Dying To Play. Debra Webb

He and Flatt were working the beauty salon case. The similarity of the MO of this one had no doubt drawn them to the scene. As much as Elaine hated Flatt, she supposed Jillette’s suggestion made sense. “If we find a connection,” she qualified, “we’ll do just that.”

      “Any reason we can’t get started now?” Walt wanted to know, another presence that had slipped her mind while she studied the dead man…husband…father. A parent—something she might not ever be. A pang of hurt sliced through her before she could evict the ugly reminder from her head.

      Elaine surveyed the fairly undisturbed scene once more. The gray suit jacket hanging neatly in the corner where Mr. Tate had left it only minutes before his life abruptly ended. The overturned chair where Brad Matthews had fallen. The .38 Smith & Wesson Special clutched in his cold, unyielding fingers. He could have gotten that weapon anywhere. They were a dime a dozen on the street.

      “Go ahead,” Elaine told Walt. “I’d like his drug tox and anything on that weapon as soon as possible.”

      Walt cocked an eyebrow and feigned the offended bit a little too well. “Everything I do is done as soon as possible. Or didn’t you know that, Deputy Chief Jentzen?”

      

      Elaine rolled her eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking?” He was right. Walt was as efficient as he was meticulous. She frowned then, remembering the oddness of his presence. “What’re you doing down here, anyway? I didn’t think Kathleen allowed you out of the morgue.”

      Kathleen was Walt’s secretary. She was widowed, had been for years, just as he had. It was rumored that those two were secretly in love with each other but refrained from a relationship because of the job.

      The job. God, what a pathetic existence they all lived in this line of work. No wonder there were so many divorces among criminal-investigation and law-enforcement personnel.

      “I’m training a couple new techs,” Walt said firmly, ignoring her comment about Kathleen.

      Elaine nodded. She’d known he would do just that. “Yeah, I noticed the one in the lobby was a little trigger happy.”

      Irritation wrinkled Walt’s brow as he leaned to his right to peer through the glass wall behind Elaine. She resisted the urge to turn around and see what the tech was up to now. The look on Walt’s face said it all.

      Walt muttered a curse. “Can’t get decent help these days,” he complained as he stomped out of the office.

      Henshaw made a covert gesture toward the door. Instinct warning her that this wasn’t good, Elaine followed him into the short corridor that led to the rear emergency exit.

      “Look, Jentzen, there’s something you oughtta know,” he said quietly as he glanced first right, then left. He plucked the rarely lit stogie from his mouth.

      “What is it?” she asked, instantly moving to a higher state of alert. Henshaw had been in the division longer than any other detective, even the chief. By rights he should have been deputy chief years ago, but the powers-that-be had allowed a jackleg like Hindman to keep the position until he retired, which was about ten years too long. When Hindman finally retired, Henshaw was too close to retirement himself to be considered for the position. So said the chief, anyway. Though Elaine was proud of her promotion and she damn well knew she deserved it, Henshaw had gotten a raw deal. He should have been DC years ago instead of Hindman.

      “Just before you got here there were a couple of Feds snooping around.”

      Elaine shrugged. “It’s a bank, they have jurisdiction. I’m surprised they’re not still here.” She actually hadn’t even thought of that until that precise moment. She swore silently. Just another example of how this morning’s appointment had rattled her. But she had to stay focused.

      Henshaw stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I know it’s their jurisdiction, but there was something funny about it. Not the least of which was that one of ’em wasn’t local.”

      Elaine felt the beginnings of a low dull ache right where a frown was creasing her forehead. “What do you mean funny?”

      “Trace Callahan.”

      She mentally repeated the name a couple of times before recognition broadsided her. Trace Callahan. “Jesus.”

      “My sentiments exactly,” Henshaw muttered. “The way I heard it the guy’s been off field duty for two years.”

      Elaine considered what she knew about Callahan. According to local scuttlebutt the Bureau’s top Febbie, the nickname regular cops used for federal agents, had gone over the edge a couple years ago and had been jockeying a desk ever since. “You’re sure it was him?”

      “It was him.” Henshaw lifted one shaggy gray brow and gave her the look. The one that said, I can’t say where I heard it, but you can take it to the bank, no pun intended. “Word is he actually tried to kill some perp with his bare hands shortly after that whole bizarre case two years ago.”

      She’d heard the same thing. “He lost his partner, right?” If she remembered correctly, there was also gossip that Callahan and his female partner were lovers. The idea only added to her uneasiness. This was definitely not her day.

      Henshaw nodded. “Yeah. Most everybody, including Callahan himself, thought it was his fault. He screwed up an operation and she bit the dust.”

      Callahan had been the best of the best, the Bureau’s big star, but he seemed to just come unglued. Everybody in Homicide had heard the rumors. Though Callahan worked directly out of Quantico, the liaison agent who worked between Atlanta PD and the boys at the local Bureau office had kept the chief unofficially informed of the whole sordid story. It was front-page news for a while before the big news outlets moved on to something else.

      “Well,” Elaine offered, “if Callahan is one of the Feds assigned to this case, then we’ll simply have to deal with him.”

      “I’m just saying,” Henshaw countered, “that it could be risky business. That’s all.” He waved his hands in a magnanimous manner. “Hell, he could be the greatest frigging investigator on the planet, but if you can’t count on him during a field op, I don’t want no part of working with him. If he goes ape-shit again I want to be clear of the fallout.”

      Elaine’s cell phone rang, saving her from having to make promises she might not be able to keep. She dragged it from her shoulder bag and flipped it open. “Jentzen.” It was the chief. He was brisk and to the point. “I’ll be right there,” she assured him. He wanted her at the office ASAP. She dropped her phone back into her bag. “Got a command performance with the chief. I’ll touch base with you later, Henshaw.”

      He nodded. “I guess I’d better get over there and see how the interviews are going or Flatt’ll be taking over for me.”

      Elaine watched Henshaw amble out to the lobby before she made a move to go. Callahan. Though she’d never met him in person, she’d heard plenty about him. The man had received numerous commendations from the FBI director, even a couple from the president himself. By all reports, Callahan was some sort of Bureau legend. Then, two years ago, things had gone wrong for him. According to the chief, he hadn’t been the same since. She’d seen his face splashed across the TV screen during the hoopla after his partner was murdered. Elaine shivered. He was as handsome as sin.

      And every bit as deadly, if even half the rumors were true.

      Chapter 3

      By eleven-thirty, only twenty minutes after he’d called, Elaine stood outside the chief’s office. Connie, his longtime secretary, had told her to go on in, but she hesitated for some reason. She couldn’t actually justify her hesitation. It seemed irrational, yet she felt compelled to wait a moment longer.

      Maybe it was everything that had happened that morning…a bad mix of personal crisis and unsettling professional remorse. Too much waste. Too little