minutes later she left Leroy writing out his confession on a yellow legal pad, and stuck her head inside the door of the darkened room with the mirror. “So, Lieutenant Gavigan, how’d I do?” she asked the big man watching Leroy write.
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Not bad for your first solo homicide interrogation.” He motioned her inside. She closed the door behind her.
She leaned her butt against the wall beside the mirror, but caught her breath and stood straight again when pain pierced her hip.
“Still smarts when you do that, huh?” Gavigan said.
“Yeah. It’s been six weeks since I got wounded. When does it stop hurting?”
“Hey, I’ve never been shot. I hear it can take six months to a year. You’ll probably have a groove in your rear end forever.”
“How nice of you to mention that.”
“Cop groupies love scars.”
“They have male cop groupies, do they?” she asked.
“Sure. So, how do you like Cold Cases so far?”
How could she tell her new boss that she had been transferred to the tiny Cold Case squad not so much because she needed to recuperate from her wound, but because she needed time to recover from the entire experience? Waiting for her wound to be tended in the emergency room, she’d been told that Sally Jean had seen Bobby Joe kill her mother at least an hour before he let the child leave the house. Liz’s physical wound was almost healed. The blow to her self-confidence might never heal.
She didn’t think she’d ever get her nerve back. Or be confident that she could talk an armed taker into surrendering. She didn’t trust her ability to read the taker’s mind or voice level or body language correctly.
She’d been grateful the sheriff’s department had basically created a job for her. They’d probably gone out of their way because the media insisted on calling her a hero—which she most definitely was not.
Cold Cases was theoretically a stopgap until she was fully recovered physically and ready to go back to Negotiations. She knew better. She had to make a success of the transfer to keep her career with the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department on track.
She suspected Captain Leo had explained her loss of confidence to Lieutenant Gavigan, but he’d never said a word to her. “At least here the crimes were committed a long time ago,” she said. “I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Like with Marlene.
“So, how’d you find him?” Gavigan hooked a thumb at the interrogation room.
“Did what Jack and Randy told me. Went back and reinterviewed all the witnesses. They were still scared, but not nearly as frightened as they were just after it happened. Several of them talked to me. They knew from the get-go who the shooter was. Once somebody pointed me toward Leroy’s car, it was a piece of cake. The initial investigation never located the vehicle, but I guess after a while Leroy decided it was safe to bring it out of hiding. He was extremely upset when I had it impounded. Would you believe, we found a spent shell casing that matched one from the scene under the dashboard?”
Gavignan laughed. “Proves it pays to have your car detailed on a regular basis.”
“I really think he’s glad to get it off his chest. So, what’s next?”
“Come into my office. This one’s going to take a little explanation.”
On her way to Gavigan’s tiny office in the corner of the bull pen Cold Cases shared with Homicide, Jack Samuels gave her a thumbs-up and Randy Railsback a prurient leer.
She threaded her way between the battered gray desks where the homicide detectives hung out, and glanced at the sign beside Gavigan’s door that said, Bad Cop! No Doughnuts! She liked that better than the one that said Our Day Starts When Yours Ends.
Gavigan settled in the oversize chair behind his equally battered desk and motioned her to the chair in front. She lowered herself into it gingerly.
“Okay. So you cracked your first cold case. Big deal. That one was fairly easy. This is tougher. Give it two weeks. If you don’t come up with a perp we can prosecute, put the box back in the stacks and go on to something else.” He motioned to the credenza behind him. She turned and saw one of the gray cardboard deed boxes used to store everything connected to a case. “Get Jack and Randy to give you advice, but I’d like you to handle this one yourself.”
“How old is this case, and why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?”
“Because you are. Frankly, I think this one has gone as far as it will ever go, but I’ve had a call from upstairs asking us to take another look.” He grimaced. “As a favor to somebody important who shall remain nameless.”
She felt a tingle down her spine. “Political?”
“A friend of the commissioner wants us to look into it. I’m not going to tell you anything else except that it’s seven years old and a Shelby County homicide, or at least we think it’s a homicide.”
“Think? As in not sure?”
“Read the murder book. We had two of the best homicide detectives on it at the time. Both retired. One of them’s dead. It’s the kind of case where they knew in their gut what happened and who the doer was, but couldn’t prove it. Seven years later, someone may be willing to talk, or you may find some forensics that we missed. Frankly, I doubt it, but as the new kid on the block, you’re getting stuck with it. If you get nowhere, at least we can say we tried.”
“I get it. CYA.”
Gavigan grinned. “Right. Cover your ass. Think of this as a reward for finding Leroy.”
“Oscar Wilde said no good deed goes unpunished.”
“Not in this department,” Gavigan said, and waved a hand toward the box, dismissing her.
CHAPTER THREE
JUD SLAUGHTER POURED himself two fingers of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, dropped in a single cube of ice and waited until he’d settled into his elderly leather recliner in front of the fireplace to take a sip. If the November rain didn’t slack off, the construction site would be twenty acres of slop.
Fifteen days from today was the seventh anniversary of Sylvia’s death. It had been raining that night, too.
For seven years he’d held on to the fragile belief that Sylvia might be still alive somewhere, maybe amnesiac, but alive. Colleen swore her mother must be dead, for she would never have deserted her only daughter. Jud knew better. He’d simply never been able to figure out why Sylvia had left when she did.
He couldn’t see her walking away from a hefty divorce settlement, which is what she would have received if they’d gone through with the split. She would have demanded custody of Colleen, too, although he knew damn well having a child underfoot was the last thing she would have wanted.
She’d have used Colleen as leverage, so Jud would give her everything she asked for. Besides, her father, Herb, would never have understood Sylvia’s
