Louis lowered the paper slowly, a wave of disappointment washing over him. Pryce and Lovejoy had been killed on or around the first. This guy could not be their killer.
When he went aback to the booking room and unlocked the door, Lacey’s head jerked up.
“You reach James?” he asked.
Louis nodded. “The assault. What happened?”
Lacey looked away, shaking his head. “It was a bar fight. I drew a knife.”
“You were just defending yourself, right?” Louis said flatly.
“That’s right,” Lacey answered, meeting his eyes.
Louis stared into Lacey’s eyes. They were like water, colorless and shallow, as though nothing stirred beneath. Finally Lacey looked away.
James was right, there was something weird about the guy. But no more strange than a hundred other lowlifes who were wound a little too tight. It would be easy to call Red Oak to verify Lacey’s story about his kid but why bother? Duane Lacey had been five hundred miles away, behind bars, when Pryce and Lovejoy were killed. Besides, if he booked him now for running, the guy would go right back to Marquette on parole violation.
Florence called to him. “No warrants, Louis. He’s clean.”
Louis watched Lacey’s watery eyes for a reaction. But nothing registered, not even relief.
Louis tossed the fatigue jacket at Lacey. “Go on. Get out of here,” he said, holding out the letter and the keys to the truck. “Get your ass back to Dollar Bay.”
Lacey rose slowly, took the letter and keys and put on his jacket. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this, officer, I really do,” he said quickly. “I don’t wanna end up back in jail just because I wanted to see my kid.”
Louis turned away, and on his way to the locker room asked Florence to cancel the truck’s tow. He pushed open the locker room door.
It was cold inside and he shivered as he passed the first row of lockers. God, he was discouraged. So damn close. First Hammerstein or Hammersmith or whatever the hell his name was. Now this pathetic jerkweed who risked jail to see his delinquent son on Christmas.
He was pulling on a sweatshirt when the door slammed open with a bang. Louis looked up. Jesse rushed in, waving a paper.
“Where is the motherfucker?” he shouted.
Louis frowned. “Who?”
“Lacey!” Jesse said, jabbing at the fax. “Lacey. Fucking Lacey. I don’t believe this! We got him! Where is he? Where’s Lacey?”
“I let him go,” Louis said.
Jesse’s mouth dropped open. “What? You let him go? Why?”
“Because he was in prison during the time Pryce and Lovejoy were shot,” Louis said.
Jesse stared at Louis. “What? He couldn’t have been!”
“Read the release date from prison,” Louis said.
Jesse read the fax. Slowly, the information registered and Jesse blinked rapidly. “Fuck,” he whispered. He crumpled the paper in anger and dropped down onto the bench.
Louis sat down next to him. His own disappointment prevented him from saying anything of comfort.
Jesse uncrumpled the paper and stared at it again. “This has to be wrong,” he said.
“Jess…”
Jesse jumped up. “I’m going after him. This has to be – ”
Louis grabbed Jesse’s arm. “Jess, listen to me,” he said firmly. “I talked to his P.O. Lacey was in Marquette when Pryce and Lovejoy were killed. It’s not him!”
Jesse’s face went slack, the mix of fatigue and bitter disappointment finally taking hold. Louis glanced at his pant leg, which had been cut off at the knee. A six-inch-long track of small black stitches was outlined against the fresh gauze wrapping.
“How’s the leg?” Louis asked.
Jesse didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring at the fax again. Suddenly, he spun away and kicked the locker. He grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. Dale opened it just as Jesse reached it. Jesse brushed past him, knocking him against the door frame.
Louis watched him go, a slow anger rising in him. Damn it, he was sick and tired of this. He was tired of dead ends and dirtbags. He was tired of dead cops. And he was really tired of Jesse’s moods.
Dale came forward. “You need to sign this, Louis.”
Louis pulled his eyes from the door and took the paper from Dale. He signed it and gave it back. He noticed Dale was rubbing his arm.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with Jess?”
“I don’t know,” Louis said. But he
“Is the chief back yet?” Louis asked Dale.
“Just got in.”
“Thanks.” Louis left the locker room and went to Gibralter’s door, knocking. The chief called him to come in.
“What is it?” Gibralter said, looking up from some papers.
“I need to speak with you, sir,” Louis said.
“Can it wait?”
“Not really, sir. It’s about Jesse.”
Gibralter set the papers aside and picked up his cigarette from the ashtray. “What about him?”
Louis drew in a breath. “I think he might need to be relieved of duty for a while.”
“Explain.”
“We arrested a guy today who we thought might be our killer but it didn’t pan out,” Louis said. “Jesse lost control, sir, lost his temper. I think he’s…losing it.”
