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Authors: Sibella Giorello
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investigation. But the AG encouraged -- backed by threatened legal action -- that the local police spill everything to the FBI.
Leave it to government lawyers. The lop-sided equation might come out even on paper but in real life, they turned the simmering dislike between federal agents and local cops into a full boil.
And unfortunately, Jeremy Owler was real life. Sitting behind his orderly desk in the city administration building, his small face wore the grin of a politician. Polite and ruthless. Still young -- thirty-two was my guess – he knew nailing a cop killer was a real resume booster.
"You know I can't tell you what I have, Owler.”
The smile grew, ratcheting the small wire-rimmed glasses further up his beak-like nose.
"And,” I said, “because you know that, let’s stop playing games."
"No games? Then I guess we're done with this conversation. Have a nice day, Agent Harmon.”
I hadn't slept since my mother's episode yesterday, and now a hard pulse pounded against my temples. I also hadn't eaten, which for me was a sure sign of distress, and today I faced desperate hours trying to avoid Phaup, who would demand to know why this case wasn't closed.
And here was the grinning little politico, hooting over my circumstances.
"Owler." I could hear a pleading tone in my voice. It made me want to gag. “Just let me see the shoes. Some footwear impressions, then maybe I can figure out who went where."
"Sorry, can’t help you," he said cheerfully. "Richmond PD collected the evidence. It stays here until I say we’re finished. When we clear Detective Falcon – if we clear him – I’ll be sure to give you a call. In the meantime, good luck with that civil rights investigation."
My hand was already on the doorknob, but I turned around. Sarcasm, particularly coming from a guy who looked like a nocturnal bird, never worked. And now it nicked a nerve deep inside. My mind flashed to those file cabinets inside Detective Greene's office. All the cold cases. All those unsolved murders tucked into a back room with no windows and one detective with no time to come up for air.
"Owler."
He looked up, the smile returning to his thin lips. "Yes, Agent Harmon?"
"Why are you making this so difficult?”
“I’m just playing by the rules. If you don’t like the rules, choose another game.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Depends how you see it.”
I saw it as battle. And he was an adversary. "The harder you fight me on this, the farther I'll take my investigation."
"You don't like having information withheld? Good. Now you know how we feel."
"What I don't like,” I said, “is your attitude. You seem to find this amusing.”
“Perhaps not amusing.” He failed to stifle the grin. “But I do enjoy holding all the cards."
"Get a good look at them. You won't have them long."
“Is that a threat, Agent Harmon?”
“Not a threat.” I opened the door. “A promise.”
Chapter 11
From Owler’s tree hole, I drove up Broad Street and turned left, cutting over to Franklin Street. As I pumped quarters into the meter, students from Virginia Commonwealth University were strolling down the sidewalk. Their callow expressions suggested my K-Car was a pile of hot elephant dung. Since I couldn’t disagree, my mood grew even darker.
And then I saw my sister.
In the campus art building, Helen was lecturing her students in one of the studios. Gesticulating her thin arms, she looked like a messy ballerina, her chestnut hair pulled into a hasty bun and secured with a chopstick. Her audience of grungy art students waited at easels, listening to the esteemed professor of painting. In the background, on the sound system, a pop singer whined softly. The room smelled of mineral spirits and unbathed youth.
When she saw me standing by the door, Helen's face disguised her irritation. She told her students to begin working, then walked over to where I stood and pointed down the hall. I looked back at the class. Half the students
Leave it to government lawyers. The lop-sided equation might come out even on paper but in real life, they turned the simmering dislike between federal agents and local cops into a full boil.
And unfortunately, Jeremy Owler was real life. Sitting behind his orderly desk in the city administration building, his small face wore the grin of a politician. Polite and ruthless. Still young -- thirty-two was my guess – he knew nailing a cop killer was a real resume booster.
"You know I can't tell you what I have, Owler.”
The smile grew, ratcheting the small wire-rimmed glasses further up his beak-like nose.
"And,” I said, “because you know that, let’s stop playing games."
"No games? Then I guess we're done with this conversation. Have a nice day, Agent Harmon.”
I hadn't slept since my mother's episode yesterday, and now a hard pulse pounded against my temples. I also hadn't eaten, which for me was a sure sign of distress, and today I faced desperate hours trying to avoid Phaup, who would demand to know why this case wasn't closed.
And here was the grinning little politico, hooting over my circumstances.
"Owler." I could hear a pleading tone in my voice. It made me want to gag. “Just let me see the shoes. Some footwear impressions, then maybe I can figure out who went where."
"Sorry, can’t help you," he said cheerfully. "Richmond PD collected the evidence. It stays here until I say we’re finished. When we clear Detective Falcon – if we clear him – I’ll be sure to give you a call. In the meantime, good luck with that civil rights investigation."
My hand was already on the doorknob, but I turned around. Sarcasm, particularly coming from a guy who looked like a nocturnal bird, never worked. And now it nicked a nerve deep inside. My mind flashed to those file cabinets inside Detective Greene's office. All the cold cases. All those unsolved murders tucked into a back room with no windows and one detective with no time to come up for air.
"Owler."
He looked up, the smile returning to his thin lips. "Yes, Agent Harmon?"
"Why are you making this so difficult?”
“I’m just playing by the rules. If you don’t like the rules, choose another game.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“Depends how you see it.”
I saw it as battle. And he was an adversary. "The harder you fight me on this, the farther I'll take my investigation."
"You don't like having information withheld? Good. Now you know how we feel."
"What I don't like,” I said, “is your attitude. You seem to find this amusing.”
“Perhaps not amusing.” He failed to stifle the grin. “But I do enjoy holding all the cards."
"Get a good look at them. You won't have them long."
“Is that a threat, Agent Harmon?”
“Not a threat.” I opened the door. “A promise.”
Chapter 11
From Owler’s tree hole, I drove up Broad Street and turned left, cutting over to Franklin Street. As I pumped quarters into the meter, students from Virginia Commonwealth University were strolling down the sidewalk. Their callow expressions suggested my K-Car was a pile of hot elephant dung. Since I couldn’t disagree, my mood grew even darker.
And then I saw my sister.
In the campus art building, Helen was lecturing her students in one of the studios. Gesticulating her thin arms, she looked like a messy ballerina, her chestnut hair pulled into a hasty bun and secured with a chopstick. Her audience of grungy art students waited at easels, listening to the esteemed professor of painting. In the background, on the sound system, a pop singer whined softly. The room smelled of mineral spirits and unbathed youth.
When she saw me standing by the door, Helen's face disguised her irritation. She told her students to begin working, then walked over to where I stood and pointed down the hall. I looked back at the class. Half the students
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