Zoe gritted her teeth in annoyance. “If you would invest the time to enter your cases into the ViCAP system, it would make solving murders like this significantly easier.”
“Well,” O’Donnell countered, “maybe if your fed buddies made the system easier to use, and I didn’t have to answer more than a hundred damn questions every time I tried to enter one of my cases, I would start doing that. You know, in this city, I have a very limited amount of time to investigate a murder before the next one lands on my desk.”
Zoe sipped from her hot chocolate, watching O’Donnell as she left. “She doesn’t like me.”
“She’s just very intense.” Tatum smiled at her. “Ready to leave?”
“I’m thinking of getting another hot chocolate to go.”
“Well, don’t rush into a decision you’ll regret later.”
“It’s really good.”
“I’m sure it is. Go get your hot chocolate. We have serial killers to catch.”
CHAPTER 13
Harry Barry was in a gloating mood that afternoon. There had been a huge cocaine bust in South Chicago. Everyone was talking about it—it was front-page material. And who had the story? Was it Nick Johnson, the Chicago Daily Gazette’s senior crime journalist? Nope! Guess again. It was Harry Barry. He was the one with the source in the team that made the bust. He was the one with the witness account. He was the one scheduled to talk to a suspect’s defense attorney. And Nick Johnson and his mediocre somber articles would have to watch while Harry basked in the glory.
Harry’s mom had often told him as a child that gloating and bragging were things that “lesser men” did. But Harry quickly concluded that it seemed lesser men had all the fun. And besides, his mom would brag endlessly about her silver cutlery set and about that one time she met Richard Gere in person. Even as a child, Harry was quick to spot hypocrisy.
Just yesterday, Nick had sauntered over to Harry’s desk to tell him the Catherine Lamb story, which Nick had written, had been quoted in an online New York Post article. But now Catherine Lamb was old news, a two-day-old case with no solid leads. All Nick had today was an interview with Lamb’s dad. Harry had overheard that they’d told Nick to shorten the interview by three hundred words. He considered going over to Nick’s desk to ask him how it was going along.
It definitely sounded like something a lesser man would do. And no man was lesser than Harry.
His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Harry here.”
“This is Detective O’Donnell from Area Central,” the woman on the other side said. “I wanted to talk to the reporter covering the Lamb case.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry said distractedly. “You got the wrong—”
“We’re looking for someone who might be related to the case, a man named Rod Glover, and I hoped—”
“You got the wrong guy,” Harry said, talking over her. “Here, I’ll transfer you.” He punched Nick’s extension and hung up.
For some reason, his good mood had evaporated. The phone call had interrupted his internal gloating mechanism, and he was left with a sort of hollow sensation he couldn’t quite place. He shook his head, about to return to work, when it sank in.
Rod Glover.
How had he missed it? Was his head so far up his own ass? Rod Glover was Zoe Bentley’s childhood serial killer. He knew that; he was in the process of writing a damn book about it. And he’d just forwarded the call to Nick Johnson like a bumbling amateur.
Rod Glover was related to the Lamb case?
Harry stared at the half-written story of the cocaine bust. It suddenly seemed boring and trite. He’d quoted his source saying it was “another successful law enforcement success targeting major drug cartel activity.” Successful law enforcement success. Who was this Neanderthal? Now that he looked at it, he realized half of what his source had said was badly phrased drivel.
The real story was the Lamb case. Deep in his heart, he’d known it even before this phone call. And now he needed it. But if he just offered to trade stories, Nick would sniff Harry’s desperation.
Instead, he strode into their editor’s office, closing the door behind him.
Daniel McGrath sat behind his desk, frowning at his monitor. He glanced at Harry briefly, then turned back to whatever he was reading. “What, Harry? I’m busy.”
“I figured the cocaine bust could use a journalist with a bit more experience in the drug cartels.”
Daniel blinked in surprise, turning his full attention to Harry. “What are you talking about? You were positively thrilled to write about it just an hour ago.”
“I was willing to do it, sure. But—”
“You stood here and repeatedly said, ‘Who da man.’”
“No I didn’t.”
“You said it four times. I counted.”
“I think Nick should do it.”
“Just last week you told me Nick’s style was . . . let me see if I can quote you accurately: ‘The boring drone of a fourth-grade history teacher.’”
“I may have been a bit harsh. Nick’s great. He should definitely get this important story.”
“What’s your angle, Harry?”
“No angle.”
“Nick is working on the Lamb story. Do you want the Lamb story?”
“The Lamb story is old news. This is the big item of tomorrow.”
Daniel leaned back in his chair. “So you want the Lamb story.”
“I want what’s best for the team. Remember the email from our wise and generous boss, about teamwork?”
“Vaguely. Is it the one where he said we won’t be getting raises this year?”
“I care about teamwork. I scrub your back, you scrub mine.”
“That phrase isn’t about teamwork. It’s about exchanging favors. Not the same thing.”
“Fine! Sometimes I scrub both our backs. It’s a team—why not all of us scrub each other’s backs? Me, you, Nick. Get some lather on our hands, scrub each other real hard.”
“I’m getting uncomfortable with this metaphor.”
“Teamwork! It includes everyone. We can invite Albert, from accounting, scrub his back too.”
“Oh god.”
“Not just the backs. There are other parts it’s hard to reach in the shower. We can scrub each other’s—”
“Fine! If Nick wants to exchange stories, I don’t have a problem with it, okay? Just shut up about this communal shower we’re all having. I have a very graphic imagination. I feel like I need to bleach my brain.”
Harry grinned at him. “Thanks, Daniel, you’re the best.”
“You’ve ruined showers forever. Get out of my office.”
Harry left Daniel’s office, took a long breath, and wiped the smile from his face. Then he walked over to Nick Johnson’s desk, muttering curses to himself, loud enough that anyone could hear.
“Something wrong, Harry-Barry-Garry?” Nick asked. This was the man’s notion of wit. Adding additional rhymes to Harry’s name. Rhymes that literally made no sense. Kids at Harry’s kindergarten had come up with better taunts.
“I just had a talk with Daniel,” Harry spat. “He said I should give you the cocaine-bust story. I’m supposed to tie up the leftovers of the Lamb story.”