Night Whispers
Page 79
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"Nice work, Andy," Captain Hocklin said as he strolled back into the building after having made a brief statement to the press announcing the arrest of Sloan Reynolds for the murder of Edith Reynolds. He patted Andy's shoulder to show his appreciation; then he stopped when Cagle looked up at him, his expression dazed and alarmed. "What the hell's the matter?" Hocklin said, instantly anticipating the worst because Cagle never looked alarmed about anything.
"She's a cop," Cagle said.
"What?"
Cagle held up the thirty-five pages of information on Sloan Reynolds. "She's a cop," he repeated.
Hocklin's first thought was that if he had to tell the media he'd made a mistake today, he was going to look like a world-class ass; then he relaxed a little. "So what—cops don't make much dough, and she wanted her fair share from the old lady."
"Maybe."
"Did she deny the Glock was hers?"
"No. She denied having hidden it under the mattress. Anyway, it's registered to her. Look, right here—" He pointed to the DBT report.
Hocklin ignored it. "She had motive, means, and opportunity. Book her."
"I don't think—"
"I gave you an order."
"But we could be making a mistake."
"Book her, and if we're wrong, we'll apologize."
Cagle glowered at Hocklin's back as the captain walked away; then he heaved himself out of his chair. He walked into the room where Flynn was trying to question Sloan Reynolds. "Excuse me," he said automatically to her; then he looked at Flynn. "I need to talk to you out there." He jerked his head toward the door.
Flynn looked puzzled, but Sloan wasn't. She knew the moment Cagle looked at her and said "Excuse me" that he'd found out her secret. Based on the sheaf of papers in his hand with data printed from top to bottom, she assumed he'd finally bothered to run her through DBT, because she wouldn't have turned up in the ROC files when he checked with them. Now that they knew, she was still in something of a predicament because she couldn't tell them why she'd lied about being an interior designer, and she couldn't tell them she was working for the FBI.
She expected Flynn and Cagle to walk back in and start treating her more like a puzzling enigma than a murderer. In that she was wrong.
"Miss Reynolds," Flynn said flatly, "will you come with me, please?"
Sloan stood up. She couldn't believe they were going to release her this easily. "Why?"
"You already know the procedure. You've been through it before, only on the other side."
"You're actually going to book me?" she burst out angrily. "Without asking for any explanations?"
The two detectives looked at each other. Cagle shoved his glasses up on his nose and managed to look both sheepish and angry. "Well ask you for explanations later. But if I were in your place when we start asking, I'd tell us to shove the questions up Captain Hocklin's ass, and then I'd demand that we contact your attorney."
Sloan had her answer: Hocklin wanted her booked, regardless. Hocklin, she realized bitterly, had probably already announced it to the flock of reporters outside.
She went with them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of uttering a word. She knew what hotel the attorney was staying in, and if he wasn't there, she knew she could call Noah and Noah would find him. There wasn't much point in contacting Paul, since he'd probably expect her to sit around in jail until he got the thirty-six hours he said he needed.
43
Jack Robbins leaned back in his chair, watching his computer download files from Data Base Technologies, but his thoughts kept returning to the newspaper clipping and the male face that seemed distantly familiar.
He shook his head as if that would dislodge the unsettling thought. Leaning forward, he typed in a query for "Reynolds, Sloan." On the bottom of his computer screen the words "Now Online" were flashing, followed by the names of the entities who were currently searching DBT's database.
When he typed in her name, he didn't expect to turn up anything extraordinary, and he wasn't curious about the details of the woman's personal life. He was simply doing the job he was paid a great deal of money to perform—which was to insulate Noah from potential problems of any nature. In Jack's mind, the possibility that the woman who made Noah's face and voice soften might also become a suspect in a murder case constituted A Very Big Potential Problem.
DBT came up with seven matches for the name "Sloan Reynolds" and provided the social security number and city of residence for each name. Only one of the matches lived in Florida—Bell Harbor, Florida. He chose that one. She was going to be easy to single out, he realized with relief. When the download was complete, he went off-line and pulled up her file on his computer disk.
The first section of information provided all her addresses for the last ten years, the taxable value of every home she'd lived in, and the names of whomever she'd paid a mortgage payment to or made a rent payment to. She owned a very modest house, Jack noted.
The next section listed the names of anyone who had ever lived with her at any address, or even received mail at her address. Evidently, she'd never had a live-in boyfriend, not for even a month.
He held down the "page down" key a split second too long, and his computer jumped to a later section that listed the names and phone numbers of all her neighbors at all her addresses. Instead of returning to where he'd left off, he scrolled backward from that point. She didn't have a car, which struck him as odd, but she owned an inexpensive boat. She'd never had a lien, judgment, or bankruptcy, either. She'd never been involved in a criminal, a civil, or even a motor vehicle problem.
She was incredibly clean, Jack thought as his scrolling took him back into the first section. She was a saint. She was… He stood clear up out of his chair, staring at the screen on his laptop…
…She was a cop!
She was a detective on the force of the Bell Harbor Police Department! She was no interior designer; she was a cop. And for some reason, she didn't want Noah to know it.
Jack slapped a floppy disk into the laptop and transferred her file to it. While that was happening, he picked up the telephone and called local telephone information for Bell Harbor. He asked the operator for the number of the Bell Harbor Police Department; then he dialed that number.
"Detective Sloan Reynolds, please," he said to the man who answered.
"She's on vacation until next week. Can anyone else help you?"
