His phone vibrated. He grabbed it and groaned. He thumbed the slide on the face of the phone. "Hi, Mom."
"I saw you on the news this morning. You looked tired. You've lost weight. What's wrong? Have you been sick?" Hannah King's questions fired as rapidly as machine gun bullets.
"I look tired because I was called out at midnight last night, and I was wearing a coat, so you can't tell if I've lost weight. Which I haven't."
"Your face is thinner, and they say television puts ten pounds on you. If you had a woman in your life, you'd look more relaxed. I wouldn't have to worry that you look like a walking skeleton. What did you have for breakfast?"
"Mom, please. I gotta get back to work." He scrubbed his neck and sent a furtive glance around to make sure no one was overhearing this conversation. Several detectives were staring at him with shit-eating grins. Fuck him standing. His mother, he loved her, but damn...
"Fine, but I want to see you, in person, not on the television."
"I'm coming over for dinner on Sunday."
His mom tsked. "I've heard that before."
"Mom, I'll be there as long as the case permits. If you've seen the news, then you know this one is going to be difficult." He leaned forward and stared at the coffee ring on his calendar, trying hard not to hear the snorts and chuckles around him.
"I miss you, sweetheart. It's been forever since we've talked. I need to know you're okay. You may be my oldest, but you will always be my baby. Please come see me."
God. He dropped his head to the desk. "I know, Mom. I'll try. It's the best I can do."
"All right honey. Be safe. I love you."
"Love you too, Mom." He hung up and dropped his phone, his head still on the desk.
"Yo, King, you die over there? Should we call your mom?"
His arm elevated over his head, and he flipped the detective across the pen the finger. The entire room erupted in laughter. Fucking bastards.
He sat up and buried himself in the specifics of requesting a task force to go into The Desert to search for their shooter when his phone rang. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID. His mom had never struck twice in one day. “King.”
“Miranda said you called?” Cliff’s gravelly voice cut across the connection. His old Recon commander was the toughest son of a bitch he’d ever met. No, strike that, second toughest man he’d ever met. His dad had the first slot firmly cemented.
“Yes, and she said you wanted to talk to me. How about you go first?” Brock closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. He needed more coffee.
“I’ll get to that in a minute. What did you need?” Cliff’s demand was reminiscent of bygone days and barked orders that Brock followed without question.
He exhaled a long stress-filled lungful of air. “I have a dead body. The vic’s name is Samuel Treyson. I want to use the information on his phone to determine why the man woke up dead. I went to his residence to speak with his wife but was met at his door by a concrete wall of lawyers. The press was swarming the crime scene. Although his name was never transmitted over the airwaves—we made sure of that—they showed up knowing Samuel Treyson was in that warehouse. I left the crime scene and drove straight to Briar Hills; it was damn early, and it’s a quick drive. There was a crowd of press outside Treyson's house. So, number one, I believe there is a leak on the force. Two, I need a warrant so anything I get from these emails and texts can be used in court and three, I need a judge not in the Treysons’ pocket. I think that may take a miracle.”
Cliff was silent for several long moments. “You have to know the Treysons might have a couple cops in their pocket.”
“Yep, figured that.” His father hadn’t seemed too surprised that Mrs. Treyson had deferred his visit. His father was a straight shooter. Crooked cops were his number one target. He ran a tight ship and had cleaned house when he took over as commissioner, but rats scurry and hide. Sooner or later the remaining vermin would expose themselves and his father would be waiting for them.
“I can get you a warrant. Judge Scottsdale isn’t impressed with wealth as her husband is independently wealthy. However, if Mrs. Treyson’s lawyers can find justifiable grounds to contest the warrant, you are back at ground zero.”
“What reasons could they possibly have to contest a warrant when all we want to do is solve his murder?”
“They could use the grounds that the information in his emails or his texts is privileged because he owns and operates a business. They could claim proprietary information. I would if I was her lawyer.”
Brock grabbed one of his foam balls and squeezed the ever loving shit out of it. “So you’re telling me that a judge would limit my ability to conduct a homicide investigation to protect proprietary business information.” Son of a bitch, just when he thought he’d seen it all.
Cliff made a noise of agreement. “Look at it from another angle. What apps does he have on his phone? Don’t list them off. But seriously, take a look at all his apps including games and the software that comes standard on the phone. I can get you a warrant for all the apps. You can go through the emails and the texts and take note of anything in particular that may assist the investigation. Should you find anything, then we go for a strategic strike and request a specific warrant for a specific email on a specific date and time.”
“That won’t fall under the doctrine of ‘fruit from the poisonous tree’?” Brock shoved the folder he was working on to the side and stared at the desk blotter. He picked up a pen and doodled around today's date.
“If we were trying Samuel Treyson for crime, then yes it would. However, he’s the victim. We need to keep that in front of everybody’s eyes. The lawyers can dance to any tune they choose, but we do have a very powerful tool.”
“Yeah, and what tool is that?” Brock looked up from his desk blotter and nodded at his partner, who was walking through the bullpen toward him. Jordan was dressed to impress even though he was coming back from a night shift spent with Vice interrogating suspects and looking for witnesses. The guy always turned heads, both male and female. That vibe his partner threw off was potent shit if the action he got was any indication.
“We have the press, which is a huge motivator. People like the Treysons live their life in the court of public opinion. If that information was leaked to the press, it could taint the public’s view of this storied family. If we hit resistance, we can use a nondisclosure guarantee to entice them to release what we need."
“You are one devious son of a bitch, Cliff.” Brock laughed as his partner sat down across from him.
“I prefer the term tactical."
"Okay, you are one tactical son of a bitch, Cliff."
“Yes, yes, I am. Give me thirty minutes then list those apps and call Judge Scottsdale. She’ll approve the warrant.” Cliff paused for several moments before he cleared his throat.
Even though his old commander couldn't see him, Brock rolled his eyes. Whatever Cliff wanted from him, he was having a difficult time putting it out there. “Just spit it out, man.”
"It's coming up on two years. I was hoping you'd be able to come with Zack and me to the cemetery. I don't know if I'll be able to drive after." His friend’s voice broke with emotion. His love for his late wife was still as poignant and tangible as the day he’d watched the man bury his soul mate.