Twisted Path Page 8

  As Noonan’s hoarse voice shouted for them to come in, Burton reviewed the cases he’d worked with Chrys in recent months, wondering which one had landed them in hot water. He drew a blank.

  Noonan filled it in before the door even closed behind them.

  “Which one of you two’s been running your mouth? Or is it both of you?” he demanded in lieu of a greeting.

  Chrys shot Burton a wide-eyed look. He risked a small shrug, hoping it didn’t catch the commander’s notice.

  He was as bewildered as she was, but he was also the senior detective, so he drew himself up straight and said, “Running our mouths about what, sir?”

  Noonan slapped an open copy of the Tribune-Review down on his desk and pushed it toward them. “About the Noor woman’s murder.”

  Crap.

  Burton clasped his hands behind his back and leaned over the desk to read the headline that had gotten the commander’s briefs in a twist: “Squirrel Hill Slaying Not Random: Possible Personal Angle to Raina Noor Murder.”

  Beside him, Chrys rocked forward to read it as well. She clicked her tongue in irritation.

  “I don’t talk to reporters, sir. I only mingle within my species,” she said in a flat tone.

  Burton caught the grudging glint of agreement in Noonan’s hooded eyes. The commander’s view of journalists as sub-human creatures wasn’t exactly a secret around the squad.

  “Whattabout you, Gilbert? You swallow your tongue?”

  Burton gathered his thoughts. He hadn’t leaked this story. But he did hold a more charitable view of the fourth estate. He cultivated relationships with reporters the same way they developed their sources. He viewed it as no different from using a snitch, only reporters were usually not high or drunk and usually smelled better. Not always, but usually. He also sometimes used a friendly journalist to plant false information in an effort to shake the trees for fruit.

  And everyone in the building, including the commander, knew it. A blanket denial would just enrage Noonan and convince the man that he had been the leaker, even though he hadn’t.

  So he met Noonan’s eyes across the desk. “A below-the-fold piece in the metro section with a lame headline like that? In the Trib, no less? I don’t mind saying I’m a bit offended. You’ll know I’ve placed a story when you see a splashy, front-page, above the fold story in the Post-Gazette with a full-color photograph. Sir,” he added belatedly.

  Beside him, he sensed Chrys’ sharp intake of breath. Noonan gaped at him. The clock on the wall ticked off impossibly long seconds. He forced himself not to fidget.

  Finally, Noonan burst out laughing. He didn’t stop until he was red-faced and wheezing.

  “Go on, get out of here,” he ordered, waving them to the door as he wiped his streaming eyes and tried to catch his breath.

  “Bold move,” Chrys muttered from between her teeth as they scooted toward the door before he could change his mind.

  The present

  * * *

  Burton glanced at Chrys’ drawn, downturned lips.

  “At least we don’t have Noonan to deal with, like we did last time.”

  His attempt at making lemonade had no visible effect on her. If anything, the skin around her eyes grew tighter and the furrow carved into her forehead deepened.

  “I think I’d take the commander over the district attorney.” She spoke in a flat tone.

  “She can rant and rave all she wants, but she can’t bust us down to patrol. He could’ve—and would’ve—if he thought we had anything to do with this sh … uh, circus.”

  ‘Circus’ was putting it mildly. He had some better, more descriptive ways to communicate the mess someone had made of their investigation. But he recalled from the times they’d worked together that Chrys didn’t care for cursing. So he tried to keep a lid on his swearing around her. Sometimes it even worked.

  “Noonan never found out who leaked that story to the Tribune-Review, did he?” She slanted her eyes toward him.

  “Not as far as I know. Why? You think the same joker called up Maisy Farley and spilled the details of the Giles Noor investigation?”

  The perky blonde investigative reporter had solemnly informed viewers that, although no law enforcement officials had been willing to go on the record to comment on an ongoing investigation, she trusted her ‘very connected’ source to get the facts straight. It sure sounded like the leaker was on the team. Which meant this team meeting was going to be something special.

