“This is ours,” she said again.
He regarded her for a beat. “Why do I feel working with you is not going to be a win-win situation?”
A bright flare of light turned snowflakes silver, blinding both Angie and Holgersen as they exited the hospital. Then came another flash.
“Shit,” said Holgersen, shading his eyes as an elfin woman in a voluminous raincoat emerged from the shadows carrying a large camera. “It’s that little pit bull from that tabloid trash of a newspaper.”
“Detectives,” the woman said, breathless, her cheeks pinked, her face wet from snow under the bill of her black ball cap. “Merry Winston,City Suncrime repor—”
“What do you want?” said Holgersen.
She raised her camera lens, clicked again.
“Jesus,” Holgersen said, shoving her camera away from his face. “Where do you people get off?”
“You have a young female who was admitted to Saint Jude’s—the victim of a violent sexual assault, I understand. She was found nonresponsive in Ross Bay Cemetery earlier tonight. Can you give me any details?”
Angie and Holgersen exchanged a fast glance.
“And you, what? Just happened to be sitting around listening to the scanner at three a.m. on a Sunday morning?” Holgersen said. “You ain’t got no life, or what?”
“I drove to Ross Bay, saw the ambulance, saw the paramedics treating a woman, then a Metro PD cruiser arrived, and I saw two uniformed cops talking to one of those ghost tour groups. I got photos. I know the victim was brought here. Now you guys arrive—sex crimes. Do you have an ID? How old is she? What happened? Is the perpetrator still at large? Are others in danger?”
Angie glared at her, then turned and stalked toward her vehicle.
“What is her status?” the woman called after her. “She was alive, from the way the paramedics were working on her! What was she doing in the cemetery? Any suspects? Any words for the new mayor on how another sexual assault will impact the city and his new tough-on-crime mandate?”
Angie reached her Crown Vic, beeped the lock.
Merry Winston came scurrying after them. “Look, I’m going to run with what I do have, so—”
Angie whirled around and took a fast step toward the woman. The reporter fell silent, stepped backward.
“Hold your photos,” Angie said quietly, up real close and in the woman’s face. “Hold your story, okay? Do that, and ... we’ll give you an exclusive.”
“Hold until when?”
“Until we’ve notified next of kin. At least.”
“So youdohave an ID on her?”
“Yeah,” Angie lied.
“Is she Annelise Janssen, the student who’s been missing for two weeks?”
“You coming, Holgersen?” Angie got into her vehicle, slammed the door, and palmed off her wet skullcap. Holgersen slid into the passenger seat beside her and swore as he shut his door.
“Freaking ambulance chaser. D’you think she’ll hold off on the story?”
“No.” Angie engaged the ignition, shoved the car into gear. She pulled out of her parking space.
“Well, our Jane Doe is no match to the photos and description of Annelise Janssen, that’s for sures—you could have said that much.”
“I don’t talk to the press.”
“You just told her we had an ID and that she’ll get an exclusive.”
“To shut her the fuck up.”
