Pescoli argued, “This was good info.”
“It was thin,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Very thin. You can’t even tell if the driver really is Verdago. His passenger is unidentifiable, and even if it was Verdago and his girlfriend, they could be in Canada by now, or Oregon, or, hell, halfway to Mexico. What the hell made you think they would end up in Samuels’s cabin? This was outrageous action on faulty data.”
She wanted to throw it all back at him, but no matter what she said, he had an answer.
“And you know what?” he railed. “It all backfired. Worse yet, I have no idea what the fuck you did to piss Manny Douglas off, but tomorrow, come hell or high water, the Mountain Reporter is printing a story about eight of my officers, eight deputies and detectives on the public payroll, making a huge blunder that will cost the county thousands of dollars to what? Run a poacher in? The only reason it hasn’t cost us more money is that the department’s bending over backward in the hope that Vincent Samuels doesn’t make a stink. Vincent Samuels. Did you all forget that he’s the judge’s brother, one of the bereaved? He didn’t even know that he’d lost his sister, and you two, along with six others, go in, weapons drawn. Son of a bitch!” He kicked the air in frustration.
Pescoli had never seen him so angry, so worked up. She’d always thought he’d had somewhat of a level head, except when it came to her son and his daughter, of course. Those times when she had witnessed his agitation, it had been intense, his temper blasting hot when it came to his kid. However, at the office, he’d been able to control his emotions.
Not today. Not now that he was in power.
He threw a look at the ceiling, as if hoping God Himself would intervene.
“Samuels is talking about getting a lawyer, you know, for all his pain and suffering. They’ll drum up other charges, too, starting with there was no warrant and that there was no reason to think anyone was in danger out there, or a crime was being committed, or whatever. It won’t stop there, let me tell you. Some hungry attorney wanting to make a name for himself might just take his case and either way, the department will have to deal with the consequences!” He glared down at Pescoli with pure hatred. “This is on you, Pescoli.” Then his attention moved to Alvarez. “You, Detective, should know better. She’s always flown off the handle, breaking or bending any rule that got in her way, but you, you’re supposed to be the cool head.”
“I’m with Pescoli on this one,” Alvarez said tightly.
“Then you’re both idiots!”
His phone rang and he dismissed them with a sharp wave of his hand.
“That was fun,” Alvarez said once they were in the hallway and walking to their offices.
The shifts had changed, most of the officers who worked days having left, the night crew settled in. Still there were voices and the hum of computers, ringing phones, and the glow of interior lights that kept the station abuzz with activity long into the night.
“Maybe we were too quick to pull the trigger,” Alvarez said as they reached Pescoli’s office. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe the image she was seeing in her mind’s eye. “A damned elk.”
“If it weren’t so pathetic, it would be funny,” Pescoli said heavily. She inwardly cringed as she recalled walking through the small cabin, her weapon raised as she checked all the rooms and closets, and even the crawl space and tiny attic, all the while hoping to flush out Maurice Verdago and put the case to rest. She’d checked the garage, too, and sure enough, the huge carcass of a bull elk had been hung from the rafters. Just seeing the skinned animal suspended from a hook had made her stomach lurch. Fired up on adrenaline and then the ultimate humiliation for being so damned wrong, she’d nearly upchucked right then and there.
Fortunately, Manny Douglas didn’t get that reaction on film. How had she read the case so badly? For the love of Christ, Vincent Samuels, oddball loner that he was, hadn’t even known that his sister had been shot and killed.
“You won’t think it’s funny when the story runs tomorrow morning,” Alvarez said. “I can see the headlines now: county sheriff department searches for murderer, finds dead elk.”
“Accompanied by the picture of us holding the judge’s brother at gunpoint?” Pescoli considered the public reaction and the fact that every TV station within a hundred miles would want to delve deeper into the story. Already she’d ignored a call from Honey Carlisle from KBTR and another one from Nia Del Ray of KMJC, a rival station, both reporters obviously having tapped into the police band. The newspaper article in tomorrow’s paper was just the tip of the iceberg.
“Yeah,” she said as she peered into her darkened office where she’d left her Big Gulp with its flattened straw. “It’s going to be great.”
Alvarez looked tired as all get out. “Look, I need a break and I’m taking it. This really messed with me today, and O’Keefe and I are getting together tonight, alone for the first time in a while. But if you need me for anything, my cell will be on.”
“You’re safe. I think I’ve used and abused enough of the staff for the day,” Pescoli said.
Alvarez snaked a glance into the direction of the sheriff’s office. In a low voice, she confided, “O’Keefe said if we need some extra help, you know, the kind that isn’t . . .”
“Legal?”
“I was going to say ‘orthodox.’ If we want that kind of assistance, he offered his services.”
Pescoli was tempted; it would be so nice not to play by the rules or deal with the likes of Brewster. She’d screwed up more times than she’d like to remember in her career, but never had it been the kind of screaming dressing down that she’d just experienced with the acting sheriff. Brewster was a head case pure and simple. So he had a pristine record in law enforcement; that didn’t mean he was a great guy. In his case, far from it. And she felt badly that she’d dragged Alvarez and all the other officers into her own personal hyped-up mess. She’d been so eager to nail the son of a bitch who’d shot Grayson, she’d misread the signs, and now everyone, not just she, was paying the price.
“I think we’d better play this one by the book,” she said. “We want to nail Verdago before he gets another crack at the sheriff or anyone else.”
“You still think it’s him?” After the day’s debacle, Alvarez sounded skeptical.
“Got any better ideas?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither,” Pescoli admitted, and that was what really ticked her off. Outwardly, she acknowledged she’d screwed up. Inwardly, she seethed, her gut telling her she was right, that Verdago was the guy.