7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Kathleen was the opposite of a morning person. Much of that had to do with the poor quality of nightmare-ridden sleep, the specifics of which mercifully fled from her mind as she dragged herself out of bed.
Fortunately, Captain Murphy wasn’t the type to expect formality. Kathleen settled for comfortable jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and her favorite black leather biker-style jacket. The jacket was a little too warm for this time of year, but it covered her shoulder holster nicely. The holster felt uncomfortable after a week without it. It was, absolutely, still a better feeling than the stockings and garters.
She turned on the television out of habit, the too-peppy morning anchor’s voice at odds with the words she was reciting. “And in other news, we’re receiving reports that there was a massacre last night at a known gang hideout in Chinatown. Many sources are speculating this is related to the murder of Senate hopeful Lachlan Hayden, reputedly killed by members linked to the Chinese triads.”
Kathleen’s coffee finished brewing, and she turned her back on the news reporter as she poured and sipped the black liquid.
“Many believed Hayden was a strong candidate to block Governor Wyatt Wilson’s bid for a Senate seat in the upcoming election; however, with the death of Hayden, most pundits are now predicting that Wilson will become Washington’s newest senator. This would open up the Governor role to be appointed by—”
Kathleen flicked off the television with a noise of annoyance. She didn’t need the politics in her murder case—not when she already knew what was at stake. It was the reason she’d been in the Imperial Silk Palace—and now all their prime suspects were dead.
It was evident that Wyatt Wilson had some level of involvement. He wouldn’t be the first—or the last—politician to kill for power.
Kathleen rode the elevator down to the parking garage. The Mustang was her pride and joy, and a bit of an indulgence. Although it had endured ten years of abuse and the gearbox desperately needed a replacement transmission, it remained her prized possession.
It was also exceptionally beautiful. The red shade was super flashy and made it prone to being pulled over by fellow law enforcement. It was Friday, so the traffic was worse than usual. It was going to be a tight deadline to get to the Homicide Branch headquarters, but the Mustang would make the difference.
She gunned the engine, the roar of it prompting a smile as she cut out into traffic, letting the back tires slide out before she pressed on the accelerator. Driving this car was a delight, riding the line between thrill and terror. She always felt in complete control.
It never failed to bring her peace.
By the time she parked underneath the building on M Street, Kathleen was smiling.
“Thought you’d be in a shit mood,” Gibson greeted her at the elevator with a grin. “Guessing you drove the Mustang in?”
“Yes, and I missed her. I guess she forgave me for cheating on her with a minivan,” Kathleen said.
“Pretty sure she knew that wasn’t serious. For the record, the Chrysler’s going from the impound yard to the scrap yard.”
“Exactly where it belongs.”
“Amen.”
They walked side by side down the hall and into the open-plan office of the Homicide Branch. The overhead florescent lighting didn’t do the office any favors: it was a grungy, dark space, though some color specialist had attempted to spruce things up with a pale yellow-and-white paint scheme. The desks were paired facing each other in rows, most of them a mess of paperwork, coffee cups, and files, with the occasional neat outlier. The space was an unhelpful warren until you learned who sat where.
Their desks were located at the far end of the office under a motivational print of an athlete leaping over a bar. The enviable position was solely thanks to Gibson’s old, now retired, partner.
Kathleen laid her leather jacket on the back of the chair. There was a bunch of paperwork in her inbox, nothing exciting.
“Gibson. Harper,” Captain Murphy’s voice snapped out across the room. “In my office.” She didn’t sound that happy.
Kathleen glanced at Gibson, but he shrugged in response. The answer became apparent when they stepped into the Captain’s office.
“Toshi Gibson, Kathleen Harper. Meet Agent Joe Schmidt, Homeland.”
Captain Murphy gestured to the man who rose from his seat. He was in his early fifties, a touch of gray starting to lighten the brown at his temples.
There were ways to tell Federal Agents at a glance. The most obvious were the uniform cut of their suits and the sparkling shine of their shoes. Sometimes, it was how they looked at you—like they wanted you to think they knew all your secrets, down to your tax filings and outstanding traffic tickets.
Joe Schmidt was all those things in one living, breathing Federal package.
He offered his hand with a too-wide smile. “Department of Homeland Security, Current and Emerging Threats Center. Good to meet you both.”
