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“No ballistics. No fingerprints. Nothing. They hadn’t gotten a chance before it went missing. And now it’s as if that gun never existed except in the crime-scene photos. It’s my own fault.”
“How is it your fault?”
Claudia shrugged. “I should have walked the gun down to the lab myself. I should have watched them run the tests I needed.”
“That’s not your job, Claudia.”
“No, but it’s my job to see that the investigation is run properly, that witnesses and suspects…and especially evidence is handled correctly. And in this case, it wasn’t. So, instead of a smoking gun with the suspect’s prints all over it, we got zilch. It falls on me. Doesn’t make me look too good. Not to mention the fact that the state’s attorney is all over me with accusations.”
“Accusations?”
She’d said more than she should have. Even to Tony—with whom she’d worked for three years—Claudia hadn’t revealed as much about the Brown case, nor had she mentioned the state’s attorney’s threats.
But for some reason, with Gavin Monaghan, Claudia felt more willing to discuss yesterday’s proceedings at the courthouse. Maybe she was tired, she thought as she stared at him across the Formica-topped table. Or maybe it was Gavin’s eyes. Something about him made her want to trust, even though trusting had never come naturally to her.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said, trying to minimize its importance.
“Come on, Claudia, accusations from the State’s Attorney Office aren’t generally ‘nothing.”’
“It was just a warning really. After the judge dismissed it, the state’s attorney pulled me aside and basically implied that if it weren’t for my otherwise flawless record, the office would suspect me of getting rid of the gun for a bribe, and they’d be looking to accuse me of evidence tampering.”
Gavin seemed to consider her revelation for a moment before responding. “Well, I wouldn’t let it get to you. It happens to the best of us,” he offered, calmly wiping his mouth and tossing his napkin onto his empty plate.
“It doesn’t happen to me. I mean, maybe that sounds arrogant, but as much work and precision as I put into the Brown case—all my cases—well, that gun going missing…it shouldn’t have happened. It’s a sign of sloppy police work. Bottom line.”
“So is that how you explain what happened to your partner then? Seems he had a similar problem with evidence ‘growing legs.’ Are you saying that was sloppy detective work?”
Maybe ten months of grieving had drained most of the fight out of her. Maybe, after finally believing that Frank had taken his own life, Claudia no longer felt as strong an impulse to jump to his defense. Or maybe it was just something about Gavin. Because instead of the usual surge of resentment that a comment like his would have normally spurred within her, Claudia found herself able to bite her tongue and respond calmly.
“Frank was never sloppy.”
“Fine. But he did have more than one case thrown out when evidence went missing, correct?”
Claudia studied Gavin. Was he attacking Frank’s reputation or simply using it as an argument to defend hers?
“You seem to know a lot about a unit you’ve only just joined, Detective,” she said.
“I hear rumors.”
“Oh yeah? What kinds of rumors?”
“Both sides,” he explained as he leaned back from the table. “For instance, you’ve got some who say your partner folded under the pressure of that whole IAD investigation. And then you’ve got others—fewer, mind you—who still think maybe he knew too much and was silenced because of it.”
“And which theory do you favor?”
She watched Gavin take his wallet from his back pocket and toss two fives onto the table.
“I don’t know,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I worked Homicide in D.C. I know it’s tough—the responsibility, the pressure, the expectations from your fellow detectives, your sergeant, the State’s Attorney Office. Not to mention the kinds of cases and suspects you deal with on a daily basis. But still, by the time a cop makes his…or her way to the level of Homicide, you figure that most of the weak ones have been weeded out. Face it, the burn-out rate in this job is high, but for the guys in Homicide? I think it takes more than an IAD probe to push someone over the edge once they’ve achieved those ranks.”
Claudia scrutinized Gavin, wishing the twitch of suspicion would leave her. It was breakfast conversation, she tried to reason; two detectives having coffee, new partners getting to know each other, that was all.
Why then did she get the feeling Gavin was on a fishing expedition?