  Chrys shrugged. “It’s the most logical explanation. All I know is I haven’t talked to any reporters.”

  “I know, Martin. You like to keep to your own species.” He cracked a halfhearted grin and filled his lungs with air. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”

  He pushed open the conference room door and they strode inside, shoulder to shoulder.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bodhi glanced up when the door swung open. The homicide detectives burst into the room and whipped their heads around to take in their surroundings, twin glares on their faces. He half-expected one of them to shout ‘All clear!’ But they said nothing and slid into seats near the door.

  The district attorney skipped the pleasantries this time. Not to mention the continental breakfast. Saul had said she was enraged by the leak, and it didn’t seem to be an exaggeration. While they waited for the detectives, Bodhi, Saul, Tory, and Roland had sat in oppressive silence around the conference room table trying not to make eye contact with Meghan. Her expression was nothing short of murderous.

  She glared around the table for a long, heavy moment. Then she threw her hands up into the air. “Well? Which one of you geniuses decided to give an exclusive to Maisy Farley?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Don’t all talk at once.”

  Roland Lee sighed. “Meghan?”

  “What?” she forced out the words from between clenched teeth. “Don’t even tell me that the leak came from our office, Roland. Do not. It was the new legal assistant, the one with the lip ring, wasn’t it?”

  “No. I mean … I don’t know if he or anyone else talked to the press. Although I really, really doubt it.”

  Roland paused, as if wondering whether another ‘really’ or two would convince his boss. Then he plowed forward.

  “But I did call Annette.”

  “Morris?”

  “Yes. I wanted to make sure I’m not missing anything or misremembering, so I pulled her notes from storage. You might not remember this, but she used a sort of shorthand of her own invention—”

  “I remember.”

  “I needed to confirm some abbreviations. So, I called her.”

  Meghan grimaced. Then she nodded and said slowly, “I can’t imagine Annette maintained contacts at the local news stations after she moved. And I’m confident she wouldn’t undermine our investigation by talking to the press. But, going forward, let me know before you contact her. ”

  “Understood.”

  Saul interjected. “I understand why you’re upset, Meghan. And I agree the person who talked to the press made a mistake. But it’s possible, maybe even likely, that he or she had good intentions.” He spoke in the measured, reasonable tone of a man accustomed to dealing with small children.

  Meghan narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying this leak came from your office, Saul?”

  “No. I have no reason to think it did. I just want us to consider that the person who did share information you wanted to keep confidential may have had his or her reasons.”

  Meghan lifted one eyebrow and kept her attention locked on Saul. Bodhi wondered if Detective Gilbert was going to admit that he’d shared investigative details with Giles Noor’s widow.

  The detective must’ve felt Bodhi’s eyes on him because he raised his head and met his gaze. He tilted his head to the side.

  But the next person to speak up was Detective Martin, not Gilbert.

  “I told the warden when we went to Fayette.”

  All eyes turned toward Ma
rtin, who kept her expression blank.

  Meghan scratched her neck and twisted her fingers around her chunky turquoise necklace. Then she shook her head. “Doug Hardiman doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would talk to the press. What’s your assessment, Detective Gilbert?”

  “I don’t know Hardiman that well. But he seems like a straight shooter. If he did pass the information on to someone, I wouldn’t expect it to be Maisy Farley.”

  His eyes flicked back to Bodhi.

  Bodhi leaned forward and said, “I haven’t talked about this case with anyone outside this room, but I do know Maisy. She’s a friend. And I have spoken to her in the past about a case—when the energy drink death cluster situation came up.”

  He assumed most people in the room knew the broad strokes of that case and likely remembered that he’d sat for a televised interview to force Sonny’s hand. It had worked, but he imagined his connection to Maisy landed him near the top of Meghan’s list of current suspects.

