“No, that’s alright. I’ll just get it later after you get done,” he said, grinning.
They were at the door when Hargrave suggested that Nick go over the list that he’d given him and let him know if any of the names came up familiar on second reading.
“And speaking of lists,” the detective said, mocking Nick again. “Ms. Cotton claims she doesn’t have any kind of sympathy letters that she kept from the time after her children were killed.”
Nick didn’t know how to react. He was wondering why the woman would recant such a thing.
“But she’s not a very good liar,” Hargrave said. “She stonewalled me early this morning. Why don’t you take a visit and see if she’ll give them up to you?”
“Yeah, OK,” Nick said. “But I’m also going to need some information and quotes from you on this thing for tomorrow’s paper.”
Hargrave held Nick’s eyes for a moment and then seemed to give in to something he’d probably prided himself on for a career.
“Yeah, alright. Here’s my cell number. Call me when you need it.”
Nick took down the number and watched the detective pick his way through the office and leave. Then he stopped at the room where the employees of the parole office had gathered.
“Excuse me,” he said and they all looked at him in anticipation. “I’m Nick Mullins from the Daily News. Can anyone tell me about what happened here?”
Chapter 19
Nick was inside with the parole office employees for a good forty minutes, taking down quotes and names and spending extra time with the woman whose dress was still spattered with blood, when Hargrave’s sergeant at arms came in with a disgruntled look and gave him the thumb.
Nick nodded, thanked the group and left the offices. Outside, there were a few television trucks around the circumference of the crime scene and the body of Trace Michaels had been removed. One of the Channel 7 guys was about to do a standup with the scene as his backdrop when his cameraman spotted Nick coming out the door and maybe mistook him for a detective. He gave his TV reporter the high sign. When the guy turned and recognized Nick, he passed the microphone and came over to meet him, lifting the crime scene tape as if he were doing Nick a courtesy.
“Nicky, hey, what the hell, man? You’re obtaining special access these days?” the reporter said, nodding back toward the crime scene.
“I don’t know about that, Colin. I got here early and they were still scrambling a little. I guess I kinda slipped through,” Nick said, giving the guy a little wink as though only they knew what that meant.
Nick was not into the “breaking exclusive” anymore. He’d been on the beat for enough years to have lost the instant competition shit that goes on in the news business. He wasn’t one to give away the farm, but he didn’t mind helping someone out with information he knew they were going to get from the press officer anyway. And it always helped to be one of the guys, us against them. He also often got a kick out of this chap’s British accent and breathless delivery of a particularly heinous crime. He pulled out his notepad and went through some of the basics for him: Trace Michaels’s name and date of birth, the fact that he was showing up to report to his PO when he was shot just outside the door and a little taste of what the employees were feeling on the inside, including a description of the woman who’d been just in front of the ex-con when he went down.
“Jesus. Did she see anything when it happened, you know, a drive-by or something?” the Brit said.
“No. She didn’t say,” Nick said, thinking of a way to move on without acting like he was keeping something important to himself. “She did get some of the guy’s blood spattered on her dress. You know, she was pretty upset.”
Nick could see the light go on in the guy’s head. “When it bleeds, it leads” was the unofficial motto of his station. He’d spend half the day out here for the chance to get a shot of the stained dress on a weeping witness.
“Christ, thanks, Nicky,” he said. “She’s still inside, then?”
“Yeah, probably be coming out soon. I can’t see them keeping the office open after all that.”
Nick shook the chap’s hand and walked away, only feeling a tiny bit guilty.