“Not with a full report, which is why I haven’t mentioned it. But I spoke to a tech yesterday, and he told me their initial analysis uncovered nothing of immediate interest. He emailed me a printout of numbers called and received during the past three months. Steele used that phone to call his wife, his sister in Hawaii, local movie theaters, his dentist, an electrician, restaurants around the area, a takeout pizza joint in Angina, a gym in Larvaton, Home Depot, a few other places like that. Apart from his sister, nothing really personal. And apart from that one strange text the night he was killed, no calls or texts from anonymous prepaids or even from blocked numbers. Really not much to follow up on. They’ll be sending us their final report in a day or two.”
Beckert’s fleeting smile made a second appearance. “So. Much ado about nothing.”
“Strange,” said Gurney.
Kline gave him a sharply inquisitive look.
“What’s strange about it?” asked Beckert.
“No mention of calls to or from Rick Loomis.”
“Why is that strange?”
“I got the impression they were in frequent contact.”
“Maybe they preferred email.”
“That must be the answer,” said Gurney, sure that it wasn’t the answer at all.
“Right,” said Beckert with the finality of a slammed door. “If no one else has anything to contribute at this time—”
“I do,” said the sheriff. “Having let certain guests at my facility know I was curious what arrangements Devalon Jones had made for his Corolla during his rehabilitation in Dannemora, I was told he had entrusted said vehicle to Blaze Lovely Jackson. Which makes her the keeper of the shooter’s car, which is a hell of a thing to consider.”
Kline cast an amazed look down the table. “Christ, Goodson, in our last meeting you suggested she might be responsible for the murders of Jordan and Tooker. Now you’re adding Steele and Loomis?”
“Ain’t addin’ nobody on my own wisdom, counselor. Just sayin’ what was said to me by a man with some knowledge of the street.”
Cloutz had gone back to lightly stroking his white cane, a gesture Gurney was finding increasingly repellent. He tried to keep his reaction out of his voice.
“What did he get in return for telling you this?”
“Not a damn thing. I told him we’d assess the value of his information to the investigation, and his reward would be contingent. I always say that with a smile—
Kline looked puzzled. “The relevance of her sexual activity is . . .”
“The relevance of her fuckin’ has got no relevance at all. What’s of interest is that she’s tryin’ to keep it a secret. Makes you wonder why.”
Beckert pondered this for a few seconds, then shook his head. “The point that matters here is the expanding evidence of BDA involvement. Making threatening antipolice speeches. Renting the sites from which the shots were fired. Providing the vehicle used by the shooter. Beyond that let’s not complicate things with extraneous details. Complication makes the public dizzy. Are we clear on this?”
“Simpler the better,” said Shucker.
“I prefer my simplicity with a twist,” said Cloutz, making his preference sound lascivious. “But I get your point,” he added. “A simple tale of the law versus the lawless.”
Beckert’s gaze moved on to Gurney.
Gurney said nothing.
In the silence there was a sense of imminent confrontation.
Whatever might have occurred was aborted by the surprisingly loud
His eyes widened with excitement. “It’s from the Albany computer lab. There’s an attachment. I think it’s the enhanced Corolla shot we’ve been waiting for.” Two clicks later the screen of the wall monitor was filled by a medium close-up of a young man in the driver’s seat. The photo had been taken through the windshield, but whatever glare may have compromised the raw footage had been removed. The sharpness of the image was impressive. The facial details were clear.
The young man’s reddish-blond hair was pulled back from his forehead into a loose ponytail, emphasizing his deep-set eyes and angular features.
Shucker’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth with the last bit of his doughnut. “That boy looks mighty familiar.”
Kline nodded. “Yes. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
Gurney had also seen the face before—on the giant screen at Marv and Trish Gelter’s house—but the name was eluding him. He remembered it just as Beckert announced it—in a voice as icy as the look in his eyes. “Cory Payne.”
“
“White Men for Black Justice,” offered Torres mildly.
The sheriff let out a harsh one-syllable laugh.
