The Soul Catcher - Alex Kava [115]
Maggie stopped and turned to face the detective. They were eye level, almost the same height. The normally cocky detective waited for an answer with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the photo on the table’s surface. She held Maggie’s eyes in that same tough stare she probably thought she had perfected, but there was something—a slight vulnerability in her eyes as they blinked, darted to one side then quickly returned, as if it took a conscious and silent reminder not to flinch.
“I haven’t had any complaints,” Maggie finally said. Then she relinquished a smile and added, “Yet.”
Racine rolled her eyes, but Maggie could see the relief.
“Tell me what you know about Ben Garrison,” Maggie said, hoping to get back to work, despite the nagging sensation she had about Ginny Brier’s dead eyes, staring out from Garrison’s illicit photos.
“You mean other than that he’s an arrogant, lying bastard?”
“It sounds like you worked with him before.”
“Years ago, he sometimes moonlighted for second shift as a crime scene photographer when I was with Vice,” Racine said. “He’s always been an arrogant bastard, even before he became a big-shot photojournalist.”
“Any famous shots I may have seen?”
“Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of Time. The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”
“Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”
Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”
“And what have you heard?”
“I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”
“What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”
“Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”
“I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she was in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”
The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”
“Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”
Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up,