Free Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard

my beeper at 15:32 today. Requested ID on a license plate."
    "Why?"
    "She said the car was parked in front of her house. Made her nervous, I guess."
    He sat down and nodded for Swain to continue.
    "I checked the plate."
    He made a gesture of impatience. "And?"
    "Owner's name is Jordan Gray. He's an inspector."
    Jamison narrowed his gaze. "What kind of inspector?"
    Why the hell did he care? Casey McKinley wanted nothing to do with the Bureau. If the Bureau worried about the people they still had working for them...
    "What kind of inspector?" Jamison repeated, his voice raised. His skin had taken on a pink tone that accented his fleshy cheeks and neck.
    "SFPD."
    Jamison didn't move. His gaze attached to the wall behind Rick. His small fists locked into tight balls.
    Though tempted to follow his gaze, Rick kept his eyes on Jamison. Why did it matter what Casey McKinley was doing? Rick knew better than to ask. From day one, everything Rick had learned at the Bureau was on a need-to-know basis. And generally, Rick didn't need to know.
    "Should I do anything if she calls again?"
    Jamison snapped his gaze back into place and popped from his chair like the cork from a champagne bottle.
    Rick tried to ask another question, but Jamison wasn't listening. Leaning back in his chair, Rick lit another cigarette. Jamison mumbled something about Mueller as the door clicked shut.

 
     
     
    Chapter 8

     
    Jordan slammed into the precinct parking lot and jumped from the car. The trip to the East Bay yesterday had been a total waste, and he didn't have time to waste. He'd spent the morning in Marin, checking into the death there with his investigators. The day had passed too quickly. It was going to be dark soon. Another day and not an inch closer to a suspect.
    He had tried to push Agent McKinley from his mind, but he'd been so damned excited about the possibility of getting help from a profiler. Even if she had offered, McKinley was in no state of mind to help them. And the last thing he needed on this case was a self-pitying prima donna.
    Now he was two hours behind. He needed to set up his task force and get a tips line going before something else happened. The commissioner was going to have to address the media. Jordan greeted a couple of inspectors, heading out through the parking lot.
    "Shit's hitting the fan," Sandy Polito said, laughing. His thinning blond hair looked like a wreath of wispy feathers on his shiny head. Despite skinny legs, Polito had a gut that spilled out the front of his pants, making him look strangely top-heavy.
    Jordan returned a thin smile. "Probably won't be like Cortez shit, though, huh?"
    Polito glared at him as his companion said, "He's got you there."
    "Fuck off," Polito snapped.
    Jordan pressed forward, hoping this case wouldn't turn into the disaster Sandy Polito's had. Cortez was a heavy Mexican dealer. His ring spanned from Seattle all the way south to the border. He flowed heroin in and money out like water. Polito had been the supervising inspector on the case, and had handled it well. By the end, Polito was armed with enough evidence to put Cortez and almost a dozen of his cohorts away for life.
    But in a moment of panic, Cortez had tried to skip town. Forced to make a fast decision, Polito had his men pull Cortez over for speeding and then proceeded to search his car without probable cause. After a huge departmental battle, involving the D.A.'s office, Cortez got off on a technicality that stemmed from Polito's mistake. The case was a classic and an ill-humored joke among the inspectors in the department. Jordan wasn't looking forward to the possibility of being the next Polito.
    The thought of how much he had to do shook the fear from his mind as he hurried through the department toward his office. Renee met him at the door, a stack of files in her arms. "I can just tell it wasn't good. So let's move on, shall we?"
    All Jordan had to do was nod. Renee was nearly fifty-five, a thick black woman with