“I’m all ears.”
“Crisis Point has scheduled the episode on the Mellin case. Not this week’s program, but next week’s.”
Beth Collins hadn’t specified when it was scheduled, but he pretended that this was news to him. He brightened. “Oh, yeah? Be sure you’re all set to record it. You don’t want to miss seeing yourself on TV.”
“Before it airs, I’m sure the media around here will play it up big. You know, recap the story to refresh everyone’s memory.”
John wanted say that his memory didn’t need refreshing, but he merely nodded.
Tom went on. “I’m already scheduled to do two interviews.”
“Maybe you need a talent agent, Tom, to handle all that scheduling for you.”
John’s nonstop sarcasm hadn’t escaped the other man. His lips had tightened into a thin, straight line. “The point is, you may be approached with a request for an interview. In fact, the officer working the switchboard this morning informed me that before you came in a woman had called asking for you.”
John struggled not to act too interested, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the caller had been Beth Collins. “Did she leave a message, say what she was calling about?”
“No. Declined to talk to anyone else. Didn’t leave her name.”
“Huh.” John shrugged. “No clue.”
“She asked for your cell number.”
John reacted with a start. “Well, I hope to God that whoever took the call didn’t—”
“Of course not. Department policy.”
“And we all know how strict you are about adhering to department policy.” John relaxed back into his chair.
By contrast, Barker hiked up his trousers and assumed a combatant stance. “Now, on the outside chance that you’re being sought for comment about this upcoming program, or about any aspect of that Mellin case, you’d do well to decline. Graciously but firmly.” He lowered his pugnacious chin and looked at John from beneath his eyebrows. “It would be a really bad idea for you to go before a camera.”
John chuckled. “No shit. Looking like this?” He pointed at his face. “There’s not enough makeup in the world to—”
“Cut the crap, Bowie. You know what I’m leading to.”
“Actually, I think I lost the thread.”
The other man’s expression turned even meaner. “Don’t dredge up all that stuff you were mouthing before.”
“Before? By before, do you mean before you closed the case when the body was still missing? That stuff?”
Tom’s face turned red. “I should have convinced the chief to fire you then.”
“For what?”
“Dereliction of duty.”
“I wasn’t the one who was derelict, Tom. But you’re right. You should have convinced him to fire me. I wonder why you didn’t. Oh!” He snapped his fingers, then pointed his index finger at Barker. “It would have looked bad on you.
“One of the senior detectives on the case,” he said, pointing to his own chest, “started raising questions.” John spread his arms at his sides. “Isn’t raising questions in our job description? Isn’t that what detectives are supposed to do in order to detect? Aren’t we meant to be on the lookout for inconsistences, do some meddling, poke and probe when called for?” He paused, but Barker didn’t say anything.
“Obviously that’s not standard operating procedure when you’re leading an investigation,” John said, scoffing. “The truth now, Tom. You wanted me to stay employed only because you didn’t want me out of here and at liberty to talk about the goings-on inside these walls. Am I warm?
“If I’d been free to speak my mind, the public, the attorney general, just about every-damn-body might have wanted to take a closer look at just how hastily and irresponsibly you investigated that girl’s disappearance.”
Barker’s face had become congested with rage, but his voice remained controlled. “You’re a head case, Bowie. An undeclared alcoholic. Your wife had the good sense to leave you and is getting happily fucked by her new boyfriend every night and most daytimes, too.
“Your kid has run off to God knows where. You’ve got nothing to recommend you. And the funny part? Despite all that, you’re a delusional smart-ass who thinks he’s got it all figured out.”
John stood up and lifted his sport coat off the back of his chair. “I’ve got one thing figured out. I don’t have to take this shit.”
“Then quit,” Tom bellowed.
John bore down on him and got right in his face. “Not. On. Your. Life.”
He held the man’s furious stare for several seconds, then turned and walked out, becoming aware that he and Barker had attracted an attentive audience. Other detectives, uniformed patrol officers, a janitor emptying the wastebaskets had all stopped what they’d been doing to watch. John didn’t care. He wouldn’t take back a single word he’d said.
He jogged down the stairs to the ground floor. A minute later, he was in his car, booting up his laptop.
On every thoroughfare between the mobile home park in Auclair and the New Orleans airport, traffic was heavy and belligerent, adding an extra fifteen minutes to the hour and a half drive. Beth was frazzled by the time she had returned the rental car and made her way to the ticket counter.
She’d fibbed to Max in a text, telling him that she’d stood by for the morning flight but had been unable to get a seat. She was confirmed on the four o’clock. He hadn’t bothered sending a return text, but he’d viewed her trip as a fool’s errand and would be happy that she was on her way back.
But she wasn’t happy, damn it. She decided to give it one last try. She moved out of the flow of the airport foot traffic and called the police station again. She was relieved that this time a male voice answered, reducing the chance that her repeat calls would be noted. She asked for John Bowie and was put on hold.
When the officer came back on the line, he informed her that Bowie had been there, but had left. “Couple of hours ago, they said. Maybe longer.” Nobody knew if or when he’d be back before the day was out. Did she want to leave him a message?