What Janie Saw(42)
Rafe didn’t seem to notice. He continued on with impressive single-mindedness, opening a door and ushering Janie into a hallway. As the door slammed behind them, the irate woman’s voice muted somewhat and soon blended with the behind-the-scenes sounds of a busy police station.
This late on a Monday night, there were few officers present. One officer was on the phone. In a cubicle, another officer spoke to a young couple. The woman was softly crying.
Rafe guided Janie into somebody’s office. She’d just sat down when the door opened.
She expected Nathan Williamson; surely this was his office. At the very least, she expected another man in blue. Instead, Janie’s mouth went dry the moment an officer delivered one of the sulking kids.
But...why wasn’t he handcuffed?
She scooted closer to Rafe. He noticed, smiled and, of all things, gave the tattooed man a back slap.
Tattoo Guy grinned—surprisingly he had all his teeth—and said, “Looks like this case is blowing wide open,” he said. “And, you were right, most of it is going down here.”
“Glad you could make it. I notice you brought your entourage.”
“One of the perks of the job.” Mr. Tattoo turned to Janie and held out a hand. His nails were short and dirty. For that matter, so was the sleeve of his shirt.
“I always wear long sleeves,” he said. “It hides the needle marks.”
Rafe laughed. “Go ahead and shake his hand. He’s not contagious, and I know for a fact he faints when confronted with a needle. The tats are fake. This is Justin Robbins, one of the best cops I’ve ever met. I mentioned him to you earlier.”
“I feel like I’ve been punked,” Janie said.
“I feel punked every day,” Justin said, “when I look in the mirror.”
“Do I need to worry about you blowing his cover?” Rafe asked.
Before Janie had a chance to respond, someone cleared his throat. Loudly. Nathan had entered.
Justin moved aside to let Nathan in.
To Janie’s surprise, Rafe motioned her toward one of the chairs and took the other while Justin perched on the edge of a half-size file cabinet. Williamson was beefier, older and grouchier than Rafe, yet in many ways very similar to Rafe. He appeared very unhappy about the crowd in his ultraclean office. Outside of cop paraphernalia—awards, newspaper articles—and one small photo of him and a chubby young woman with a lot of hair, there was nothing in his office to prove the man had a life.
He held out his hand to Rafe. “I hear you have something for me.”
Rafe gave him the art book. Williamson walked around them to sit at his desk and then put on a pair of gloves before pulling the book from the evidence bag, flipping it open and skimming a few pages. He started to close it, but then stopped, one finger marking a page, every muscle in his body tensed. White-lipped, he said, “This should have been turned over to my department immediately.”
“Read the last page,” Rafe suggested, ignoring the other man’s assertion.
Nathan’s lips stayed pressed together in a thin white line as he read. He uttered a curse word. “Okay, this changes things. I’m glad I asked Justin to stop by in case there’s something the two of us...” He paused, looked at Janie, then included her by saying, “...the three of us, can piece together about Derek Chaney.”