“So Christiansen is the only victim you knew? Never met any of the others?”
Growing bored, Walt looked at Nate. Jesus, no wonder the killer was still out there. If this was all the department had to throw at the case, they were royally screwed. “That’s what I said.”
“Then maybe you can explain this.” The detective took a photo from his jacket pocket. Laid it on the table and nudged it toward him.
And his bowels went to water. Because it was the John Squad. Although only him, Johann and Sean were shown. And the shot of Sean was a blurry profile. But he and Johann were plainly depicted, if much younger. Walt no longer had to wonder how he’d come to their attention. First they must have identified Johann as Roland Parker. Dug around in the department ID photos and matched his to the picture.
Perspiration snaked down his back. He didn’t remember the date specifically, but he recalled the location. It’d been snapped at Tory’s. The summer of ’86.
About three weeks before he’d torched the place and let it burn with Lamont Fredericks locked in the apartment upstairs.
“He’s lying.”
Risa paced the length of the office and back, her movements jerky with frustration. “He knows it. He knows we know it. And there’s not a damn thing we can do it about it right now.”
Nate’s voice was grim. “I’ll talk to Morales, see if he can get us more. But we don’t have enough for warrants. Not yet. And you can bet the cocky little bastard realizes that, too.”
“He’s sweating, though.” The thought was the only thing that gave her a measure of satisfaction. That had been evident in the flush on that smug face. The tension in his squared-off body. “He was scrambling at the end, trying to backpedal.”
“Yeah, he was feeding us a line. None of the gyms he wrote down match the ones on file for Christiansen. But it’s within the realm of possibility that it’s like he says. A photo of him in a bar. That long ago, who remembers? Maybe you go with a friend, they have friends there, who also invite a friend.” Nate shrugged. “Bullshit, but plausible enough to prevent us from getting a warrant.”
She shot him a look, still fuming. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”
“We knew he wasn’t going to break down and confess.” His tone was practical. “We wanted to get an impression of him and we got it. He claims he never played poker with Christiansen, but his widow names him as one that her husband said he was playing cards with. We can figure they weren’t playing cards, and it’s not much of a stretch to guess what they were doing.”
“Running interference for local drug lords while taking a cut of their profits.”
He stopped then, narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re guessing.”
“An educated guess,” she corrected him. Risa propped a hip on his desk. “Not much else to do sitting in the hospital so I used my new phone to search the web. Found some articles on Lamont Fredericks. One of them said he was suspected of being involved in drug dealing in the neighborhood where he died.”
“He actually did time for it.” There were a pile of file folders on his desk. Unerringly he reached for one in the middle of the stack and flipped it open and then turned it around for her to look at. “Eight years for possession with intent. He’d been out ten years and was charged a couple times, but the charges ended up getting dropped.”
She folded her arms and studied the page in the folder. “So Fredericks was involved with dealing drugs and lived above Tory’s. Eggers, Parker, and unidentified friends hung out in Tory’s. Christiansen told his wife he was spending time with Eggers—who he referred to as Johnny—as well as others. Playing cards. We know Christiansen and Parker tucked away a tidy amount from a second job Eggers claims he knows nothing about.”
“From there on we’ve got assumptions.” Nate leaned back in his desk chair, hands hooked behind his neck. Risa was female enough to appreciate the way the pose showed off his muscled chest. Cop enough to resent noticing. “The victims—Parker, Tull, Christiansen, and Randolph—had something in common. Likely it was what they did off hours and equally likely it was illegal.”
“Drugs, Raiker guessed.” He’d been about to lodge another opinion when the shooting had started, she recalled sickly. “Fredericks got a couple drug charges dropped. How