back up, as they say.”
“Keeps him on his toes.” Joceline laughed. “He really does tend to brood.”
“Oh, coffee!” Phyllis said, smiling. “Can I have some, too?”
“Sure, sit down,” Joceline invited. She noted the younger woman’s clothing; it looked like the sort of thing Cammy Blackhawk would wear. But Phyllis had said her father worked as a police detective and Phyllis was in college part-time. Where would she get the money for expensive clothes? Maybe Joceline was just tired and getting irritated over minor matters.
“We were talking about our workload,” Betty commented.
“It’s so boring,” Phyllis said. “I wish I could be a detective, like my dad, and get to go to crime scenes.”
“You watch too many crime television shows, Phyllis.” Betty chuckled.
Phyllis gave her a blank stare.
“You know, those forensic programs that deal with trace evidence solving big cases,” Joceline said helpfully. “They call it fiction.”
“So many people don’t know the difference.” Betty sighed. “Now juries are so clued up that they argue with attorneys about trace evidence in murder trials. They watch a television show a few times and think they’re qualified to rule on pathological evidence.”
“Yes, it’s nothing like what they show on television,” Phyllis said. “Bodies are so clean and tidy. In real life, the blood is everywhere. It splashes around like paint …” She stopped because they were staring at her silently. “Oh, my dad lets me look at file photos sometimes,” she said quickly. “To teach me how evidence is really gathered.”
“I see,” Betty said, but she was visibly uncomfortable.
“Some of those shows are just a little too graphic for me, especially when my son might walk in and see something that would give him nightmares,” Joceline said with a smile.
“I was never squeamish, even when I was little,” Phyllis scoffed. “That murder case we worked on with Mr. Blackhawk was really fascinating, the one that Jay Copper got arrested for,” she added suddenly. “Aren’t you working with a file about that Hancock man? Digging out information about his past?”
“I’m trying to run down stuff. I got some rap sheets from San Antonio P.D. this morning. They’re on my desk. I haven’t had time to input the information. I may have to sign them out and do it at home.”
“I guess it’s a long rap sheet,” Phyllis said.
“Very.”
“Such a sad case, the Kilraven murders,” Betty said. “Imagine, someone killing a child like that.”
“Kids, adults, a life is a life.” Phyllis shrugged. “They all die the same.”
“You have a different outlook when you have a child,” Joceline said tautly.
Phyllis assumed a smile. “Well, of course you do.”
Betty sipped more coffee. “I worry about Monroe’s threats,” she said somberly. “Mr. Blackhawk seems to think it’s a joke, but the man is dangerous. His wife’s uncle taught him how to be a monster, and his brother-in-law is a terror.”
Joceline nodded. “Jay Copper is going to do some very hard time, if he manages to avoid the needle,” she added meaningfully. “Imagine ordering the death of a woman and a small child!”
“And I’m sure that he did order it, despite all his denials,” Betty said grimly. “Dan Jones may have done the actual killing, but Jay Copper was behind it. If they can just convict him, is the thing. I hope they do.”
“Mr. Blackhawk is supposed to meet an informant tonight at seven,” Joceline said heavily. “He refuses to have a bodyguard. He doesn’t think Monroe is a threat.”
“That’s foolhardy,” Betty said. “Look what happened to Detective Marquez when he went to meet some shadowy informant.”
Marquez had been blindsided and hospitalized. Joceline was uneasy about the meeting tonight. “Mr. Blackhawk takes chances.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Phyllis said airily. She glanced at her watch—a very expensive one. “Gosh, I have to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.”
She left without putting change in the kitty that helped pay for renewing the canteen supplies. Without a word, Betty took a bill out of her pocket and placed it in the container.
“Young people.” She sighed.
Joceline smiled. “You’re nice.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
“I do hope they can convict Jay Copper of little Melly Kilraven’s murder,” Joceline said quietly. “Kilraven still isn’t over it,” she added gently, “although he and his wife, Winnie, are expecting around the new year.” She smiled. “What a Christmas present they’re going to have this year if she goes into labor early!”
“Christmas!” Betty exclaimed. “I haven’t even started shopping!”
“It isn’t even Thanksgiving yet,” she was reminded.
“Yes, but I usually have everything bought by August.” She laughed. “I’m efficient on the job. I wish I could be that efficient off it.”
Joceline laughed, too. “Well, we all do what we can.”
The phone rang. Joceline got to her feet. “Back to work. Thanks for the heads-up,” she added in a soft tone. “At least if I get the ax, I’ll be somewhat prepared. Perhaps I should start working up a résumé.”
“Wait,” Betty advised. “A lot of this is all talk. I don’t think the office can operate with just me taking a workload from the squad, and only a part-timer for Mr. Blackhawk all at once. I’d have a nervous breakdown. And I can’t persuade people to talk to me like you can. You’re marvelous at digging out information.”
Joceline pursed her lips. “I can do that,” she agreed. “Maybe there’s work for a skip tracer,” she added, indicating a line of work that involved digging out information for detectives. “I might look good in a trench coat.”
Betty laughed again.
JUST BEFORE quitting time, the phone rang as Joceline was gathering things into her bag to take home, including the long file on Bart Hancock.
Joceline picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“My love! It’s been so long!”
She knew that voice. Its South African accent was unmistakable. She pictured a rugged, tanned face with an eye patch and blond hair in a long ponytail. “Rourke,” she muttered.
“You know you’re happy to have me around again,” he drawled. “Guess what? I’m going to be your shadow for a few weeks. Until the would-be perp stops making threats, at least.”
“I
