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“That the Handyman killed Sammy.”
The server arrived with their food. June gazed blankly at hers, then lifted her eyes to Patti. “Suddenly I’m not so hungry.”
Patti reached across the table and covered her hand. “This doesn’t change how he died. It doesn’t make it worse or more painful.”
“No?”
“No. But it does give me a lead. Finally.” She smiled grimly. “I’m going to get him. And I’m going to make him pay.”
June fell silent. They both picked at their food. Patti saw that her friend was upset.
“What?” she asked, pushing her own plate away.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Now, there’s something new.”
June waved off the teasing sarcasm. “You act so tough, but I know-”
“The real me?”
“Yes.”
“Tough exterior, soft, chewy center?” Patti teased.
“Yes. And it’s not fu
“I’m a police captain. Being soft is a liability.”
June leaned forward. “I don’t want you hurt any more than you already have been. First the heart attack, then Katrina and Sammy…”
“Thanks, but…I think closureis the only thing that’ll stop the hurt.”
June opened her mouth as if to argue her point, but closed it as Patti’s cell phone buzzed. “Captain O’Shay.”
“Aunt Patti. It’s Spencer. We got a hit.”
“Tell me.”
“Ex-con. Did time for aggravated rape.”
“Pick him up. I’m on my way.”
12
Saturday, April 21, 2007
2:10 p.m.
By the time Patti arrived back at headquarters, the suspect had been picked up. Spencer met her outside the door to the interview room.
“That was quick,” she said.
“Sent a couple of uniforms. He was climbing into his van when they pulled up. Name’s Ben Franklin-” She cocked an eyebrow and he gri
“How long’s he been out?”
“Just over two years.”
Timing worked with what they had so far. “And he’s managed to keep his nose clean?”
“To fly under the radar,” Spencer corrected. “The officer who picked him up saw some suspicious-looking items in his van. Half-dozen flat-screen TVs. Light fixtures.”
He had her with the last. “Light fixtures?” she repeated.
“That’s right. Chandeliers. Lots of sparkle. Officer White confronted Franklin about the items. Asked for receipts, which he couldn’t produce.”
“Big surprise. Have an inventory yet?”
“Working on it now.” He motioned the room. “Maybe I should do this?”
“I’m not that rusty, Detective.” She reached for the door. “You monitor.”
Each interview room was outfitted with a video camera so interviews could be taped for later review or to be used as evidence in a trial. In addition, others could monitor the process from a room down the hall.
He caught her arm. “I don’t think this arrangement is a good idea.”
She looked at him, eyebrow cocked. “And why’s that, Detective?”
“If we’re going strictly by-the-book, you’re too personally involved in the outcome of this interrogation.”
“And you’re not? Besides, who says we’re going strictly by-the-book?”
He held her gaze a moment, then backed off. “Right. You’re the captain.”
Ignoring the disappointment in his voice, Patti stepped into the interview room. Ben Franklin was short and thick, with thi
“Hello, Mr. Franklin. I’m Captain O’Shay.”
He folded his arms across his wide chest and scowled at her.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“I did nothing.”
Of course not, sweetie. You’re as pure as the driven snow. “You ever heard of a writer named A
He eyed her suspiciously. “Who?”
“A local novelist. Writes mysteries.”
Some emotion flickered across his features, then was gone. “Yeah. I’ve heard of her.”
“You’ve read her books, haven’t you?”
“What if I have?”
“Would you call yourself a fan?”
He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Read her in the joint. Lots of time to read in the joint.”
“Have you ever written the author?”
His gaze shifted slightly. “No.”
“Gone to one of her book signings? Met her in person?”
“No.”
“Any idea then how your name and address would have ended up on her personal fan list?”
“If you’re suggesting I threatened her or anything, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Franklin. I’m just asking a few questions.”
He shifted in his seat. “Okay, yeah. I wrote her once.”
“Why?”
He squirmed, looking uncomfortable. “For advice. About becoming a writer myself.” He met her eyes, the expression in his defiant. “I got a story to tell.”
She took one of the magnets out of her pocket and tossed it onto the table in front of him. “Ever seen that before?”
He stared at it, frowning. “What is it?”
“A refrigerator magnet. For one of A
Clearly unimpressed, he shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “So?”
“You have one of those on your refrigerator? Ever?”
“Nah. I’m not much for that kind of crap.”
“I hear you were doing a little shopping today.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Flat-screen TVs. Crystal chandeliers.”
“That ain’t against the law, is it?”
“Not if you can produce proof the items belong to you.”
“I got canceled checks somewhere.”
She eyed him, unsurprised. The “bad guys” always responded the same way-cheap attitude and lies. And perversely, she always enjoyed the show. Was taking twisted pleasure in watching suspects dig themselves into holes a character flaw? If so, nearly all cops had the same flaw.
“Where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”
Spencer slipped into the interview room. Patti glanced at him and he motioned her to the hallway.
Patti stood. “Why don’t you take a moment to work on that answer.”
She followed Spencer into the hall. “What’s up?”
“Officer Lee finished searching Franklin’s vehicle. He found this tucked under the driver’s seat.”
He handed her a plastic evidence bag. The bag held a gun. Standard issue Glock.45. The preferred weapon of the NOPD.
“The serial numbers have been filed off,” Spencer said.
Glocks’ serial numbers were found in three places: the right side of the slide, the right side of the barrel and the underside of the front of the frame. She turned the bag over and inspected the places the numbers should have been.
Should have been.
Removing a gun’s serial number rendered it virtually untraceable.
Patti looked at Spencer; she saw from his expression that he was thinking the same thing as she.
Sammy had carried a Glock. It’d never been found. But they had retrieved a bullet from his body.
“I want ballistics done on-”
“I’ll call the lab.”
“Good. Keep me posted.” She reentered the room and caught the suspect picking his nose. She sat and slid him the box of tissues. He had the decency to look embarrassed. “My colleague just informed me of something very interesting.”
“Lucky you.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same about you.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about the gun.”
Under the tan he seemed to pale. “What gun?”
“The Glock. The one hidden under the driver’s seat of your van. The one you filed the serial numbers off of.”
“It’s not mine.”
That brought a smile to her face. “No? Then whose is it?”
“A friend.”
“I need a name, Ben.”
He pursed his lips, as if deciding whether or not to answer. She supposed he was doing a mental scan for someone to pin this on.
“What if I told you that gun had been used in a murder?”
She saw that she had gotten his attention by the way his expression altered. She could almost hear the “Oh, shit, I’m totally fucked!” ru