“So based on that assessment,” she asked at last, “you’re suggesting it’s more likely someone killed Frank?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. After all, why should I have an opinion? I never met the man. You’re the one who was closest to him, being his partner. What do you think happened?”
But Claudia was already pulling money from her wallet. This was not a conversation she intended to pursue with Gavin Monaghan, or anyone else for that matter. Especially today.
“I think either way it’s history,” she replied briskly, hearing the sharp tone of defensiveness in her own voice as she tossed down her five and picked up one of his. She handed him the bill and reached for her coat. “And right now, Detective, we’ve got a fresh homicide to develop our own theories on.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE PATROL CARS WERE GONE from the front of the former Marmack Bed & Mattress Company when Claudia parked the Lumina along the curb. The yellow crime-scene tape had been stripped, as well, except for one broad band fixed over the suite door. James Silver’s office was clear of technicians and officers; the only remaining pieces of evidence that a crime had occurred were the black powder smudges and the dark stain on the floor behind the desk.
They spent an hour going through the PI’s file cabinets and drawers, sifting through endless paperwork on the remote chance they might uncover some lead. They listened to the incoming messages on Silver’s answering machine, but there were no obvious links to the man’s brutal slaying. Even so, Claudia confiscated the machine and its tape, boxing them up with several other items of possible relevance.
“Looks like you might have a next of kin here,” Claudia said eventually, breaking the silence.
Gavin glanced from the files he’d been searching to where she sat at Silver’s oak desk.
“Eileen Silver. Probably his mother.” She handed him the address book she’d just thumbed through. “It’s a Key West address. You might want to contact authorities down there to break the news to her, instead of telling her by phone. That’s about it though. No other Silvers or anything else that appears to be family.”
It was the most she’d said to him since they’d left Jimmy’s. From the moment he’d asked about Frank Owens, Claudia’s reserve had grown. Her response to anything he’d asked had been clipped and to the point, leaving him to wonder if perhaps he’d made his move too soon.
In retrospect, he might have done better to not bring up the subject of her former partner during their very first encounter. On the other hand, the conversation over breakfast had taken a natural turn in that direction. It might have seemed even more obvious had he not asked for her opinion regarding her partner’s death.
He watched her continued exploration of Silver’s desk. As the morning sunshine slipped through the wooden slats of the blinds behind her and touched the highlights of her cropped hair, Gavin thought of angels. The imagery struck him as ironic, especially considering the fact that Claudia Parrish was as likely a suspect as anyone in the ongoing corruption within the Homicide unit. After all, the evidence tampering hadn’t ended when Owens’s life had. And the most recent involved one of Claudia’s own cases.
Gavin hadn’t been surprised to learn of Judge Warner’s dismissal of the Brown case yesterday. Reports of the missing gun were in the file Gavin’s lieutenant had handed him five weeks ago—a thick file compiled by the previous IAD agent who had failed in his attempt to expose the corruption. Failed like the two IAD investigators before him. And it was because of their failures that Lieutenant Randolph had at last caved in to Gavin’s request to be reassigned to the case. Only this time, Gavin vowed, it would be different.
A year ago, Gavin had been appointed to oversee the first investigation into the corruption that seemed to surround Baltimore’s Homicide unit. Back then, however, the direction of the investigation had been dictated by others. By the time he’d come on board to head the probe, Owens was already IAD’s primary target.
From the start, Gavin had been uncomfortable with the case. He’d tried to turn it around, slow it down, anything to give him time to prove that Owens was truly guilty. He’d tried to reopen past investigations into Evidence Control and Violent Crimes, suspecting the problems might come from there instead, but the brass had only come down on Gavin for straying—Owens was their target. IAD had increased their pressure on the seasoned detective, stopping only once Frank Owens had killed himself. IAD didn’t seem to care, but Gavin had never been able to rest easy. He’d spent the past ten months wondering…suspecting Owens’s innocence and knowing that the man had died because of the investigation he had led.
