She’d just cleared the area when the door to the office opened, and Kelly growled, “Reightman, in here – now!”
Reightman pushed herself up from her place against the wall and entered the office, positioning herself in front of the desk with her arms held behind her.
Kelly’s stormy eyes glared at her as she stood there calmly. “I don’t have time for you this morning,” he informed her, with angry, dismissive emotion coloring each word.
“I understand you’re busy, but in this instance, you’d better make the time, sir.” Reightman was surprised to hear how cool and detached her words sounded. It was as if someone else was standing in front of his desk, observing their exchange.
“Who the hell do you think you are to stand there and tell me I’d better make time?”
Reightman looked into his flushed, angry face and felt her own anger rise up to the surface. She forced herself to keep her voice level. “I’m the Detective who saw her partner shot down in cold blood last night,” she said simply. “I’m the Detective who held Sam Jackson in her arms as he died. I’m the Detective who has a few things to say to you.”
“Why the hell were you there, Reightman?” he screamed the question at her from across the desk separating them. “What did you think you were doing by dragging Jackson into more shit at that goddamned spa? When you called last night, I knew you were up to something, so I ignored it. I knew you were probably digging around in things better left alone and I was right. I don’t have time for any more of your crap!”
“My crap, sir?” She watched him, curious about what he’d say
“Yes, Reightman, your crap! Insisting that you needed to keep investigating, when the case was already solved. Making up stupid, convoluted theories so you’d have something meaningful to do with your time. You must have felt pretty damned special chasing after clues to solve the biggest murder in years. That crap, Reightman.” When she didn’t say a word in self-defense or justification, he narrowed his eyes and cruelly added, “Sam Jackson is dead because of you and your fucking crap.”
She didn’t even wince at his words. She just let them wash over her, insubstantial in light of everything else. “We were there last night to review new evidence related to the Guzman murder case – which you’d have known if you’d answered your phone when I called, or bothered to call me back, sir.”
“The Guzman case is closed! Get that into your thick head!” he yelled. When she once again failed to respond, he added in a hard, cutting voice, “Because you couldn’t accept the fact that it’s closed, you got Jackson killed last night. Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone, a good man was shot to death.”
This time, Reightman closed her eyes at his words. She’d said those same things to herself over the last nine hours – over and over again. She hadn’t made peace with them yet, but she’d willed herself to painfully accept the part she’d played. When she opened her eyes, she saw Kelly take a small step back, startled by what he saw on her face.
“Jackson was a good man,” she agreed, ice coating her every word. “He was also a good detective. He knew what the evidence we saw last night meant, and thought the case needed to be opened again. He knew it shouldn’t have been closed in the first place – not without more work.” Reightman watched the Chief’s face closely as she readied her shot. “You know what he told me, sir? He said the man he once thought he knew – a man he respected – would never prematurely announce a murder had been solved, and would never have bought into an easy suicide verdict for Lieberman. That man would’ve looked for answers until every loose end was tied up, and not even the smallest possibility of doubt remained. That man he thought he once knew – was you.” She saw her words register and then with her voice filled with sorrow and regret, added, “I accept the fact I contributed to his death. There’s no way around that.” Before the cold, satisfied smile could fully form on his face, she added with more force, “But so did you, sir, the minute you agreed to make the damned premature announcement – the minute you caved under pressure and took the easy road. And the minute you didn’t call me back.”
The look on Kelly’s face frightened her with its intensity, but she pushed herself to continue. “Or was it something more, Kelly? Was it more than caving in from the pressure? Were you paid off to make this all just go away, sir?”
His eyes widened in outrage at her accusation and for a moment, he simply stared at her in disbelief. “How dare you?” he finally hissed across the desk, spittle falling from his lips.
“I dare, because it’s time for the truth,” she snarled back. “It’s time to get to the truth about how Geraldo Guzman died. It’s time to dig until we find the truth about Lieberman’s death, and the truth about why two men – one of them a former officer on your force – tried to gun down Toby Bailey last night and instead…instead killed Detective Sam Jackson.”
