Faye Kellerman - Walking Shadows

“Your father was lead investigator on the case.”

“I know he was. He worked it night and day. I don’t think he slept a wink until Gratz and Masterson were apprehended, charged, and convicted.”

Decker nodded. “I was looking over the articles on him. He and his solid police work were credited for the convictions.”

“Like I said, he worked day and night.”

To Lennie, McAdams said, “Kinda strange he didn’t tell you that Brady Neil was Brandon Gratz’s son.”

“I’m sure my father just assumed that I knew.” She looked at Decker. “Did my dad tell you about Brady’s father?”

“Not when Radar spoke to him, but at that time, we didn’t know who the victim was. If I ask him about it, I’m sure he’ll tell me what he knows. Whether the double murder had something to do with Brady Neil’s death?” Decker shrugged. “Right now, we’re in the beginning stages and everything should be kept under wraps. Like McAdams keeps saying, it’s best not to get distracted by twenty-year-old cases that may not be relevant.”

The room was quiet. Lennie picked up her backpack. “I’m going to help Butterfield out in the field until it gets dark. Should I come back here?”

“It’ll be after nine. Nothing is urgent. Just go home.”

“Thanks. I want to prepare my questions for tomorrow morning’s interview.”

“Absolutely.” Decker paused. “Lennie, do you live far from here?”

“No. I’m just across the border. Why?”

“If I need help as the case progresses, I’m more likely to ask you to come in if you’re close by.”

“Fifteen minutes. I live in a studio apartment where I can touch the walls if I spread my arms wide enough. So anytime you want help, just call.”

“Thank you. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Decker waited for her to leave, then shut down the computer. “We should leave if we want to get to Brandy Neil’s place on time.”

“That was an odd question,” McAdams said. “How far she lives from the station house. You never asked me that.”

“You were in the district.”

“No, that’s not it.” McAdams waited.

Decker said, “Tyler, what’s the normal way you ask a question if you want to know where a person lives?”

“Where do you live?”

“And what would she have thought if I asked ‘Where do you live?’”

“She would have thought that you were asking where she lives.”

“Maybe also with whom she lives.”

McAdams thought a moment. “Aha! You want to know if she lives with her parents. You don’t want her yakking about the case to her dad around the dinner table.”

“Victor Baccus is her father, and he’s bound to be interested in anything that has to do with the case that made his career. And until we find Brady Neil’s killer, Chief Baccus is going to be curious if there’s a link. He may ask his daughter a question or two.” Decker stood up and wiped his mouth. “Hopefully she’ll be so busy, she won’t have time for dinner with the folks and a lot of extraneous yakking. Let’s go.”

“Why don’t you just tell her to keep the case confidential?”

“I already told her to keep the case under wraps. She was a detective. She’s a trained police officer. She knows about confidentiality, and so does the chief. If I make a big deal about it, it’ll seem like: (a) I don’t trust her—which I don’t—and (b) I’m suspicious of her dad—which I’m not. If there’s tension between father and daughter, it’ll make my life harder. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the station together toward Decker’s car. McAdams said, “Do you think Chief Baccus put his daughter on the team to keep an eye on the investigation? It was an odd request.”

“Yes, it was. I don’t know what his motivations were. So far, I’ll just take him at his word and concentrate on the case in front of us.”

McAdams climbed into the passenger seat. “I still think it’s weird.”

“Harvard, you’re a cautious guy. I’m a cautious guy. Until we know what’s going on, we’ll keep the conversation between us. Just think about what I said the next time you go out with Lennie for lunch.”

“I didn’t go out with her,” McAdams insisted. “I just offered her a seat at my table.” He paused. “Do you think she was trying to pump me for information?”

Decker turned on the ignition. “What’d you talk about?”

“Just shooting the shit. I talked about Harvard Law, she talked about her time with Philadelphia PD. I didn’t tell her about Cindy, by the way.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Decker edged out of the police lot and onto the street. “It would have been bonehead stupid if you did, and you’re not bonehead stupid. If you talk to her outside of work, keep it neutral. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You don’t trust her?”

“She’s new. I don’t trust anyone new. In reality, I don’t trust anyone unless I’ve worked with them for a very long time.”

“So cynical.”

“No, you’re cynical. I’m just wary.”

“How long before you trusted me?”

“About a year. After you got shot.”

McAdams was shocked. “I needed a hit with a lethal weapon before you trusted me?”

“I would have trusted you eventually, Harvard.” Decker smiled. “Taking a bullet for me just sped things up.”

THE BITSBY AREAwas one step above blighted. It had an oversupply of bail bond houses, twenty-four-hour convenience stores with bars on the windows, seedy motels, OTB outlets, deep discount electronics stores, and pawnbrokers. There were blocks of weed-choked lots and junkyards secured by chain link. The uneven roads were pocked with potholes, and the sidewalks were tattooed in graffiti. Streetlights looked few and far between. Decker had no idea how bright the lamps shone because the sun was still out when he and McAdams arrived at Brandy Neil’s apartment.

The woman who answered was thirty with a thin face that bordered on emaciated. She wore no makeup, her filmy blue eyes looking tired and sad. Oddly, her face was framed with luxuriant chestnut-colored hair that had been set in waves and curls. She wore denim jeans and a black T-shirt. Her feet were bare. After Decker made the introductions, Brandy invited them in; her voice was soft and sober.

Stepping over the threshold, Decker thought about Lennie’s description of an arm’s-span apartment. This one was made even more claustrophobic because the ceiling was low—an acoustical, popcorn top, which meant the place was probably built in the ’60s or ’70s. It was spare in furniture and spare of personal items. The couch was floral in yellow and blue, the material torn and worn. She invited them to sit on it, and the men complied.

“Coffee?”

“Water, if you wouldn’t mind,” Decker said.

“And you, Detective?” She was looking at McAdams.

“Water as well. Tap is fine.”

“Times two.” Decker pulled out his notepad.

She got up and went to a back counter that held a two-burner cooktop and a microwave oven. The fridge was bar sized and sat under the cabinets. She took out glasses and filled three cups from the tap. She handed out the water, and then she sat down. “I don’t know what I can tell you that will help. I don’t know a lot about Brady’s life. I mean, about his life after I left. When we lived as a family under one roof, it was hell.”