male, one female; according to the patches on their blue uniform shirts, Luis and Carlotta. Corso nodded as he walked past. They nodded back.
He stopped at the door to Conference Room A. The voices were muffled, the words unintelligible. Corso checked the hall in both directions. To the left, two more small rooms and then a dead end. To the right, he could hear Luis and Carlotta laughing.
Corso leaned his ear against the glass. A familiar voice said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Walter Leroy Himes. What I care about is that nothing we do compromises the ongoing investigation of these…”
Corso didn’t catch the rest of it. Two uniformed cops turned the corner in front of him. The one on the right pointed at Corso and hollered, “Hey…you…”
Corso smiled at the cop, waved, and then grabbed the handle and stepped into Conference Room A.
Chapter 7
Monday, September 17
5:19 P.M. Day 1 of 6
The mayor stopped in mid-sentence when Dorothy Sheridan reentered the room. She looked around the table and sighed. A tough crowd. One of those crowds you didn’t want to be telling anything they didn’t want to hear, which was, of course, precisely what she did for a living. She told eager reporters that the SPD wouldn’t be releasing information anytime soon. She told shocked survivors that the remains of their loved ones couldn’t be released until the lab guys were finished. She peered straight-faced into banks of cameras and claimed the department was developing leads when she knew damn well they weren’t. Still, this was a rough crowd. Messenger murderers all. Another sigh. “I’ve got a live one out there, folks. Guy named Corso from the Sun .”
“Where’s Hopkins?” Chief of Police Ben Kesey demanded. Kesey was fifty-three, with a great shock of white hair combed straight back. A master politician, given to wearing his dress blues as a way of maintaining contact with his officers in the streets, who whispered that he looked like a rear admiral and were so moved by his humility they’d given him a vote of no confidence at the last two union meetings.
“Looks to me like they’ve sent in the first team,” Sheridan said. “This guy Corso is that famous reporter Natalie Van Der Hoven hired after he got canned from the New York Times for fabricating a story. He writes books these days.”
“A reporter who writes fiction,” the mayor mused. “How redundant.”
Mayor Stanley Seifort had a scholarly look. Wide, expansive face and enough bare forehead to post bills on. Like his most recent predecessors in the mayor’s office, Seifort was, other than possessing a zealous desire to make Seattle into Perfect City, USA, totally devoid of politics.
Sheridan continued to stand behind her chair. “With all due respect, Your Honor, please take my word for it, fact or fiction, credibility or no credibility, this guy is going to be a pain in the butt.”
“Why’s that?” Seifort asked.
“Because he’s not housebroken. We could have asked Nathan Hopkins to hold off on the story and he would have kept it to himself for a day or two. Not this Corso character. He’s the type who’s never going to be paper-trained. I can tell.”
“Why do we have to tell him anything?” Chief Kesey asked. “Tell him to get the hell out of the building.”
Dorothy Sheridan worked to keep the impatience out of her voice. Although she was a civilian employee of the SPD, technically Kesey was still her boss. She pictured her daughter Brandy in her new braces. She’d had a migraine for a day and a half after finding out that eighty percent of the braces was going to come out of her own pocket. Had to lie on her bed with a cold rag pressed to her forehead, thinking positive thoughts, picturing her retirement, chanting “twelve down…eight to go.” She chose her words carefully. “Because the Sun is going to press in the morning with Leanne Samples’s new story. We have to tell him something. Either that or he prints
He stopped at the door to Conference Room A. The voices were muffled, the words unintelligible. Corso checked the hall in both directions. To the left, two more small rooms and then a dead end. To the right, he could hear Luis and Carlotta laughing.
Corso leaned his ear against the glass. A familiar voice said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Walter Leroy Himes. What I care about is that nothing we do compromises the ongoing investigation of these…”
Corso didn’t catch the rest of it. Two uniformed cops turned the corner in front of him. The one on the right pointed at Corso and hollered, “Hey…you…”
Corso smiled at the cop, waved, and then grabbed the handle and stepped into Conference Room A.
Chapter 7
Monday, September 17
5:19 P.M. Day 1 of 6
The mayor stopped in mid-sentence when Dorothy Sheridan reentered the room. She looked around the table and sighed. A tough crowd. One of those crowds you didn’t want to be telling anything they didn’t want to hear, which was, of course, precisely what she did for a living. She told eager reporters that the SPD wouldn’t be releasing information anytime soon. She told shocked survivors that the remains of their loved ones couldn’t be released until the lab guys were finished. She peered straight-faced into banks of cameras and claimed the department was developing leads when she knew damn well they weren’t. Still, this was a rough crowd. Messenger murderers all. Another sigh. “I’ve got a live one out there, folks. Guy named Corso from the Sun .”
“Where’s Hopkins?” Chief of Police Ben Kesey demanded. Kesey was fifty-three, with a great shock of white hair combed straight back. A master politician, given to wearing his dress blues as a way of maintaining contact with his officers in the streets, who whispered that he looked like a rear admiral and were so moved by his humility they’d given him a vote of no confidence at the last two union meetings.
“Looks to me like they’ve sent in the first team,” Sheridan said. “This guy Corso is that famous reporter Natalie Van Der Hoven hired after he got canned from the New York Times for fabricating a story. He writes books these days.”
“A reporter who writes fiction,” the mayor mused. “How redundant.”
Mayor Stanley Seifort had a scholarly look. Wide, expansive face and enough bare forehead to post bills on. Like his most recent predecessors in the mayor’s office, Seifort was, other than possessing a zealous desire to make Seattle into Perfect City, USA, totally devoid of politics.
Sheridan continued to stand behind her chair. “With all due respect, Your Honor, please take my word for it, fact or fiction, credibility or no credibility, this guy is going to be a pain in the butt.”
“Why’s that?” Seifort asked.
“Because he’s not housebroken. We could have asked Nathan Hopkins to hold off on the story and he would have kept it to himself for a day or two. Not this Corso character. He’s the type who’s never going to be paper-trained. I can tell.”
“Why do we have to tell him anything?” Chief Kesey asked. “Tell him to get the hell out of the building.”
Dorothy Sheridan worked to keep the impatience out of her voice. Although she was a civilian employee of the SPD, technically Kesey was still her boss. She pictured her daughter Brandy in her new braces. She’d had a migraine for a day and a half after finding out that eighty percent of the braces was going to come out of her own pocket. Had to lie on her bed with a cold rag pressed to her forehead, thinking positive thoughts, picturing her retirement, chanting “twelve down…eight to go.” She chose her words carefully. “Because the Sun is going to press in the morning with Leanne Samples’s new story. We have to tell him something. Either that or he prints
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