Inside, the place was nearly dark, battened down for the nightshift. Peppy commercial music from a back room told him someone was working, feeding the beast, as they said in this business. “Ms. Evans?” he called out.
“Here.” Her voice came from down a long dimly lit hallway. Someone was standing behind her. That skinny kid—the cameraman who seemed perennially glued to her side. He had shaggy hair and wore an earring, was probably a fag.
As Brad watched her silhouette walking toward him—tight straight skirt, mile-long legs—he noted again what a fine piece of woman Jamie Evans was. Too bad they weren’t getting to know each other under better circumstances.
“I wouldn’t normally come to the station,” he started, “but I can’t believe what I just heard. One of the detectives said the Osage County Sheriff spotted your Channel Six vehicle out on the Hart Ranch today.”
“Shot a teaser,” Jamie shrugged. “It’s not illegal.”
“It was stupid as hell, Ms. Evans.” He leaned sarcastically on the Ms. as if it was an insult. “If I’m going to feed you tips that give you the advantage on this story, I expect you to show a little discretion.”
“Discretion?”
“Biddle. If he spotted you, you alerted him.”
“Alerted?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Brad’s eyes narrowed on her. “You talked to him, didn’t you? You realize you may have given Biddle time to hide important evidence. What did he say, what did he do, when you told him poor Susie’s remains had been found?”
“What did he do?”
“Ms. Evans,” he ground her name out through clenched teeth. “Echoing the question is an old lawyer’s trick. Do you want to keep using me as a source on this story or not?”
As soon as he said it, Brad wished his mouth had an “undo” button. He felt his nostrils flare as he fought to rein in his temper, reminding himself that he was the one who needed Jamie Evans.
“Do you want me to keep using you?” When it came to the DA’s office, sometimes Jamie wondered who was using whom. She wasn’t about to admit she’d talked to Biddle. Alexander’s eyes had flashed with such fury just now that she thought he might actually strike her.
“Thanks to your little teaser, Ms. Evans, we’ll have to hustle to get a search warrant out there, maybe even tonight.”
“A search warrant?” Jamie’s pulse shifted into high gear. “For what?”
“I’m not inclined to tell you.” Brad’s voice was petulant.
“Now, Brad.” She tried for a conciliatory tone. Even if Brad Alexander did grate on her nerves, big time, how often did a neophyte reporter connect with a powerful source like this? The First Assistant District Attorney. She didn’t exactly understand why he was coming to her, and she even wondered if Brad the Brat, as she and Dave liked to call him behind his back, had the hots for her or something. She scrubbed that very revolting thought. But Brad definitely had some kind of hidden agenda. “Look. I’m sorry I went out there. But the M.E. was my official source on that one, and you should have told me Biddle was a suspect. Now, what are we looking for?”
“Did you get video of Biddle?”
“Nothing useful,” Jamie said. She knew what was coming next. Segments of news video had ended up in courtrooms before. “What are we looking for?” she pressed.
“Probable cause.”
Employing that we bit worked every time. Brad seemed suddenly cooperative now that Jamie had something he wanted.
He went on, “The cops have circumstantial evidence, motive—”
“Motive?”
“Yes. The Biddle marriage was strained. If they split up, she would have taken him for half of everything—the ranch, the mansion, the oil royalties.”
Jamie frowned. Nothing in her investigation had indicated marital problems. How had the police—and Brad—gotten this kind of information? She made a mental note to find out.
Brad was still talking, checking his list off on his fingers, “We have opportunity, witnesses, everything but modus operandi, which, in a crime of passion, wouldn’t apply. Now we need some physical clues. A knife, specifically. The autopsy showed a significant marring, a scrape on the clavicle, which would indicate a slashing or hacking wound.”
Jamie could feel Dave cringing beside her, but she pressed on while Alexander was in the mood to talk. “A cut across the collarbone. Was that the cause of death?”
“Probably not. The M.E. thinks it was a fall—she had a broken neck. But the wound would have been significant, too, possibly from a large hunting knife.”
Dave made a shocked little noise, then said, “There would have been a lot of blood. You know, bloody residue wherever…the, uh, injury took place…” His voice trailed off.
“So then, out at the ranch,” Jamie asked, “they’re probably going to do that test you told me about once? The one where the black light turns old bloodstains blue? Whaddaya call it?”
Suddenly Brad looked worried, and a warning blip crossed Jamie’s radar. “Yes. Luminol,” he said absently. “They’ll spray the walls, the furniture, maybe even rip up the carpet.”
Jamie waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so she scrambled for more questions, anything to keep him talking. “So they’ll test those surfaces for blood residue, for DNA evidence?”
“Yes, DNA,” Alexander said, clearly distracted now.
“What about the Biddle mansion here in Tulsa?” Jamie pumped him. “Are the cops going to spray there, too?”
“Of course.”
Jamie’s source was drying up right before her eyes. He checked his watch. She quickly said, “And what about that neighbor who overheard them having a loud argument the night Susan Biddle disappeared?”
Brad seemed surprised that she knew about that, and the question brought him back into focus. “Old Mrs. Petree has passed on unfortunately.”
“But you guys still have her deposition?”
“Yes.”
“Now what?” Jamie pressed.
“Van Horn will get the Osage County Sheriff to go out and search the Hart Ranch immediately. We can get a search warrant for the Tulsa home from a judge here first thing tomorrow.” Brad’s eyebrows shot up and he checked his watch again. “Listen. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” Jamie said as he backed up. “Will they search the whole ranch? And when will they do this search?”
“Tonight, if possible.”
“You’ll tell me when they go?”
“Yeah, sure. Yes,” he repeated more emphatically, then stopped in his tracks, seeming suddenly intent on that idea. “In fact, I’ll page you. You’re thinking of covering it?”
“Absolutely.” Jamie shot Dave a look, and Dave arched an eyebrow as he tugged on his earring. “Maybe we can even get the chopper,” he muttered.
As Brad watched their exchange, he felt less tense, more in control. The reporter and her skinny shadow would be on that ranch like stink on shit, and a little media ruckus would prove a very useful distraction. He’d make sure Van Horn let him organize the search warrants so he could stall to allow himself enough time. Now if only the tall grasses were very dry and the winds were blowing just right…
THE