  “Could you talk to her now?” Detective Martin asked.

  “Talk to … Maisy?”

  “If she’s a friend, could you ask her who came to her?”

  He shook his head. “I’m happy to try, but I’m sure she’s not going to reveal her source. She takes journalistic ethics seriously.”

  “Give it a shot,” Meghan instructed. Then she cleared her throat. “Okay, listen, I want to thank Roland and Chrys Martin for their honesty. And Dr. King, I appreciate your getting out in front of your relationship with Ms. Farley. Does anyone else have anything they’d like to share for the good of the order? Anyone else with friends in the media?” She aimed a meaningful look at Detective Gilbert.

  He made a noise in the back of his throat. “The fact that I talk to journalists from time to time is an open secret. But I didn’t tell Maisy or any other reporters about Damon Tenley’s DNA turning up at Giles Noor’s murder.” His voice was serious and certain.

  Bodhi tensed as he waited for the detective to go on.

  “I did, however, share that information with Mrs. Noor yesterday morning.”

  Bodhi’s shoulders relaxed. He’d hoped he wouldn’t find himself in the position of having to rat out the homicide detective and was glad to avoid the issue.

  Meghan frowned. “I realize that’s your prerogative, but I’m not sure that was the best idea, detective. We can’t muzzle her.”

  “There’s no way Hope Noor talked to a reporter. She doesn’t want publicity, she wants closure. And she’s smart enough to know shining a spotlight on the issue isn’t going to help us solve her husband’s murder any quicker.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I think he is,” Bodhi chimed in. “I spoke to her yesterday, and she understood that she was to keep the details to herself.”

  “Why were you talking to her?” Detective Gilbert demanded.

  “I was setting up a time to interview her.”

  “For what?”

  “Giles Noor’s autopsy was done before I got involved in this case. His corpse has already been buried. I can’t use my usual investigatory methods, so I’m going to talk to the person who knew him best when he was alive.”

  From the skeptical twist of his lips, the detective didn’t think much of Bodhi’s fallback methods of investigation. Which, Bodhi had to admit, was fair. He didn’t think much of them himself.

  “I authorized the interview,” Saul volunteered in a patent attempt to shut down any objections. “And, as far as leaks from my office, I assure you there are none. Tory and I did discuss the results with an outside forensic testing lab because we want to get a confirmatory report from an independent entity, for what should be obvious reasons. But before we sent the samples, we required everyone at TrueType who would be handling the materials or accessing the case files to sign nondisclosure agreements. Tipping off the local press would be a violation of the NDA, exposing them to personal liability. And if we ever traced a leak back to a TrueType employee we’d terminate our relationship with the entire laboratory. It wasn’t the lab.”

  “Besides, they weren’t involved in the Raina Noor case,” Tory added.

  Meghan’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Which is relevant why?”

  “Don’t you remember? There was a leak in the first Noor murder case, too. Someone told the press that Tenley committed the murder for hire. The police hadn’t released the information about the shoebox full of money, but someone told a crime reporter at the Tribune-Review.” She turned toward the detectives. “I’m remembering this correctly, right?”

  “Yes,” Detective Martin confirmed. “That’s how it went down. In fact, Detective Gilbert and I were just talking about that leak on the way over here. We never found out where it came from.”

  “And you think this new leak came from the same source?” Meghan asked Tory.

  “Sure. It stands to reason.”

  Meghan was silent for a long moment. She twisted a large garnet ring that she wore on the ring finger of her right hand. She exhaled a long whoosh of breath. “I don’t plan to let this go, people. When I find the person who talked, there will be consequences. And if that person isn’t in my agency, I’ll be taking it up with Saul or the chief of police. This will not stand.”

  Bodhi nudged Saul. “Are you going to tell her about Annette pressuring Tory during the first trial?” he asked under his breath.

  “Not sure yet,” Saul said in a low voice. “Why? You think that points to her being the source of the leaks?”

