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Authors: Lisa Gardner
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reporter snapped, “what happens if they send us to Afghanistan?”
“We work for the UPN affiliate in the smallest state in the nation, Sally. When the fuck are we going to be sent to Afghanistan?”
“Did you at least look up?” Griffin intervened in this lovefest.
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Saw a person, running across the roof.”
“Person?” Waters pressed.
Gus shrugged. “All I could see was the back. Could be a man, could be a woman. In this day and age, who the hell knows?”
“Real observant, Gus, real observant.”
Griffin turned toward Sally. “And you?”
The hard-faced brunette gave Griffin an appraising stare. “I thought it was a man. Broad shoulders. Short, dark hair. Dressed in black coveralls, like the kind mechanics wear. Now then. You’re looking good after your little vacation, Griffin. A sergeant of Major Crimes, light caseload from being gone so long. Twenty to one they’re going to put you in charge of this baby. So why don’t you give me an interview? Five minutes on the record. My boss will clear it with your boss. What do you say?”
Waters was looking at him strangely. He probably hadn’t given any thought to who would be assigned as the primary case officer yet. The decision generally wasn’t made right away. Sally was correct, however. Griffin was a sergeant, he had lead case experience and at the moment he had a remarkably light caseload.
“I’m sure the detective commander will be giving a statement to all of the reporters shortly,” Griffin told Sally. Then he walked back to the crowd. “Next!”
It took him and Waters two hours to make it through the nest of reporters. In the end, they had a description of a white male who was between five and six feet tall, who might have brown hair, blond hair or black hair, who was either heavyset or rail-thin, who was wearing a ski mask, a Zorro-like mask, a stocking mask or nothing at all, and who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to James Gandolfini’s character on
The Sopranos
.
“That’s it, I think we can arrange for a lineup right now,” Waters said.
“Absolutely. And here I thought it would take all day to learn that nobody saw nothing. Instead it’s been what, two and a half hours?”
“The Boss will be pleased,” Waters agreed.
They both sighed heavily. They wandered away from the reporters, who had spotted the major arriving at the courtyard across the street, and were now resuming their manic cries for a briefing.
“What do you think?” Waters asked quietly, looking around to make sure no gung-ho reporter had spotted their break from the crowd. Acrid smoke from the car explosion still wafted through the air. It gave their voices a raspy edge.
“We’re pissing in the wind,” Griffin said. “Single head shot, so most likely the guy was a pro. Left everything on the rooftop, so most likely he knew the assault rifle, etc., was untraceable. I’m betting the minute he finished shooting, he stripped down to civilian threads and headed into the courthouse where he blended into the rest of the pedestrian traffic.”
“He simply strolled down the street to his getaway vehicle,” Waters filled in.
“Where he made an even bigger exit than he planned.”
“A description’s not going to help much, except down at the morgue,” Waters agreed.
“We’re still going to have to know who he is to confirm his occupation, then figure out who hired him.”
“I don’t know. Based on what we’ve heard, Uncle Vinnie’s looking better all the time. Has a grudge, has the connections to hire a gun. Seems to me that Tom was onto something. Or”—Waters’s voice grew more thoughtful—“the East Side wife obviously has money. Maybe she arranged for the hit. Or maybe all the women conspired together—I heard that they formed some kind of support group. Of course, I’m not sure why they’d kill the hired gun. Then again, once you’ve decided to kill one felon, what’s one more?”
Griffin merely
“We work for the UPN affiliate in the smallest state in the nation, Sally. When the fuck are we going to be sent to Afghanistan?”
“Did you at least look up?” Griffin intervened in this lovefest.
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Saw a person, running across the roof.”
“Person?” Waters pressed.
Gus shrugged. “All I could see was the back. Could be a man, could be a woman. In this day and age, who the hell knows?”
“Real observant, Gus, real observant.”
Griffin turned toward Sally. “And you?”
The hard-faced brunette gave Griffin an appraising stare. “I thought it was a man. Broad shoulders. Short, dark hair. Dressed in black coveralls, like the kind mechanics wear. Now then. You’re looking good after your little vacation, Griffin. A sergeant of Major Crimes, light caseload from being gone so long. Twenty to one they’re going to put you in charge of this baby. So why don’t you give me an interview? Five minutes on the record. My boss will clear it with your boss. What do you say?”
Waters was looking at him strangely. He probably hadn’t given any thought to who would be assigned as the primary case officer yet. The decision generally wasn’t made right away. Sally was correct, however. Griffin was a sergeant, he had lead case experience and at the moment he had a remarkably light caseload.
“I’m sure the detective commander will be giving a statement to all of the reporters shortly,” Griffin told Sally. Then he walked back to the crowd. “Next!”
It took him and Waters two hours to make it through the nest of reporters. In the end, they had a description of a white male who was between five and six feet tall, who might have brown hair, blond hair or black hair, who was either heavyset or rail-thin, who was wearing a ski mask, a Zorro-like mask, a stocking mask or nothing at all, and who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to James Gandolfini’s character on
The Sopranos
.
“That’s it, I think we can arrange for a lineup right now,” Waters said.
“Absolutely. And here I thought it would take all day to learn that nobody saw nothing. Instead it’s been what, two and a half hours?”
“The Boss will be pleased,” Waters agreed.
They both sighed heavily. They wandered away from the reporters, who had spotted the major arriving at the courtyard across the street, and were now resuming their manic cries for a briefing.
“What do you think?” Waters asked quietly, looking around to make sure no gung-ho reporter had spotted their break from the crowd. Acrid smoke from the car explosion still wafted through the air. It gave their voices a raspy edge.
“We’re pissing in the wind,” Griffin said. “Single head shot, so most likely the guy was a pro. Left everything on the rooftop, so most likely he knew the assault rifle, etc., was untraceable. I’m betting the minute he finished shooting, he stripped down to civilian threads and headed into the courthouse where he blended into the rest of the pedestrian traffic.”
“He simply strolled down the street to his getaway vehicle,” Waters filled in.
“Where he made an even bigger exit than he planned.”
“A description’s not going to help much, except down at the morgue,” Waters agreed.
“We’re still going to have to know who he is to confirm his occupation, then figure out who hired him.”
“I don’t know. Based on what we’ve heard, Uncle Vinnie’s looking better all the time. Has a grudge, has the connections to hire a gun. Seems to me that Tom was onto something. Or”—Waters’s voice grew more thoughtful—“the East Side wife obviously has money. Maybe she arranged for the hit. Or maybe all the women conspired together—I heard that they formed some kind of support group. Of course, I’m not sure why they’d kill the hired gun. Then again, once you’ve decided to kill one felon, what’s one more?”
Griffin merely
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