Kelly recoiled from her response, but quickly recovered and looked down at her from his superior height. He smiled cruelly, and nodded in satisfaction at the thought that crossed his mind. “This little show you’re giving right now will end your career, Reightman. I can promise you that!”
“Maybe it will, sir.” Reightman accepted his statement at face value and had in fact, already thought through that possibility. However, she wasn’t going to back down now. She met his flinty eyes and gave him a smile of her own. “But this case may end yours. God help you if you were involved in this – in any way. If there’s any mercy for you at all, it may be determined you were simply negligent and afraid to lift up the wrong rocks because you were frightened by the worms you might find underneath.”
Kelly’s eyes shifted away and after a tense moment, he sat down in his chair. He looked up at her from under his brows and leaned back, hands clasped together in front of his chest. “Where is all of this so-called evidence, Reightman?” he asked in a cool, silky voice
“The evidence we reviewed last night is still in Mr. Bailey’s possession. He’ll be arriving here this morning to turn it over, in the presence of his attorney.” Once she’d gauged his reaction to that piece of news, Reightman leaned into the desk until she was face to face with him. “Madame Zhou’s bringing along a few other guests to join the party, just to make sure it’s all above board – and to make sure there is no possibility anything will be misplaced.” In some remote and detached corner of her mind, Reightman enjoyed watching his face pale at her words. Her cold smile widened. “A shit storm like this city has never seen is about to be unleashed, and it looks like you might just find yourself right in the middle of it.”
She pushed up from the desk and looked down at the man sitting behind it. He refused to meet her eyes. Nodding to herself at what she saw, she continued. “Madame Zhou recommends that you bring a few folks of your own. I believe she suggested Tom Anderson, Dr. Evans and perhaps someone from the Mayor’s office. It’ll even things out. She already has the City Attorney’s confirmation, and I believe she mentioned that some nice woman from the DA’s office will also be in attendance.” As she walked to the door she added over her shoulder, “The big pow-wow is scheduled for eleven this morning, sir. In the large conference room. It’d be best if you were on time.”
“Reightman?” Kelly’s still angry – but less hateful – voice came from the desk. “I wasn’t paid off.”
“I hope that’s the truth and I hope all of your misplaced anger and threats are because you know you were wrong. I hope the way you’re acting has something to do with your own contribution to Sam’s death. Maybe it is – maybe it isn’t,” she said from the door, allowing her doubt of his innocence to color every word. “Regardless, you better decide how you’re going to play this. Either you do what’s right and support me while I try and find the truth, or you continue down the path I fear you’re already on. That path will have a very bad ending, sir. If I can promise you anything, I promise you that.”
“You’re a bitch, Reightman,” Kelly said from his chair
She pau
sed for a moment, with her hand on the doorknob. “That is the truth, sir.” Reightman left the office before he had a chance to respond.
When Reightman returned to her desk she found Jones and Mitchell waiting for her. Neither chose to sit in Sam’s chair and had instead dragged two chairs close to hers. Both of the men looked tired and downcast, but she thought Mitchell in particular, looked more haggard than his years warranted. “He was also there last night, and kept me under control during the worst of it,” she reminded herself as she hobbled toward them.
They stood when they saw her approach, and she took her own seat without greeting them.
Detective Jones glanced at Mitchell and then spoke. “I’m sorry about Detective Jackson. I just heard this morning he’d been killed. If I’d known, Detective Reightman, I would’ve been here sooner.”
“Thanks, Jones,” she answered quietly, turning toward the two men so that she wouldn’t have to stare at Sam’s desk.
After an awkward silence, Mitchell told her what she’d want to know. “They found Helliman.”