  Bodhi shrugged. “It shows she plays fast and loose—or, at least, she used to.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  He turned his attention back to the district attorney, expecting her to want the assembled group to provide updates. But, having vented her spleen, she waved a hand in a clear signal that they were dismissed.

  “Go find Noor’s killer.”

  As they filed out of the room, she sat immobile and stared down at her notepad, the crease across her brow deepening.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Damon was working in the library, sitting on the floor, shelving some automobile maintenance and mechanic reference books on the low shelves, when Ronny poked his head into the room. He kept his body out in the hallway as if he didn’t want to be caught setting foot inside.

  Pretty weak, considering Ronny was writing a book of poetry. But Damon didn’t call him out.

  “Yo, Tenley.”

  Damon stood and stretched out his arm to give Ronny a fist bump. “What’s up, man?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one on the TV.”

  “What?”

  “You know that blonde lady reporter with the round butt and the juicy-looking boobs?”

  “Maisy Something. Yeah.” He wondered if she knew how many fans she had on Cell Block D.

  “I was in Grayson’s office getting some … uh, help … with a personal issue.”

  “And she just happened to be on, huh?”

  “Yeah. Wild.”

  Grayson, the counselor, also a fan of Maisy Farley, was reluctant to turn off the news during the blonde’s segments. And he seemed not to notice the steady traffic of inmates whose need for counseling coincided with her on-air appearances.

  Damon shook his head. “You’re not right, man.”

  Ronny shot him a grin. “Anyway, she was talking about you.”

  “Who was?”

  “The blonde lady, man.”

  He frowned. “That can’t be right.”

  “She says your DNA was found at a murder scene.”

  “Yeah, it was, but that’s not news. It happened seven years ago. Maybe Grayson’s been recording her segments and rewatching them for years or something.”

  Although that would be creepy. Even for Grayson.

  Ronny laughed. “Nah, man. That chick you killed, somebody did her husband. But they left your DNA. Or else you got some hidden skills. You know how to get in and out of here, Houdini?”

  Damon’s stomach went sour, but he
forced a laugh. “Yeah, right. If I was some kind of escape artist, you think I’d stick around here?”

  “I dunno, it’s a solid alibi. You know? I couldn’t have killed that guy, your honor. I was in the joint.”

  Ronny had a point, but Damon hadn’t been outside since he got locked up. No day pass, no court appearances, no emergency trips to the hospital. Nothing. So there was no way the cops found his DNA at a crime scene—that was if Professor Noor was even dead. Ronny was an okay guy, but he’d done a lot of meth. A lot. Maybe his brain was scrambled.

  Yeah, Ronny’s all screwed up. He’s confused.

  But the visit from the detectives yesterday kept forcing its way into Damon’s brain. They had tried to get him to say he hated Noor. And if he had been offed, he wouldn’t put it past them to try to pin it on him. Or to make up some story about his DNA to get him to flip and tell them who’d paid him to kill Raina Noor. They wouldn’t care who they tagged with the kill, so long as they closed their case.

  He laughed bitterly. Their read on him was all wrong if they thought he’d roll over to save his own hide. He was already in prison. Like Ronny said, he couldn’t have done it. And even if they managed to convince a jury he had, what were they gonna do? He was here for life. Were they going to put him in double prison? Or maybe dig up his body after he died and send him back?

  In the end it didn’t matter whether Ronny was right or wrong. Nothing about his situation would change.

  Having worked through all the angles, he nodded to himself and reached for the next book on his cart.

  “Okay, Ronny. Thanks for telling me, I guess.”

  Ronny’s eyes popped out of his head. He leaned across the threshold and slapped Damon right upside the head.

  “Hey! What the—?”

  “Don’t be a dumbass. When I left the office, Grayson was handing me off to the CO and I heard him say something about you. The guard—that big, slack-mouthed dude from someplace in Europe, you know the one?”

  “Vichevak.”