A brief pause preceded Gibson’s forward step to shake the newcomer’s hand. Kathleen followed his lead.
Schmidt was the type of person who liked to give a crushing handshake to prove a point. Kathleen immediately took a dislike to him.
“I didn’t think you lot worked Fridays,” Kathleen said.
Schmidt shrugged, unconcerned by the jibe. “We’re all on the same side.”
Everyone sat and pretended to get along for Captain Murphy’s sake. “So,” Murphy said, looking at Kathleen with a with a mute warning. “Agent Schmidt has questions about the events at the Imperial Silk Palace last night.”
“Call me Joe, please.” Schmidt gave a plastic smile. “As I understand it, Detective Harper, you were undercover for a murder case?”
Kathleen glanced at the Captain and waited for her subtle nod before she answered, “Yes. We believe the Triad were responsible for a murder in our jurisdiction.”
She put a little weight on “our.” This was well outside the Fed’s purview.
That only seemed to make Schmidt smile wider. “Lachlan Hayden, I believe?”
Kathleen glanced at Murphy, but the set of the Captain’s expression suggested she hadn’t shared.
“Yes, sir,” Kathleen said.
Schmidt made a show of reaching for his briefcase and setting it on his lap. He pulled out a small file and flipped through it before extracting a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”
Kathleen’s eyes landed on the picture, and tension knotted in her stomach. At that moment, she was grateful for all the undercover work she’d done. It made it easier to hide her reaction.
It was the man from the Palace. The assassin. The photo was grainy and indistinct, like it had been taken from a telephoto lens at a distance, but Kathleen knew it was the same man the second she saw him. Her eyes traced his form.
“I’ve never seen him before.” Kathleen couldn’t explain why she gave that answer. Some part of it might have been spite for the Fed trying to get involved in their case, but it was more than that.
Kathleen didn’t want to give up the assassin to this man.
“He’s not the man responsible for the massacre of—” Schmidt paused, “—Eleven civilians last night?”
“I wouldn’t count the Triad among the civilians, but no. Not the same man.” Her voice remained steady.
Schmidt gazed at Kathleen for a long moment as if the weight of his brown eyes and stern features might pull a different answer from her. When it didn’t, he continued, “I’d like a copy of the composite when it’s done.”
“It won’t be great,” Kathleen said. “I was trying to protect Liang since he was our last link to the murder. I didn’t see much, and his face was covered by a mask. He fired at Liang, turned, and left. I caught a bit of his profile.”
Schmidt returned the photo to his file, humming to himself as he flipped through some other pages. “Harper… I knew I remembered that name. If I remember correctly, your first undercover mission was a huge success. Twenty arrests related to a sex trafficking ring? That was big enough to attract interest at my level.”
“Your point, sir?”
“I believe that single event was sufficient to win you a promotion not long after.”
“Over a year later, sir.”
“Bypassing other officers who graduated in your class. Some would wonder if there wasn’t some political influence at play to help you along, detective.”
Kathleen rushed to her feet, tension constricting her throat. Gibson rose with her, and she wasn’t sure whether it was in solidarity or to hold her back.
Her fingers clenched. “What exactly are you trying to imply, sir?”
“Let’s keep things civil,” Captain Murphy broke in, her voice tight. Given she was usually the calm and collected one, it was notable. “You want to poke your nose in our case, Agent Schmidt? Fine, we’ll play ball. You poke at my detectives? You can see yourself out.”
Schmidt put the file back into his briefcase and stood. “My apologies if I overstepped. I’m eager to stay involved. I trust you’ll keep me up to date, Captain?”
“As best I can,” Murphy said.
“I appreciate your cooperation. Detective Gibson, Harper.” Schmidt nodded to them as he left.
Murphy let out a breath after the door shut. “What an ass.” Her eyes narrowed at the door, then fixed on the pair of detectives. “Don’t let him push you around. If he comes sniffing, you point him back at me, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gibson and Kathleen chorused.
“I believe you have a briefing to prepare and a report to write.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was going to be a long day. It was easy to blame the tension in her shoulders on Schmidt’s insinuations. Easier than acknowledging the lie she had spoken was now something Kathleen had to commit to paper.