Free Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) by Danielle Girard Page A
Authors: Danielle Girard
solid white hair, who protected Jordan's business like a guard dog. From seven a.m. to five p.m., no one, not even the chief, entered Jordan's office without her permission. Despite the comfort her protection brought, it wasn't what Jordan treasured most about his longtime assistant.
Like his mother, Renee refused to dwell on anything negative. Her determination was often enough to keep anyone in her orbit motivated, and Jordan depended on her more than either of them acknowledged. "It's going to be a late one, Renee. We've got a task force and tips line to worry about."
She nodded, propping her notebook on her files and scribbling notes. "What's the task force look like?"
"I don't know. I need a couple of people to go over to Marin and interview the victim's family about the fire and get a statement from the sheriff there. I've been out there, but it doesn't look like we're going to get much.
"Also, we need to know about the body." He swallowed and shook his head. "It was probably cremated." In his experience, most burn victims were. "Burial would mean we'll need the remains exhumed. Carrera will have suggestions on who you can get to go over there."
"I'll get with her and find out. Also, D.A.'s office called."
Jordan winced. "Who are they sending?"
Renee smiled. "They were going to send Willard."
He groaned. Ben Willard was a third, the son of Bernard Willard, II, managing partner of Willard Associates. All three Willards were attorneys; all three had started in the D.A.'s office. For them, the current gig was to gain a little street experience before climbing to the top of the ivory tower and negotiating sentences for the rich and famous. Willard acted like a prissy schoolgirl, carrying around a starched white handkerchief that he used to open doors in the station. Perhaps he was concerned that he might chip a nail on the heavy handles. Whatever the reason, he and Jordan did not see eye to eye—on anything.
"But—" Renee interjected.
"But what?"
"I mentioned the case Strioski is working on?"
Jordan narrowed his gaze. "Which case?"
"The black kid kicked out of the movie theater by some big white bouncer guy. Kid claims he was brutalized because he's black."
"I know that one. It's not a case. It's some punk kid trying to get a free ride at the movies."
Renee grinned. "Willard thinks it's a history maker—battle of the races in San Francisco. Even gave his spot on the serial killer case to Mary Riggs."
Jordan cracked a smile. "Renee, you're dangerous, you hear me?"
She snapped her fingers. "You better believe it. Mary will be by in about an hour." Renee made a note and looked back up with a wink.
"What's next?"
"Becky called, and the chief wants a list of facts for the evening news."
Jordan had anticipated that one of the heads would speak to the public. It was his job to determine what they would be told. Too little, and the tips line would be worthless in helping them. Too much, and they wouldn't be able to weed out the good leads from the bad. "Who's addressing?"
"The mayor or maybe the chief. I don't think they've decided yet."
"Either's fine. We need to have a tips line ready by tonight. Will you call in Monica Pradahn? I'd like her to lead up the group and handle the press." Monica, pronounced Mo-Nee-ka, was a petite, trim, energetic Indian woman who embodied the meticulous organizational and managerial qualities that were invaluable for a successful tips line. Beyond that, she invoked humor and calm at the craziest of times.
When Monica joined the force seven years earlier, from the Los Angeles department, Jordan had continually mispronounced her name. Despite constant criticism from colleagues about his insensitivity and more embarrassment than he cared to recall, Monica never once lost her cool. Instead, she responded to each butchering by simply smiling and correcting him. Again.
"I'll get her on the phone right now. Anything else?"
The truck he had seen in front of Agent McKinley's house
Like his mother, Renee refused to dwell on anything negative. Her determination was often enough to keep anyone in her orbit motivated, and Jordan depended on her more than either of them acknowledged. "It's going to be a late one, Renee. We've got a task force and tips line to worry about."
She nodded, propping her notebook on her files and scribbling notes. "What's the task force look like?"
"I don't know. I need a couple of people to go over to Marin and interview the victim's family about the fire and get a statement from the sheriff there. I've been out there, but it doesn't look like we're going to get much.
"Also, we need to know about the body." He swallowed and shook his head. "It was probably cremated." In his experience, most burn victims were. "Burial would mean we'll need the remains exhumed. Carrera will have suggestions on who you can get to go over there."
"I'll get with her and find out. Also, D.A.'s office called."
Jordan winced. "Who are they sending?"
Renee smiled. "They were going to send Willard."
He groaned. Ben Willard was a third, the son of Bernard Willard, II, managing partner of Willard Associates. All three Willards were attorneys; all three had started in the D.A.'s office. For them, the current gig was to gain a little street experience before climbing to the top of the ivory tower and negotiating sentences for the rich and famous. Willard acted like a prissy schoolgirl, carrying around a starched white handkerchief that he used to open doors in the station. Perhaps he was concerned that he might chip a nail on the heavy handles. Whatever the reason, he and Jordan did not see eye to eye—on anything.
"But—" Renee interjected.
"But what?"
"I mentioned the case Strioski is working on?"
Jordan narrowed his gaze. "Which case?"
"The black kid kicked out of the movie theater by some big white bouncer guy. Kid claims he was brutalized because he's black."
"I know that one. It's not a case. It's some punk kid trying to get a free ride at the movies."
Renee grinned. "Willard thinks it's a history maker—battle of the races in San Francisco. Even gave his spot on the serial killer case to Mary Riggs."
Jordan cracked a smile. "Renee, you're dangerous, you hear me?"
She snapped her fingers. "You better believe it. Mary will be by in about an hour." Renee made a note and looked back up with a wink.
"What's next?"
"Becky called, and the chief wants a list of facts for the evening news."
Jordan had anticipated that one of the heads would speak to the public. It was his job to determine what they would be told. Too little, and the tips line would be worthless in helping them. Too much, and they wouldn't be able to weed out the good leads from the bad. "Who's addressing?"
"The mayor or maybe the chief. I don't think they've decided yet."
"Either's fine. We need to have a tips line ready by tonight. Will you call in Monica Pradahn? I'd like her to lead up the group and handle the press." Monica, pronounced Mo-Nee-ka, was a petite, trim, energetic Indian woman who embodied the meticulous organizational and managerial qualities that were invaluable for a successful tips line. Beyond that, she invoked humor and calm at the craziest of times.
When Monica joined the force seven years earlier, from the Los Angeles department, Jordan had continually mispronounced her name. Despite constant criticism from colleagues about his insensitivity and more embarrassment than he cared to recall, Monica never once lost her cool. Instead, she responded to each butchering by simply smiling and correcting him. Again.
"I'll get her on the phone right now. Anything else?"
The truck he had seen in front of Agent McKinley's house