Jack hung up and headed for Noah's office, the floppy disk in his hand. He reached Noah's office doorway at the same time Mrs. Snowden did, and the unflappable Mrs. Snowden, who appeared to be shaken up for the first time since Jack had known her, rushed forward and cut him off.
"She's a cop," Cagle said.
"What?"
Cagle held up the thirty-five pages of information on Sloan Reynolds. "She's a cop," he repeated.
Hocklin's first thought was that if he had to tell the media he'd made a mistake today, he was going to look like a world-class ass; then he relaxed a little. "So what—cops don't make much dough, and she wanted her fair share from the old lady."
"Maybe."
"Did she deny the Glock was hers?"
"No. She denied having hidden it under the mattress. Anyway, it's registered to her. Look, right here—" He pointed to the DBT report.
Hocklin ignored it. "She had motive, means, and opportunity. Book her."
"I don't think—"
"I gave you an order."
"But we could be making a mistake."
"Book her, and if we're wrong, we'll apologize."
Cagle glowered at Hocklin's back as the captain walked away; then he heaved himself out of his chair. He walked into the room where Flynn was trying to question Sloan Reynolds. "Excuse me," he said automatically to her; then he looked at Flynn. "I need to talk to you out there." He jerked his head toward the door.
Flynn looked puzzled, but Sloan wasn't. She knew the moment Cagle looked at her and said "Excuse me" that he'd found out her secret. Based on the sheaf of papers in his hand with data printed from top to bottom, she assumed he'd finally bothered to run her through DBT, because she wouldn't have turned up in the ROC files when he checked with them. Now that they knew, she was still in something of a predicament because she couldn't tell them why she'd lied about being an interior designer, and she couldn't tell them she was working for the FBI.
She expected Flynn and Cagle to walk back in and start treating her more like a puzzling enigma than a murderer. In that she was wrong.
"Miss Reynolds," Flynn said flatly, "will you come with me, please?"
Sloan stood up. She couldn't believe they were going to release her this easily. "Why?"
"You already know the procedure. You've been through it before, only on the other side."
"You're actually going to book me?" she burst out angrily. "Without asking for any explanations?"
The two detectives looked at each other. Cagle shoved his glasses up on his nose and managed to look both sheepish and angry. "Well ask you for explanations later. But if I were in your place when we start asking, I'd tell us to shove the questions up Captain Hocklin's ass, and then I'd demand that we contact your attorney."
Sloan had her answer: Hocklin wanted her booked, regardless. Hocklin, she realized bitterly, had probably already announced it to the flock of reporters outside.
She went with them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of uttering a word. She knew what hotel the attorney was staying in, and if he wasn't there, she knew she could call Noah and Noah would find him. There wasn't much point in contacting Paul, since he'd probably expect her to sit around in jail until he got the thirty-six hours he said he needed.
43
Jack Robbins leaned back in his chair, watching his computer download files from Data Base Technologies, but his thoughts kept returning to the newspaper clipping and the male face that seemed distantly familiar.
He shook his head as if that would dislodge the unsettling thought. Leaning forward, he typed in a query for "Reynolds, Sloan." On the bottom of his computer screen the words "Now Online" were flashing, followed by the names of the entities who were currently searching DBT's database.
When he typed in her name, he didn't expect to turn up anything extraordinary, and he wasn't curious about the details of the woman's personal life. He was simply doing the job he was paid a great deal of money to perform—which was to insulate Noah from potential problems of any nature. In Jack's mind, the possibility that the woman who made Noah's face and voice soften might also become a suspect in a murder case constituted A Very Big Potential Problem.
DBT came up with seven matches for the name "Sloan Reynolds" and provided the social security number and city of residence for each name. Only one of the matches lived in Florida—Bell Harbor, Florida. He chose that one. She was going to be easy to single out, he realized with relief. When the download was complete, he went off-line and pulled up her file on his computer disk.
The first section of information provided all her addresses for the last ten years, the taxable value of every home she'd lived in, and the names of whomever she'd paid a mortgage payment to or made a rent payment to. She owned a very modest house, Jack noted.
The next section listed the names of anyone who had ever lived with her at any address, or even received mail at her address. Evidently, she'd never had a live-in boyfriend, not for even a month.
He held down the "page down" key a split second too long, and his computer jumped to a later section that listed the names and phone numbers of all her neighbors at all her addresses. Instead of returning to where he'd left off, he scrolled backward from that point. She didn't have a car, which struck him as odd, but she owned an inexpensive boat. She'd never had a lien, judgment, or bankruptcy, either. She'd never been involved in a criminal, a civil, or even a motor vehicle problem.
She was incredibly clean, Jack thought as his scrolling took him back into the first section. She was a saint. She was… He stood clear up out of his chair, staring at the screen on his laptop…
…She was a cop!
She was a detective on the force of the Bell Harbor Police Department! She was no interior designer; she was a cop. And for some reason, she didn't want Noah to know it.
Jack slapped a floppy disk into the laptop and transferred her file to it. While that was happening, he picked up the telephone and called local telephone information for Bell Harbor. He asked the operator for the number of the Bell Harbor Police Department; then he dialed that number.
"Detective Sloan Reynolds, please," he said to the man who answered.
"She's on vacation until next week. Can anyone else help you?"
Jack hung up and headed for Noah's office, the floppy disk in his hand. He reached Noah's office doorway at the same time Mrs. Snowden did, and the unflappable Mrs. Snowden, who appeared to be shaken up for the first time since Jack had known her, rushed forward and cut him off.
