Richards grunted, said, “That’s a match. Roccio was offed at ten thirty here.” He sounded bored. “Boxer, right? Good luck with your DBs.”
He was hanging up.
“Richards.”
“Yeah?”
“You got anything on Roccio? A motive? A suspect?”
“Sorry. I can’t help you.”
Richards was keeping the case to himself, and frankly, I wasn’t into pulling teeth from another cop.
I said, “Do I have this right? You’re the primary on Roccio, I’ve got a case that could be its twin, and you’re jerking me around? Maybe your captain can give us an assist. I’ll give him a call.”
Richards said, “Hang on, Boxer. Happy to tell you about our big file of nothing.”
Reluctantly he told us much of what we already knew: that Roccio’s girlfriend claimed not to have seen the shooter and knew nothing about his drug business. As of now, Chicago PD didn’t know if Roccio had enemies.
“Roccio’s body is still warm,” Richards said, giving me notice that he was done.
We signed off. Richie muttered that Richards was a jerk, and I agreed with him as I typed a note for the file.
Richie said, “Did Cindy catch you this morning?”
“Yep. I promised her an exclusive. I’m guessing I bought us eight hours before she runs a serial killer story.”
Conklin flashed his winning smile and said, “Serial killer scores in three places at once.”
I said, “Let’s hope for a break on the Barons before Cindy turns that into a headline.”
CHAPTER 26
IT HAPPENED JUST before Cindy was getting ready to leave work for the day.
McGowan walked to her doorway and held up a copy of the Examiner so that she could read the headline from her desk.
SNIPERS HIT DRUG DEALERS IN THREE CITIES.
Hey. What? That was her story. She’d been scooped by the Examiner—and that meant her world was ending. Her work was now running in the public domain without her byline.
McGowan said, “I told you not to hold the story.”
Cindy blew up, like a virtual bomb. She said to McGowan, too loudly, “Listen, you dumb shit. You don’t screw with police sources.”
He laughed. “Man, that must be a drag for your boyfriend.”
Cindy’s face burned. “You’re disgusting,” she said.
“He’s a cop, right?” and as McGowan was saying, “Oh, come onnnnnn. Where’s your sense of hu—” Cindy crossed the office and slammed her door in McGowan’s grinning face.
Ignoring the shocked faces of her colleagues staring through her glass wall, Cindy went back to her desk and typed the headline into her browser. Then she watched the bad news fill her screen; Google, Bing, USA Today, network and cable news, all had the same or similar headlines.
The writer at the Examiner had gotten all details of this shooting spree correct, but how?
Cindy stopped scrolling and took a head-pounding minute to think about the four incidents in an attempt to understand how a reporter at the Examiner had made the connections.
First, Jennings, whose status as a minor celebrity with a fan following had gotten him ink and on-air mention. But the word Rehearsal on the back of Jennings’s car had not been released. The press had been kept far from the scene, and if Rich’s friend Officer Sawyer hadn’t pointed it out to her, Cindy wouldn’t have seen it.
The Barons’ murders had been uncontainable because Paul and Ramona were both celebrities. But details of the killings had not been released; not the shooting of the couple through the second-floor window, not the drugs in the supply closet.
In LA, Peavey had gotten ink and air time because the shooting had happened outside his child’s school. But Peavey’s involvement in the drug trade was not mentioned.
Albert Roccio was a sidebar.
His death had been reported as a one-inch mention in the Chicago papers only. He sold porn and cigarettes. The drugs were sold old-school. Over the counter or by messenger for cash. This was also not mentioned in the article.
The timing of the shootings, that all the victims had been shot by a single, well-aimed bullet, and most especially the drug connection were still an inside cop theory that Cindy alone had known—until the Examiner’s exposé.
She read the Examiner story again.
It was well written by Galina Moore, a writer whose name Cindy didn’t know. A few clicks later Cindy learned that before coming to the Examiner, Moore had worked the crime desk at the LA Sun Times.
McGowan had worked at that same paper before making his big move to the Chronicle.
It was stunningly clear to Cindy.
Her story had been leaked—and she knew who’d sprung the leak.
She called Henry Tyler’s extension, told his assistant, Brittney Hall, that she needed a few moments with the chief before he left for the day.
“I’m sorry, Cindy. You just missed him,” she said.
CHAPTER 27
CINDY COOKED DINNER, banging the metal spoon on the pot lids for emphasis as she rehearsed what she would say to Tyler.
“Henry.” Bang. “He’s not just a sneak.” Bang. “He’s a spy.” Bang. “He tipped off a reporter at the Examiner.” Bang. Bang. Bang. “He’s a danger to all of us.” Bang. Bang. Bang. “This is—”
Richie came up behind her and said, “Hands up, sweetheart. Drop the spoon and step away from the stove. Do it now.”
She gave him a look like, Funny. But I’m not in the mood. He tapped her on the butt and took over the stove, checked on the chili and the corn, turning to say, “Want to make a salad?”
“I shouldn’t handle knives,” she said. “Trust me.”
Cindy paced in the living room, a dark, narrow space banked with bookshelves and Richie’s photographic cityscapes. She brooded over McGowan, couldn’t help it. He was a bad guy. She’d run into bad guys before, criminals. But this guy had stood outside her office, smiling about handing their news off to the competition. This had never happened to her in her life.
Tyler would believe her. She had 100 percent credibility.
Rich called, “Cindy, put some music on, okay? Something chill.”
“I’m eyeball-deep in righteous indignation,” she called back, “and I gotta let it work its way out. Which maybe I can do if you come in and talk to me.”
“Music,” said Rich. “I’m bringing beers.”
Cindy riffled through the stack of CDs, found one by Metallica that fit her mood. She cued up “Fade to Black,” pressed Play, jacked up the sound, and threw herself onto Richie’s old blue couch. She put her bare feet up on the coffee table and exhaled.
Rich came in with a couple of bottles of Anchor Steam, saying over the discordant noise, “We don’t need a salad. Beans. Corn. Hops. We’re good. So tell me from the beginning.”
He lowered the volume, sat down next to Cindy, handed her a cold one, and put his arm around her shoulders. She tipped her head back and guzzled half the bottle.
Rich gave her a squeeze. “Speak.”
“He told me not to hold up the story—”