall toward the floor and caught it midway between, my eyes settling on the information below the company logo:
MIDTOWN SUPERIOR AUTO WORKS
Dylan Dover