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Authors: Thomas Perry
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millions of files and hundreds of millions of fingerprint records and its museum. For the moment, anyway, she would leave Washington protocol for Washington .
The sergeant led them into one of the tiny offices, where an older version of himself sat behind a wooden desk, frowning over some papers as though he were translating them with difficulty from a foreign language. When he saw he had visitors he looked relieved. He turned the papers face down in a far corner of his desk and popped up, his hand held out. "You must be agents Hart and Waring," he said. "I'm Bob Donaldson. Always happy to cooperate with the FBI."
"Thank you," said Elizabeth, forestalling the correction Hart would probably feel was necessary. "As they probably told you on the phone, we're interested in the Veasy murder."
"Well now, ma'am," said the chief. "We're still not absolutely and completely sure it was a murder yet. We're coming around to that hypothesis, but we aren't sure."
"I'm sorry," she said, smiling. "I misspoke, calling it what we're looking for rather than what we're looking at."
He seemed appeased. "I've notified the homicide squad that you'd be here, and told them to be ready with the reports of the investigating officers and so on. Beyond that I thought we'd just wait and see, let you look around and pick out the leads you want to follow."
"I'd like to take a look at the physical evidence, since that's what I do 33
best," said Hart. "Miss Waring would like to study the reports. That way we can do two things at once."
"Good idea," said the chief, as though the idea struck him as revolutionary. "Sergeant Edmunds, take Agent Hart to the lab, will you? Miss Waring, I'll show you the reports." He took her elbow in a gentle but somehow weighty pressure, as though he were guiding a prisoner who wasn't quite dangerous enough to be handcuffed, and led her down the corridor.
There was nobody in the room marked Homicide when they got there, but Donaldson sat her at a table and gave her a stack of reports. "I'll be back in a minute," he said.
She heard his voice in the next office. "Where the hell are those guys? I told them these people were coming this morning."
Another male voice said in a bored monotone, "Out on a call. Found a Mexican lemon picker stabbed to death out on Telegraph Road about half an hour ago. Macaulay told me to let you know if you asked."
"Oh," came the chief's voice, now much quieter. Then there was a moment or two of silence. At last the chief said, "Well, when they come back in tell Macaulay I want to see him."
Elizabeth heard him returning from the other office. She looked up at him in the doorway and listened with an expression of interest while he recapitulated the substance of the conversation she'd just overheard. She wondered how he could not know the sound carried between the little cubicles, but apparently he didn't. Then he was gone and she was able to look over the reports in peace.
Until the instant of his death, Veasy hadn't been particularly noteworthy.
He had a wife who'd been in his graduating class at Ventura High School, and three children born in the second, fourth, and fifth years of their marriage. They lived in a three-bedroom house in a tract which they'd been paying on for about eight years. Veasy was a machinist, making fairly good money working for Precision Tooling. The investigating officer had made a note at the bottom that his sources—the wife, the shop foreman, two fellow workers, and a neighbor—
had not the slightest idea that Veasy had any enemies.
There was no indication that he owed anybody any money except the mortgage on his house. He didn't gamble except for an occasional poker game at the union hall and the beer frames in his weekly bowling league. He had never been arrested or had anything to do with known criminals. Elizabeth was more than disappointed. She was bored. The only thing about the man that made interesting reading was his death.
She turned
The sergeant led them into one of the tiny offices, where an older version of himself sat behind a wooden desk, frowning over some papers as though he were translating them with difficulty from a foreign language. When he saw he had visitors he looked relieved. He turned the papers face down in a far corner of his desk and popped up, his hand held out. "You must be agents Hart and Waring," he said. "I'm Bob Donaldson. Always happy to cooperate with the FBI."
"Thank you," said Elizabeth, forestalling the correction Hart would probably feel was necessary. "As they probably told you on the phone, we're interested in the Veasy murder."
"Well now, ma'am," said the chief. "We're still not absolutely and completely sure it was a murder yet. We're coming around to that hypothesis, but we aren't sure."
"I'm sorry," she said, smiling. "I misspoke, calling it what we're looking for rather than what we're looking at."
He seemed appeased. "I've notified the homicide squad that you'd be here, and told them to be ready with the reports of the investigating officers and so on. Beyond that I thought we'd just wait and see, let you look around and pick out the leads you want to follow."
"I'd like to take a look at the physical evidence, since that's what I do 33
best," said Hart. "Miss Waring would like to study the reports. That way we can do two things at once."
"Good idea," said the chief, as though the idea struck him as revolutionary. "Sergeant Edmunds, take Agent Hart to the lab, will you? Miss Waring, I'll show you the reports." He took her elbow in a gentle but somehow weighty pressure, as though he were guiding a prisoner who wasn't quite dangerous enough to be handcuffed, and led her down the corridor.
There was nobody in the room marked Homicide when they got there, but Donaldson sat her at a table and gave her a stack of reports. "I'll be back in a minute," he said.
She heard his voice in the next office. "Where the hell are those guys? I told them these people were coming this morning."
Another male voice said in a bored monotone, "Out on a call. Found a Mexican lemon picker stabbed to death out on Telegraph Road about half an hour ago. Macaulay told me to let you know if you asked."
"Oh," came the chief's voice, now much quieter. Then there was a moment or two of silence. At last the chief said, "Well, when they come back in tell Macaulay I want to see him."
Elizabeth heard him returning from the other office. She looked up at him in the doorway and listened with an expression of interest while he recapitulated the substance of the conversation she'd just overheard. She wondered how he could not know the sound carried between the little cubicles, but apparently he didn't. Then he was gone and she was able to look over the reports in peace.
Until the instant of his death, Veasy hadn't been particularly noteworthy.
He had a wife who'd been in his graduating class at Ventura High School, and three children born in the second, fourth, and fifth years of their marriage. They lived in a three-bedroom house in a tract which they'd been paying on for about eight years. Veasy was a machinist, making fairly good money working for Precision Tooling. The investigating officer had made a note at the bottom that his sources—the wife, the shop foreman, two fellow workers, and a neighbor—
had not the slightest idea that Veasy had any enemies.
There was no indication that he owed anybody any money except the mortgage on his house. He didn't gamble except for an occasional poker game at the union hall and the beer frames in his weekly bowling league. He had never been arrested or had anything to do with known criminals. Elizabeth was more than disappointed. She was bored. The only thing about the man that made interesting reading was his death.
She turned
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