She drove to the main police station on Freeport Boulevard in the older neighborhood of South Land Park and asked to see Detective Black. She was told he was in the field, so she waited in the parking lot. Quickly, her car became an oven, and she sat under an oak tree. She used the time wisely on her cell phone, covering her dad’s business and making sure his construction crews knew that just because she wasn’t in the office didn’t mean she didn’t have eyes and ears on them—and if anyone slacked off or cut corners, she wasn’t in the mood for second chances. Most of her crew were long-timers, but because of the economy, she sometimes had to hire guys she didn’t know as well. She depended on her project manager to monitor the crews daily. So far, the day’s work was being done competently, on time, and within budget.
She leaned against the tree and stared at the parking lot, waiting for the detective. She couldn’t forget how scared, how old, her grandfather had looked yesterday morning. She would never forget how she felt running down the wooden planks of the sidewalk, thinking Dooley was dead.
Shauna had known Mack Duncan for nine, nearly ten years, since the day Dooley hired him. She’d been eighteen at the time, sitting at the end of the bar, studying for finals in between balancing Dooley’s books. She’d been managing his finances since she was fifteen and realized his accountant was ripping him off with fees and charges that were completely unnecessary. Dooley was a great owner-operator of the pub, but he’d never been a numbers person.
Mack had walked in, responding to the ad Dooley had run looking for a full-time bartender. Unshaven, with receding hair in a stubby ponytail and a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, he looked like an old rocker who had always been on the fringe. But Dooley saw a military tattoo on his bicep and talked to him for nearly three hours while they drank beer. Mack had been a vet from the first Desert Storm, had been in and out of jobs because of a gambling habit he said he’d beat. Dooley took a chance on him, and it had paid off. Mack had proven loyal and had taken over much of the hard labor of running the bar, things Dooley should have stopped doing years before like swapping out kegs and getting on the floor to fix the plumbing. Without Mack, Shauna suspected Dooley would have retired years ago. Mack kept Dooley’s alive.
An hour after she first sat under the tree, John Black finally drove into the parking lot. It was already after one in the afternoon, and Shauna was sweating from the heat, even in her shaded spot.
She strode over to him, hot and crabby and ready for answers.
“Detective,” she said, “I need a minute.”
He seemed surprised to see her. He glanced at the tree, then back at her. She put her hands on her hips—she wasn’t going to be brushed off.
“That’s about all I have,” he said and motioned for her to follow him into the station.
“Then I won’t waste your time,” she said. A wave of artificially cool air assaulted her damp skin. She shivered as she followed Black. “I read every article on the downtown robberies and there are hardly any similarities between them and Mack’s murder. Three key differences—the robberies targeted liquor stores and bars only—no restaurants, like Dooley’s pub. Second, the injuries to the clerks were minimal—no one required hospitalization. And third, all the robberies took place east of 10th Street and west of Business-80—a tight area of about two square miles. Dooley’s is a full mile west of 10th. According to Smith’s Crime Blotter—”
“Don’t use him as a source.” Black scowled as he opened a door that led to the main squad room. “It’s not going to help your case.”
Shauna wasn’t put off as she followed him. “He wrote that the thieves only took cash and alcohol, and the gang unit believes that the crimes are part of the DT Gang.”
Black motioned for her to sit as his desk. She did, though she couldn’t keep still. She tapped her fingers over the files spilling over his inbox.
“ADHD?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She put her hands in her lap. “Forget the Blotter, okay? I don’t think those gangbangers are the same guys who killed Mack. And I talked to the owners of the two sports memorabilia stores in the area, and they both said no one—”
“You what?”
Black was angry. Shauna backpedaled just a bit. “I know them both. Dooley is friends with them, okay? One of them authenticated his baseballs. They’ll recognize them if someone tries to sell them.”
“Ms. Murphy, not only could you jeopardize this entire investigation, but you could get hurt. What do I need to say to convince you I’m qualified? Show you my pay stubs going back nineteen years? Show you my college diploma? My ranking when I graduated from the police academy? Figure out my stats for clearing cases?”