“We’ll set something up later—”
“Later? Like after Derrick Ricci is sitting in prison?”
Spenser’s body immediately tensed up at the mention of her former partner’s name. Her face warmed, and her skin prickled as a sneer crossed her lips as she fought to keep her anger in check.
“And what do you think you know about Derrick Ricci?” Spenser asked.
“Not a lot. Yet,” she replied. “But a source recently tipped me off that your former partner is on trial and, from what I hear, is likely going to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“You would need to speak with the FBI’s New York field office and the US Attorney’s office since I am not part of that case.”
“But I’m asking you, Spenser. I mean, since Derrick is your former partner, I thought you might have something to say or some intimate knowledge of the case you’d like to share.”
“I don’t.”
“Are you sure? Because that’s not what I hear.”
“Then you’re hearing wrong.”
“Am I?”
Foster’s dark eyes bored into Spenser, reaching and probing. It was like she could see through her, which was a feeling Spenser did not enjoy. Not one bit. It took her a moment, but Spenser realized Kyra Foster was a trap. It was all too easy to see her one way, dismissing her and not taking her seriously with her Wednesday Addams-esque looks and manner of dress. Underneath all the dark eyeliner and babydoll dress beat the heart of a shark.
“Who’s your source?” Spenser asked.
“Come on, Sheriff. You know I can’t tell you that.”
“And what is it this source told you?”
“My source tells me Derrick Ricci is on trial for murdering your husband—a crime he didn’t commit,” Foster said. “Is that true?”
“I have no comment on that. As I said, I’m not involved with that case.”
“Don’t you think it speaks to your credibility that a man is being tried for a crime you know he didn’t commit? What would you say to the voters who might worry about your ability to fairly administer justice in your role as sheriff?”
“I wouldn’t say anything. My record speaks for itself,” Spenser replied. “I have done nothing but work tirelessly to do my job and to make this town as safe as it can possibly be. And I’ve done it fairly and by the letter of the law.”
“But have you really?”
Spenser clenched her jaw. “And what do you mean by that, Ms. Foster?”
“I’m just saying that your arrest of JJ Johansen and his friends, some are saying, was politically motivated. That it was driven by a petty agenda rather than by anything close to resembling the law. That arrest has ruffled some feathers,” she replied.
“The only feathers it’s ruffled are those on Rafe Johansen and all his sycophants—which I’m sure is where you’re getting those ideas,” Spenser growled. “The case against JJ Johansen and his teammates is legally sound, was done by the book, and was closed with overwhelming evidence of guilt. There was nothing untoward about it. Don’t take my word for it, though. Speak with the King County DA. They’re prosecuting the case. Not me.”
“You say that a lot—they’re prosecuting the case and not you,” Foster countered. “It seems like you make it a habit of passing the buck. That isn’t really a positive trait in a town sheriff… is it?”
“Sounds to me like you’re carrying Rafe Johansen’s water. I hope he’s paying you well for it.”
“I’m only doing my job, Spenser.”
“It’s Sheriff Song,” Spenser scoffed with a dismissive wave. “And it seems painfully obvious that you don’t know how the legal system works.”
“Enlighten me, Sheriff.”
“Once I finish an investigation and make an arrest, that’s where my job ends. It’s up to the county DA to bring charges and prosecute the cases.”
“But that’s a little disingenuous, isn’t it? I mean, you are still involved with a case until a prosecution is successful. Don’t you often have to testify—”
“You are splitting hairs, Ms. Foster. And I don’t have time for this.”
“Let’s go back to Derrick Ricci—”
“Let’s not,” Spenser snapped. “And let me give you a piece of advice—especially if you want to be taken seriously—vet your sources. You shouldn’t be relying on obviously biased sources with an agenda like Rafe Johansen or Alex Ricci to make your story.”
A shadow crossed her face, and her expression tightened. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell Spenser that she was right about Foster’s sources.
“I appreciate the advice, Sheriff. But I think I’m doing all right.”
“Are you, though?” Spenser said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you’re content writing tabloid garbage, keep doing what you’re doing and carrying water for people who’ve got an obvious axe to grind,” Spenser said. “But if you hope to be an actual journalist, a respected journalist, you’re going to need to get the actual facts of a case before you write about it. That’s my two cents.”
Her eyes narrowed and she seemed suddenly shaky. Spenser could see she’d hit a nerve.
“Thanks for the career advice, Sheriff.”