The news caused her to look up sharply. “When? Where is he?” she asked as she stood from her seat
“He was found last night, ma’am. He was in his truck about two miles from where…” The young cop broke off for a moment and until he’d swallowed his own grief. “He was found about two miles from Capital Street, shot once in the head.”
The statement hung in the air until Reightman nodded once. “Good.” She took her seat, but kept her eyes on his face. “He didn’t deserve to die quickly,” she resumed with harsh condemnation, “but at least the bastard is dead.”
Neither man responded. Mitchell’s face was pale and drawn, and Jones stood by his side, his own face chiseled out of stone.
“Any word on the shooter?” Reightman eventually asked.
“No,” Jones answered. “There are a couple of teams out trying to gather word from contacts on the street, but without a description – and with Helliman unable to tell us anything – it doesn’t look good.”
“Are they working the vehicle? The shooter had to have left behind some evidence.”
“Tom Anderson has a team working on it, but I think it’ll be a day or so before he’ll know anything. If he doesn’t find anything concrete, it might be a dead end. If that’s the case, it’ll be almost impossible to find the shooter.”
Reightman considered his words and discarded their message as insignificant. “I’ll find him. Sooner or later, I will find the man who tried to kill Toby Bailey and did kill Sam.” There was no doubt in her voice, and both men looked away from her expression.
“Are you positive they were aiming for Bailey?” Jones asked.
“Yes, and they would’ve been successful if Sam hadn’t….if Jackson hadn’t pushed him away and placed himself in the line of fire.” All three of them were quiet, giving the man a silent moment of respect. “The shooter did hit Toby,” Reightman continued, after she was sure she could trust herself to speak calmly, “but it was only a flesh wound.”
“What do we do now, ma’am?” Mitchell asked.
“I’ll have an answer for you later today.” She studied his face as he looked down at her and made a decision. “In fact, Mitchell, I want you to attend a little meeting I’m going to later this morning. It starts at eleven o’clock and will be in the big conference room off the side hall. Can you meet me there a little before?”
“Yes, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. They haven’t told me where I’ll be assigned next.”
“Should I plan on attending as well?”
She thought it over before shaking her head. “No. I don’t think so, Jones.” She saw the disappointment on his face and shrugged. “I may need you later though, depending on how the meeting goes. I’ll either ask for your help with something, or ask you to help carry my things out to my car.”
“Is this meeting going to be bad, ma’am?”
She was surprised Mitchell didn’t sound worried or nervous – just curious. It was almost as if he wanted time to prepare himself for whatever might be coming. “I won’t lie to you and tell you it won’t be, Mitchell. I can only promise that I’ll try and keep any of the firepower from turning on you – if I can. Regardless, I think you need to be there, especially after last night.”
“I’m not worried about myself, Detective Reightman. I’m worried about you.”
She was startled by the protective quality in his voice. “Thanks, Mitchell. I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl and can take care of myself.” She smiled up at him and at Jones, even though the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I appreciate your offer to attend as well, Jones. But like I said, I think it’s probably better to keep you out of it right now. If the worst happens, someone needs to be able to pick up the pieces.” Both men nodded their understanding. “I think that’s all for now – I’ve got a few things I need to do.”
“Where should I meet you?” Mitchell asked her before he left
“Good question. Let me think for a sec.” She thought over the jockeying that would be going on right now if her fears were well-founded, and made the safe decision. “I think it’d be best for you to just meet me right outside the conference room doors, Mitchell. If we meet here, someone might get some warning I’m trying to loop you in, and that wouldn’t benefit you down the road.”
“I’ll be there, ma’am,” Mitchell assured her and then turned and made his way through the maze of desks to where ever he was headed
“Let me know when you need that help,” Jones reminded her. “Regardless of which type it turns out to be. My money’s on the first option.”
