Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [21]
“Let’s start,” said Rick, ritually hanging his jacket on the back of the metal chair.
I took my place beside my supervisor. Forty-seven, a former navy pilot, Rick wore his mustache neat and blond hair clipped. He always looked tight, but today he was pretty well steamed. You could tell because he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and started tapping them on his thigh.
We are all fussy about our handcuffs. You are issued one pair that can last your whole career if you’re smart enough not to lend them. Like any other tool, they become worn with handling and acquire an idiosyncratic feel, so you can tell which is yours just by touch. Nothing is more straightforward than a pair of handcuffs. In times of stress they are a comfort; you will often see several people in a high-intensity meeting worrying and working their little rings of power.
The only problem with handcuffs is sometimes they fall in the toilet bowl. If you are a woman, especially, this will happen when you’re in a hurry and you forget to lift them out of the back of your waistband before lowering your pants. Then you will hear behind you the unmistakable, heart-stopping sound of metal falling on porcelain.
All of us have heard it, more than once.
“What’s all this?” Rick asked of the brown paper snaking around the walls.
“Computers went down,” chorused several people.
He nodded grimly as if expecting one insult after another. “Now we’ve got a media leak, is that right, Ana?”
General groans and shifting in chairs.
“Right. The dad called channel five.”
Eunice chimed in. “He locked himself in the bathroom and used a cell phone. He believed that if he could get the daughter on TV, it would lead to her recovery.”
“Was it not explained to the gentleman there is a media blackout on this case because it might escalate the suspect?”
“Yes,” I cut in, “but he was crazed because his wife had just admitted that she had a boyfriend. She thought this guy might have taken Juliana for revenge. I asked Special Agent Jason Ripley to check him out. Jason?”
I said it so harshly the poor kid jumped. He had been an agent only eight months—skinny and ginger-haired, still so eager he wore a three-piece suit every day.
“The suspect’s name is Ed Hobart.”
“He’s not a suspect yet,” I reminded Jason gently. Since when did I become a mother hen?
“The subject. Sorry.” His acne flushed pink. “Upstanding, churchgoing father of six. Mr. Hobart is a senior buyer in ladies’ fashions, who oversees a budget of five million dollars …”
My Nextel was vibrating, then the pager. It was Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway, messaging me to return to the field office immediately.
“As for Mr. Hobart’s current whereabouts, the Seattle field office should be getting back to us within the hour …”
“Rick,” I said softly while Jason went on, “gotta go.”
“What’s up?”
“Galloway paged me twice.”
“What does he want?” Rick whispered back. “If it’s about the media leak, tell him we can handle channel five—”
We were talking with heads averted, so everybody knew something was going on. By now a lot of people packing guns had crowded into the room, including Andrew’s lieutenant, Barry Loomis, who wore a walrus mustache and a Superman tie, and Officer Sylvia Oberbeck, impassively chewing gum. She looked put together, just going on shift: heavy mascara and a freshly braided bun. At one point I tried to make eye contact, but she did not seem to remember who I was. There was the rustle of seashells, and Margaret Forrester suddenly pushed through, swinging the water bottle, stepping over legs.
“Damn! Computers still out?” Fanning herself at the collective menthol-scented body heat. “What did I miss?”
“Case closed, go home,” someone replied disagreeably.
“There’s been another development, Rick,” interrupted Special Agent Todd Hanley. He was a reliable sort. Narrow-faced, with horn-rimmed glasses, achingly serious, he wore tweedy sport coats and spoke only when