Tom Wallace - Gnosis

“Ah, shit, man, here come the jackals,” Eric said. “Bad idea coming outside to talk.”

Eric was referring to the two TV reporters running in their direction, one male, one female, both being trailed by hefty cameramen struggling to keep pace. The female, a reed-thin blonde with a mouthful of perfect pearly whites, won the race, easily beating her opposition by five full seconds.

“Detective Dantzler,” she said, three seconds before the cameraman caught up, turned on his light, and focused. “What can you tell us about the murder of Colt Rogers?”

“No comment.”

“Is it true that he was shot to death?”

“No comment.”

By this time the male reporter had joined the group. Breathing hard, he rammed his microphone within inches of Dantzler’s face, causing Dantzler to push it away.

“Look, guys,” Dantzler said, clearly peeved. “You’re not going to get anything from me worth reporting, because at this stage I don’t know much more than you know. We’ve just begun the investigation .We’re not even twenty minutes into it, yet. When we have anything worthwhile to report, you’ll hear about it. Until then, back off and give us room to breathe. And one more thing. In the future, if you have questions, ask the tall guy over there.”

Dantzler pointed toward Richard Bird.

“One more question,” the persistent female reporter said. “Is-”

Dantzler glared hard at her. “Are you hearing impaired? I said no fucking comment. Now get away from me and let me do my job.”

Milt and Eric were both laughing when Dantzler walked away from the reporters.

“Ah, Ace, such atrocious language to use in front of one so young and innocent,” Milt said. “You probably scarred her for life.”

“Somehow, I doubt that, Milt.” Dantzler turned serious. “Rich wants us to keep the investigations separate, which we’ll do. We need to keep the boss happy, because when he’s happy, he’s not climbing up our rectums. But we all know this killing is linked to the Eli Whitehouse case.”

“I’m not as sure about that as you seem to be,” Milt said, shaking his head. “Truth is, I have serious reservations about it. I don’t think they are linked at all.”

“They have to be, given the circumstances.”

“Jack, you’re asking us to believe the shooter of those two kids in ’eighty-two is the same shooter who took out Colt Rogers. A twenty-nine-year gap between killings. That’s stretching credibility and reason beyond the breaking point, don’t you think?”

“I’m scheduled to meet Rogers and talk about Eli’s case. Rogers is gunned down fifteen minutes before I show up. And you don’t see a connection?”

“Let’s say it is the same shooter,” Milt said. “Why kill Rogers? Why now?”

“Because Rogers had information or knowledge about the case and the shooter was afraid I might squeeze it out into the open. He couldn’t take that chance. Dead men don’t give away secrets. So, Rogers had to be done away with.”

“Still a stretch, Jack.” Milt grinned. “But, hey, you’re the Ace, right? And who can argue with the Ace? You tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

Before Dantzler could lay out his plan, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. Sean Montgomery.

“Hey, Sean, thanks for getting back to me in such prompt fashion,” Dantzler said. He listened for a few moments, then said, “Yep, right in the face, too. Pretty damn messy. Listen, Sean, do you know Rogers’s receptionist? I think her name is Devon. Barbara Tanner? You positive? The lady I spoke to was named Devon. Yeah, I’ll check it out. And thanks.”

Dantzler closed the phone and put it in his coat pocket. Looking up, he saw that Milt and Eric had moved several feet away and were standing next to Scott Crofton. Scott, recently promoted from patrolman to the Homicide crew, was engaged in a conversation with a man Dantzler didn’t recognize. The man was fidgety and nervous and talking a mile a minute. Scott was scribbling furiously in his notepad. When the man finished speaking, Scott gave him a pat on the shoulder and the three detectives watched him walk away.

“Who was that?” Dantzler asked.

The question had been directed at Scott, but the rookie detective remained silent, certain Dantzler was addressing one of the veterans. After several more seconds of silence, Milt elbowed Scott in the ribs.

“Are you a mute, Scott?” Milt said, chuckling. “Answer the man’s question before we all die of old age. And keep in mind that it’s Detective Dantzler doing the asking, not God.”

“Right, sure,” Scott said, looking down at his notes. “Lance Ford. He’s a stockbroker, and he had a seven o’clock meeting with the deceased. But-”

“Deceased?” Milt interrupted. “You’re one of us now, Scott, so you don’t have to be so damn proper. Call it like it is. Say, the guy had a meeting with the poor schmuck who had his face turned into cherry pudding. Make it sound a little more colorful.”

Scott looked up, unsure how to respond.

Dantzler came to his rescue. “He’s busting your chops, Scott. It’s Milt’s way of welcoming you aboard. Now, proceed.”

“Well, Mr. Ford said he had car trouble,” Scott continued, “which is why he was almost an hour late for the meeting. When he heard what had happened, he spoke with one of the patrolmen. Then he was sent to me.”

“What was the purpose of the meeting?” Dantzler said.

“Mr. Ford is apparently in hot water with the IRS, and he was meeting with the deceased… with the late Mr. Cherry Pudding Face to see what, if any, options he might have.” He looked at Milt. “Is that better?”

Milt nodded. “That’s why we brought you up to the A team, Scott.”

“Any reason to suspect him as the shooter?” Dantzler asked.

Eric laughed out loud. “Lance Ford? No way. I went to school with him, and I can promise you he ain’t no killer. He was the all-time king of nerds. A certified meek geek.”

“Not everyone is a basketball or tennis great,” Scott said, his eyes going from Eric to Dantzler.

“Oh, a double zinger,” Milt said. “Way to go, Scott.”

Dantzler, a serious look on his face, put a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “You know, Scott, you looked awfully spiffy in that patrolman’s uniform. Would you like to walk a beat again?”

“No, sir, I-”

“Cut him a break, Jack,” Eric said. “After all, he did call us great.”

“I don’t know. A double zinger from a rookie. That’s fairly serious.”

“But I was just-”

The three veteran detectives burst out laughing.

“Relax, Scott,” Dantzler said. “We’re just having some fun with you. There’s always a lot of ribbing going on, and you being the new kid on the block can expect a disproportionate amount hurled your way. Stand your ground and send out as much as you receive.”

Scott let out a sigh of relief. “I thought I’d pissed you guys off. Thought maybe I was in big trouble.”

“When you really piss me off, you’ll know it,” Dantzler said. “Milt, you and Scott dig into Rogers’s files, past and present. He’s an attorney, so there are bound to be dozens of clients he’s angered over the years. Concentrate on his clients who went to jail. Sean Montgomery says Rogers was a master at plea bargaining and his clients usually got the short end of the stick, even though they probably didn’t realize it at the time. Could be one of those clients figured out Rogers didn’t have his best interest at heart and came back to square the account. Sean also told me Barbara Tanner has been Rogers’s receptionist since forever. Have Laurie speak with her. When I phoned Rogers’s office, I spoke with someone named Devon. She was probably filling in, sent over by some temp agency. Have Laurie make contact with her as well.”