“This is Rick Loomis. Kim Steele said you wanted to talk. She gave me your number.” The voice was young and serious, the accent definitely upstate.
“Did she explain who I am and how I’m involved in the case?”
“She did.”
“And you’re willing to discuss the . . . events . . . that you and John were looking into?”
“To some extent. But not on the phone.”
“I understand. How soon can we get together?”
“I’m off today, but I need to take care of a few things. Getting the garden ready for planting. How about three thirty at the Lucky Larvaton Diner? It’s in Angina. On the old Route Ten Bypass.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Okay. See you at three thirty.”
“Rick, one more thing. Is there anyone else I should be talking to . . . about the situation?”
He hesitated. “Maybe. But I’ll have to check with them first.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and headed into the headquarters building.
In the dreary conference room, he took his customary seat next to the DA at the long table. He noted an intermittent buzz in the room’s fluorescent light fixture—a sound so common in his old NYPD precinct house it made him feel for a moment that he was back there.
Kline gave him a nod. Torres entered the room with his laptop a moment later, looking tense but purposeful. At the end of the table, Sheriff Cloutz was moving his fingers in little undulations as though he were conducting a miniature orchestra. The expression in Beckert’s hard eyes was difficult to read.
Two seats were empty, Judd Turlock’s and Dwayne Shucker’s.
The sheriff licked his already moist lips. “Must be about time to begin.”
“We’re missing the mayor and the deputy chief,” said Kline.
“Today’s Rotary day for old Shucks,” said the sheriff. “Free lunch and a chance to talk up the importance of his reelection. We still expecting Judd?”
“We’ll be hearing from him momentarily,” said Beckert. He glanced at his phone on the table, moving it a fraction of an inch. “It’s a minute past twelve. Let’s begin. Detective Torres, tell us where we stand on the Steele shooting—progress made and progress anticipated.”
Torres sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir. Since our last meeting we’ve acquired significant physical and video evidence. We located and examined the apartment from which the shot was fired. We found gunpowder residues there, along with a cartridge casing consistent with the bullet extracted from the tree in Willard Park. We have excellent fingerprints on several objects, including the cartridge, plus likely DNA residues on other objects. We even—”
Cloutz broke in. “What kind of residues?”
“Mucus with a trace of blood in a tissue, a Band-Aid with a trace of blood on it, and several hairs with enough follicle material for analysis.”
“That all?”
“We even recovered the tripod used to steady the rifle. We found it in the river by the Grinton Bridge, and there are clear fingerprints on it. We also have videos of a vehicle approaching the sniper site, parking behind the building shortly before the shot was fired, and leaving immediately afterward. We have additional video of the same vehicle heading for the bridge and then returning from it. Although the street lighting was poor, we were able to sharpen and read the plate number.”
“You sayin’ we have an ID on the shooter?”
“We have an ID on the car, a black 2007 Toyota Corolla, and the name and address on the registration—Devalon Jones of Thirty-Four Simone Street in Grinton.”
Kline leaned forward. “Related to the Laxton Jones who was killed a year ago?”
“His brother. Devalon was one of the founding members of the BDA—along with Jordan, Tooker, and Blaze Lovely Jackson.”
Kline grinned. “That does move the situation in an encouraging direction. Do we have this Devalon person in custody?”
“That’s the problem, sir. He’s been in custody for over a month now—in Dannemora, starting a three-to-five sentence for aggravated assault. Fractured a security guard’s skull at an Indian casino up north.”
Kline’s grin faded. “So his car was being used by someone else. Maybe another BDA member? I assume you’re checking that out?”
“We’ve started that process.”
Beckert turned to the sheriff. “Goodson, if this Devalon Jones passed his car along, one of your more cooperative guests at the jail might know something about that. Meanwhile, I’ll call the warden at Dannemora and see if Jones can be persuaded to part with the information himself.”
Cloutz licked his lips again before speaking. “Someone could explain to Devalon that the registration bein’ in his name makes him the presumptive provider of the vehicle to the shooter and accessory to the murder of a police officer. So he has an opportunity to use the free will with which his creator endowed him and give us the name, or . . . we can fry his ass.” He began to move his fingers again, ever so slightly, to some imagined music.