He’d demanded to be taken off the assignment, and Lieutenant Randolph had complied. Since then, the probe had practically ground to a halt. Gavin had watched the blunders of the next three agents, until finally his conscience had forced him to step in. But he’d insisted they would now do things his way.
“I want to start from square one, Lieutenant,” he’d told Randolph. “I want to look into everything, not just Homicide.”
“Monaghan, you’d be wasting your time. We’ve done all that. The corruption stems from the Homicide unit. There’s no doubt. Weapons and critical evidence in murder cases are going missing, and someone’s taking a payoff. It has to be a detective, someone with connections to the street and the capacity to reach, and deal with, the suspects. No one in Evidence Control would have that kind of access.”
“Fine. Then put me undercover. Let me work within the unit.”
Lieutenant Randolph shook his head. “We don’t operate that way, and you know it. Only for extreme—”
“This is extreme, Lieutenant. A man lost his life. A good detective.”
“Let it go, Monaghan.”
“I can’t let it go. Frank Owens killed himself because of the allegations against him. And honestly, I don’t know for certain they were valid allegations.”
“Yeah, well, we also don’t know that he wasn’t guilty, do we?”
“No? Then how do you explain the fact that the evidence tampering hasn’t stopped?”
Randolph handed Gavin a file.
“What’s this?”
“Claudia Parrish. Owens’s partner. The one person who was probably close enough to him to know about the corruption, and the one person who might be continuing his practices. Or, who knows, maybe she was in on it from the start? She was the secondary detective on all three of Owens’s bad cases. It could have just as easily been her taking payoffs from the start. It could have been her implicating him.”
Gavin opened the file and fingered through the reports as Randolph continued.
“And just recently, Detective Parrish had a case of her own go bad. No doubt, it’s going to be thrown out of court just like Owens’s were.”
“So she’s your target?”
“Definitely.” Lieutenant Randolph nodded, and Gavin experienced déjà vu. This was the Frank Owens investigation all over again.
“I’m not going on another witch hunt, Lieutenant,” he said, closing the file, prepared to hand it back if his superior disagreed. “We do this my way, or I’m out. If Claudia Parrish is guilty, if she is the source, I’ll flush her out for you. But I’m not starting any fires until I know for certain.”
Fortunately, Randolph had accepted his terms. And by the end of the afternoon, they’d compiled a cover story for Gavin, right down to the believable detail of his having been the commissioner’s chauffeur. With a false background in place, coupled with the fact that IAD so rarely went undercover, Gavin felt confident he would raise few, if any, suspicions from the detectives he’d be working with. Most importantly, from Claudia Parrish.
Now, in Silver’s office, knowing Claudia for barely five hours, Gavin wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction to his bringing up the question of Owens’s death. She’d defended the integrity of her dead partner, as Gavin would expect any respectable detective to do, and her voice had remained relatively calm throughout. But her expression had wavered, and in it Gavin sensed the emotion just beneath her calm exterior.
After five years with IAD, Gavin prided himself on his keen ability to read people. Claudia Parrish, however, seemed beyond his comprehension. Either her defensiveness was an honest response, or there was more behind the sharp tone she’d adopted seconds before she snatched up her coat and stalked out of Jimmy’s.
Gavin hoped her edginess was only exhaustion. He definitely had to be careful. He couldn’t afford to alienate Claudia.
She seemed calmer now, as she opened one of Silver’s desk drawers and lifted out another stack of papers. She, as well, had surrendered to the stifling heat of the office; her suit jacket lay draped over the back of one chair. When she stood at last and stretched, Gavin let his eyes take an appreciative sweep over her small, trim figure. Her short-sleeved turtleneck puckered where the leather straps of her shoulder holster pulled at the delicate fabric. But from there, the formfitting top left little to the imagination, hugging every sensuous curve leading to her slim waist.
Keeping an eye on Detective Parrish was certainly not going to be an unpleasant aspect of his assignment.
