Takeover - Lisa Black [49]
“Especially this one,” Frank said. “Eric turned him in. Said he did it to save the aforementioned sainted mother. Her baby’s wild ways wore out her heart.”
“What about her? Would she—” Theresa began.
“She’s dead. He really did wear out her heart.”
“Then why did you bring Eric Moyers here?” Jason asked again.
“Well, gee, I had nothing else to do, and he needed a ride home from work. And because my partner’s in there with an M4 carbine in his face, and this guy is the only life-form we have that can tell us anything about the guy holding the M4 carbine besides his age and ID number. Maybe that’s why.”
“Okay, okay. Did he tell you anything else about Bobby that might help us?”
“Just that’s he’s a lousy thief. I’m guessing Lucas is not only the mouthpiece here, he’s the brains.”
“No surprise there. Okay, we’ll tell Chris what you’ve learned from the brother, but not that he’s on the premises.”
“Wait, you’re not telling your own boss all the facts?”
Jason mopped his forehead with one sleeve cuff. “It’s for his own sake. We don’t know how Bobby will react to even the mention of his brother, and what Chris doesn’t know, he can’t slip and reveal.”
Theresa tried to imagine Leo’s take on this operating procedure. You keep things from me, MacLean, and you’ll spend a week in the deep freeze putting blood samples from 1994 in numerical order. Then I’ll fire you.
“Hey.” Channel 15’s reporting turned to how Cleveland had finally won the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s induction ceremonies from New York City and Assistant Chief of Police Viancourt now tore himself away, clutching Theresa’s plastic evidence bag and a sheet of paper. “I’ve got that postage-meter information.”
“That was fast,” Theresa said.
The assistant chief beamed under her genuine praise; if he’d been born with a tail, he’d have been wagging it. “It was nothing. Hi—Patrick, isn’t it? You’re up for the chief of Homicide, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Theresa goggled. She’d never heard Frank call anyone “sir” before.
“Best of luck to you. I’m glad you’re in on this—we need to keep a cop approach going here. Cavanaugh’s good, but these specialized units can get too wrapped up in themselves.”
Theresa could see a sort of struggle pass over her cousin’s face, as if the desire to be honest—at the moment Cavanaugh seemed their only hope—warred with his desire to be the head of the Homicide unit. Jason said nothing. She intervened. “Could Pitney Bowes trace the postage meter?”
Viancourt’s expression clouded. She could swear he had forgotten what they were talking about, finding the politics of the police department a far more fascinating topic. Then it cleared. “Yeah. They have over five hundred meters leased within city limits, did you know that? Just about any large office concern has one. Anyway, this machine is at a storage facility in Decatur, Georgia. Gray’s Store-All, on Forrest Avenue.”
Frank had his radio in hand. “I’ll get the Georgia cops to send someone out there now.”
“I thought of that. A unit’s on their way,” the assistant chief told him with a touch of reproach. Frank’s stock had just lost a few points on the Dow.
Theresa butted in again, even batting an eyelash or two at Viancourt. “Bobby probably had his car in storage while he served his time. But I don’t understand how the car got to Decatur from here—they’d hardly let him drive himself to prison, would they?”
“Not in this case. It was an interprison transfer, so he’d have gone by bus.”
“Then maybe the storage facility can tell us who brought it there or who paid the bill.” She thanked the assistant chief profusely. He wandered back to the hypnotic waves of broadcast news as she turned to Frank. “Where’s his brother? I’d like to