Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

“Not Finlay himself, right?”

“No.”

“How do you know, if she didn’t give you a name?”

Roscoe didn’t answer. Kim sipped her coffee, unsure. Even five years ago, Finlay was a long way up the food chain from an aspiring administrative aide. Unless he had some sort of personal relationship with her. But she couldn’t see Finlay risking everything for Sylvia Black. He seemed too, well, smart , at the very least.

She asked, “Did you ever ask Finlay about Sylvia? For a reference, maybe?”

Roscoe considered that one for a while, searching her memory. Her tone softer, sentences slower, she said, “I don’t think so. We had an opening. Sylvia applied. We liked her. Her background checked out. There didn’t seem to be any reason to go further, I guess.”

Gaspar asked, “How did Sylvia know you had a job opening?”

“I don’t know,” Roscoe said. “Five years is a long time to remember details like that.”

Gaspar asked, “How long have Sylvia’s fingerprints been missing?”

“No idea.”

“That’s a lot of screw ups on your watch, Chief. Your one and only prisoner escapes by walking out the door. With the full cooperation of your desk sergeant. Prints and print reports were removed from the accused’s confidential file. You don’t even know when that happened, let alone how. Awfully convenient, don’t you think? ”

“You think I pulled Sylvia’s personnel file out today just to screw with you?”

Kim asked, “Why did you? Retrieve the file today, I mean? You booked Sylvia, right? Took prints? Why pull the old file? Looking for confirmation? Discrepancies? Or what?”

Roscoe ran her fingers through both sides of her hair. “Or what, I guess.”

“Meaning?” Gaspar pressed.

Roscoe held up the papers she’d collected during her brief absence. “This is her booking file. We took new prints yesterday. Sent them in last night. Report from AFIS came back just before you arrived. They say no such person is on record.”

She tossed the folder across to Gaspar. It landed in his lap and slid to the floor. He bent to pick it up, and winced. Something wrong with his right side. Not just his leg.

“Walk me through it,” Kim said, and watched Roscoe’s body language. She figured Roscoe had sound instincts. And she’d been on the job a good long time. Pride and anger and duty and uncertainty all crossed her expressive face. She liked her independence. She hated that help was required. Kim understood.

Roscoe said, “I’ve always been careful about fingerprints. Even with DNA now, fingerprints still solve cases. Early in my career, it was my job to take prints, and handle the reports.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Gaspar said.

Roscoe smiled. The first genuine smile they’d seen from her today. She had a nice smile, Kim thought. Kind. Like a nurse in a dental office, maybe.

“But,” Roscoe said, drawing the word out and mocking Gaspar a little, as she stared directly at Kim, “I learned how important fingerprints really are when I met Jack Reacher.”

The statement startled. Not what they were expecting. Not at all. Roscoe smiled. She enjoyed the upper hand. Who didn’t?

“How so?” Kim asked.

“You know about Joe Reacher’s murder now, right?”

“We have some open questions,” Kim said. “But we know Jack was mistakenly accused and later released when his alibi was confirmed.”

“Yes,” Roscoe said. “Jack Reacher was innocent.”

Kim said nothing. She doubted Jack Reacher was innocent, whether he had an alibi or not. Jack Reacher hadn’t been innocent since Moses was a boy. But Kim need to kill time until the call came. Reacher was a better topic than the Chevy.

Roscoe took another breath, and held it, and let it go. She said, “Joe Reacher’s fingerprints weren’t processed correctly. We got a false negative. And we didn’t know that until after Jack’s alibi had been confirmed. So we lost a lot of valuable time.” Her voice trailed off into memories. Whether good or bad, Kim couldn’t say.

Gaspar said, “Not to mention you accused and arrested the wrong dude.”

Roscoe flushed crimson. “If you’re trying to provoke me, Agent Gaspar, keep it up.”

Gaspar gave it right back. “You did accuse Jack Reacher of killing his brother, didn’t you? And you were wrong. You’re telling me you did that based on a false fingerprint report?”

Roscoe shoved back, rapid fire. “I didn’t accuse Jack Reacher of anything. Chief Morrison accused him.”

“And then Chief Morrison got killed. So let’s see: Bad fingerprint work, two murders, one false arrest. All coincidence? Or Margrave PD incompetence?”

“There was no incompetence.”

“Who was dirty, then? Finlay?”

Silence in the room. Bewilderment in Roscoe’s eyes.

She said, “Finlay? Dirty?”

Then she burst out laughing. Genuine laughter. She laughed like a kid watching cartoons. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She held her stomach in pain as the laughter kept on coming. She was still laughing when Brent knocked and opened the door.

Was the woman mentally unbalanced?

Kim looked at the clock to mark the time. It was 11:22 a.m. Forty-eight minutes since the GHP arrived at the scene; five to ten minutes to call in the plate, exit the cruiser, get over to the Chevy, and look inside to find the body. Two to five minutes to call and wait for backup. Talk it over before choosing first responders and making the call. Total lapsed time forty-one to forty-six minutes.

Way too long.

Which meant the Chevy was not Roscoe’s case.

So why were they calling at all?

The stomach snake already knew.

“Chief?” Brent had looked fresh and clean the day before. Now weary eyes and sallow skin marked him a man who knew he’d screwed up. Maybe he was the one who released Sylvia to the impersonators last night, after all.

Roscoe picked up a tissue and wiped away the tears of laughter from her eyes.

She said, “Yes, Brent, what is it?”

She was still almost giggling. Odd behavior, to say the least.

“We’ve got a situation,” Brent told her, as if another problem was the very last thing he wanted to report. “GHP just notified us. They’ve found another body.”

“Homicide?”

Brent nodded. “Likely. On the interstate, by the cloverleaf at the county road.

“Who is the victim? Do they know?”

Brent squirmed. Squared his shoulders. Lifted his head. Confessed perhaps the second worst possible news in his world at the moment. “It’s that lawyer. L. Mark Newton. The one picked up Sylvia Black last night.”

Kim and Gaspar looked at each other. Gaspar raised his eyebrow. The imposter is dead already? Followed quickly by, Why would the boss care about him?

“Any sign of Sylvia?” Roscoe asked.

“Long gone,” Brent said. “Looks like she killed him, too. He was shot just like Harry. Two in the back of the head.”

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

11:39 a.m.

Roscoe looked shell shocked. Kim judged the reaction genuine. Mostly because she wanted it to be.

“Our jurisdiction?” Roscoe asked.

Brent said, “GHP turf. They only called because we’d put our BOLO out there for Newton and they say it’s him.”

Kim thought Brent seemed upset and relieved in equal measure. Upset, because the guy wouldn’t be dead if Sylvia had been properly kept in jail. But what accounted for the relief?

Roscoe asked, “Who’s there now?”

“Four GHP cruisers, more on the way. Paramedics just arrived. Coroner’s ten minutes out. Guess he had another call. Can’t move the body until he’s done. I don’t know who else. Crime scene will be there, if they’re not already. GHP traffic, probably. This time of day, rubber-neckers won’t be bad, but somebody will need to handle it.” He looked down at the carpet as if he didn’t want to deliver the last piece of news. But to his credit, he did, eventually. He said, “Media maybe. Got the first notice over the GHP radio. We’re checking the TV news channels.”