He watched her pace, admiring the lithe movement of her body. Fine lines creased her forehead, and Gavin wondered if she was thinking of Owens or Silver, or quite possibly both; he wondered if she, too, toyed with the theory that there may be some relation between the two deaths.
She stood at the window for a long moment, staring at the traffic crawling down Boston Street. When she turned suddenly, her gaze caught his, and Gavin knew she’d been aware of his perusal. But she remained silent. She returned to the desk and set to work once again.
A full twenty minutes passed before she spoke again.
“I think we might have something here,” she said so quietly Gavin had to look up to be sure she’d actually said something.
He crossed the office to stand next to her chair, as she flipped through one of two hard-bound journals.
“Silver’s date books?”
She nodded. “Obviously he didn’t want them found. They were jammed at the back of the drawer. Look at this.” She turned to the end of last year’s journal, traced one slender finger across the page and stopped at a scrawled entry.
“This was last December. Silver met with Frank. On the fifth. On the sixth. And here again on the eighth.” She pointed to one entry after the next, working her way to the date of Owens’s death.
“Of course he met with Owens,” Gavin offered. “You said yourself they were friends.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she continued through the pages, and he doubted it was from the four cups of coffee she’d had.
“But he documented the meetings. Made appointments. I doubt he’d do that if they were just social visits. And it appears they were discussing the allegations against Frank.” Her finger stopped at the bottom of the page. There, in bold, block letters was written: IAD. With a blue ballpoint, Silver had gone over each letter several times so that they practically glared off the page.
“And take a look at this.” Claudia opened the next journal. “After Frank’s suicide there’s nothing really. The entries are haphazard—scattered references to other cases he was working, people he met with, names, numbers, addresses. Nothing remarkable until last week.”
Claudia drew Gavin’s attention to the margin. Again in Silver’s block letters: CC# 2L5915.
“What’s that?” Gavin asked, even though he recognized the number immediately.
“It’s the incident number from the investigation into Frank’s suicide.”
“So you’re suggesting Silver was looking into Frank’s death?”
She shrugged.
“Why now, after all these months?”
“I don’t know. But maybe that’s what got Silver killed.”
They were definitely thinking along the same lines, Gavin decided. He leaned closer, one hand on the back of her chair and the other planted firmly on the desk beside this year’s journal. He was close enough to smell that subtly provocative perfume of hers again. And definitely close enough to feel the heat of her body as his hand brushed past her wrist to turn the page. He let out a silent breath, trying to ignore the way his body responded to that brief touch. He focused on the journal entries. Scanning each page, he noted names and numbers, none of which rang any bells. Until he reached the bottom of one page.
The date: October 13. Only three days ago. There was no missing it. The name was written out in bold red ink along with her home phone number and address: CLAUDIA PARRISH.
Gavin straightened abruptly. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen Silver since January.”
“I don’t know what my name’s doing in there.” Gavin pointed at the journal. “Well, my guess would be he intended to call you.”
“That might be, but I didn’t speak with him.” Did her voice carry a twinge of defensiveness? Gavin wondered.
“I didn’t,” she repeated, “I swear, I haven’t talked to Silver recently.”
He reached out and turned another page. October 14. Again, Claudia’s name, but with this entry there was a location scrawled on the line below: JIMMY’S.
Gavin didn’t have to say anything.
“I don’t know why he wrote these entries in his date book,” she said. “Obviously he intended to call me, but he didn’t.”
“You didn’t have breakfast with him two days ago?”
“No. I told you, until this morning I haven’t seen Silver since just after Frank died.” She must have noted the skepticism in his expression, because she added, “You don’t believe me?”
He shrugged. “I just have to wonder. After all, you did hesitate when we first arrived on the scene this morning.” As though she knew what was waiting for them in the office, Gavin thought but didn’t dare say.
“And I admitted to you then that I knew Silver. Of course I hesitated when I found out he was our victim.”
“So you don’t know what Silver was working on? There’s nothing you’re not telling me?”