“I wish I was as sure of that as you are. Now get out of here. I have a couple of things to do to prepare.” She watched him walk away and then turned to her computer. She had to search for a while to find the electronic files she needed, but she finally located them. She typed an email and attached the files and sent it off to its destination. Then she stood and crossed around to Jackson’s desk
She went through his files slowly and methodically and pulled all the information she could find related to the Guzman case. She added a few of his filled notebooks to the stack after looking through them to determine if the dates were in the range she needed. A lump rose up in her throat as she scanned over his familiar handwriting. She forced it down and carried the stack of stuff around to her desk and started sorting it into piles – the things she knew were either true or false, and the things she wasn’t sure about yet. “I wonder what happened to the notebook he had with him last night.” She picked up the phone and dialed Tom Anderson. He didn’t answer, so she left him a voicemail asking about the notebook. Then she called down to the morgue.
Dr. Bridges answered and Reightman explained what she was looking for. After she finished, Bridges assured her they’d look for it, but said she hadn’t seen anything like it when she’d processed Sam’s clothing. “I’m sorry, Reightman,” Bridges added before hanging up. Melba knew her words had nothing to do with the missing notebook.
At 10:30 AM her phone rang. She spoke to the caller and concluded by saying, “I’ll be sure and bring some. Thank you for thinking of it.” After she hung up the phone, she pulled out a tea bag and headed to the breakroom. It seemed that every few feet someone stopped her and expressed their regret over Jackson’s death. She forced herself into automatic pilot and made the appropriate responses. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about it too much until this was all over. Otherwise, she wasn’t sure she’d have it in her to do what needed to be done.
She carried her mug back to her desk and waited for the tea to finish brewing. As she inhaled the scent which she found calming – even today – she went over her plan for the meeting to come, building layers of mental and emotional defenses and focusing on her desired outcome.
Her conversation with Zhou Li earlier in the morning played through her head and she smiled a cold, nasty smile, thinking about what this city wa
s in for if the powers that be didn’t play their cards right. If circumstances were only a little different – if Jackson was here with her for this one – she was almost certain she’d be looking forward to the next few hours.
She finished off the tea and picked up her purse and went to the ladies room. As she was washing her hands, she caught sight of herself in the washbasin mirror. She looked tired and worn-down, and her face was swollen by the tears and grief of the last ten hours. “Not much I can do about that,” she conceded. When she forced herself to meet her own eyes in the mirror, she was pleased to see determination in them or – maybe – even the desire for revenge. “Whatever it is, it’ll have to do, Reightman.” She pulled some lipstick out of her purse and applied a little, blotting the excess of on a paper towel. She took another look in the mirror. “That helps a little,” she decided. She replaced the lip color and dug out her wallet, opening it to retrieve a few bills. She cursed under her breath and stuffed the wallet back in her purse. She shouldered the heavy bag and started out the door to make her slow, halting way to the conference room. By the time she made it, she could feel her knee starting to swell again.
Mitchell was waiting as promised, right outside the double doors. When he noticed her approach, he started toward her and she motioned him to the side, about ten feet away from the room’s entrance.
“Here’s what’s about to happen.” She laid out what she knew of the plan.
When she finished, he looked back at the double doors. “They’re not going to be happy, ma’am.”
She didn’t detect fear or worry on his face, just the simple acceptance of the facts. “No, they’re not. But if they don’t do things my way, they’re going to be less happy, Mitchell.” She sighed, feeling a tiny amount of regret. “I don’t like what I’m about to do, but I can’t let it all get swept under a rug somewhere. And that’s what would happen.” When the young cop started to object, she shook her head sadly. “I wish I believed differently. I used to, but I’ve seen it happen time and time again over the years. A case gets stale and cold and there just isn’t any urgency anymore. It becomes easy to ignore that file stuck on the corner of a desk somewhere – and ignoring the file is encouraged, in little, insidious ways. Sometimes, it’s even blatantly encouraged. If I felt I could trust the people around me, I wouldn’t have to do this. But I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone now, except Toby Bailey, Zhou Li, Jones, and you.
Hard Job Page 2