“Where’s Holgersen?” he said.
“Washroom or having a smoke—don’t know.”
“Get in here,” he said with a jerk of his head. “Come catch me up.”
She abandoned the files and followed Vedder into his glass-walled office. He closed the door behind them, slapped a copy of theCity Sunonto his desk.
“You just caught this case last night. It’s not even nine thirty a.m., and you’re all over the front page. I already have Fitz on my back, and Singh is on his, going all the way up the chain of command to Chief Gunnar. You talked to theSun?”
Angie’s gaze dropped to the paper on Vedder’s desk. Across the top of page one a big, black, blocky headline blared:
Violent Sexual Assault in Ross Bay Cemetery—Young Woman Left in Coma
Beneath the headline was a photo of the two paramedics wheeling their Jane Doe into the back of an ambulance. Beside it was another image—her and Holgersen exiting Saint Jude’s, she in her black wool cap, hair pulled back, face tight and complexion ghost-white in the light of the harsh flash. Her mascara-smudged eyes and overly red lips gave her an aura of a haunted addict. Holgersen fared no better—looking just as much a narc user with his hollow cheeks, sharp bones, mad eyes. She snatched up the tabloid and skimmed through the story.
Metro sex crimes detectives have identified the victim and are notifying next of kin. No word yet on whether the woman could be Annelise Janssen—a UVic student and daughter of prominent Victoria industrialist Steve Janssen. The student mysteriously vanished from campus a fortnight ago ... adding to the growing crime statistics that new mayor-elect Jack Killion has vowed to stem ...
“You’re kidding me?” She looked up from the paper. “She’s dragging Killion into this?”
“The rest of the city media will have picked the story up and be running wild with it within the hour. Who told this reporter it was a sexual assault anyway?”
“She appears to be in possession of a scanner. She went to the cemetery and saw for herself. Perhaps she spoke to one of the EMTs, someone at the hospital—I don’t know.”
Vedder heaved out a sigh and dragged his hand over hair that had started to thin over the last six months. “Okay, so what have you got, what do you need? Who is the victim?”
“We don’t have an ID on her yet.”
“So what’s this reporter saying, then? Did you tell her that she’d been identified?”
“I didn’t deny it.” Angie tossed the paper back onto his desk.
He swore. “Way to notify next of kin, Pallorino. This is somebody’s kid. Somebody’s sibling—”
“Like I don’t know that,” she snapped.
“And let me tell you something else.” He jabbed his fingers on the photo of her and Holgersen. “You can bet your ass that Gunnar isn’t too happy about seeingyourface on the front pages again—I sure as hell am not. You’re becoming like the poster child for things gone wrong with Metro PD,myunit in particular.”
Anger stabbed fast through her. She clenched her jaw. “Don’t. Don’t you dare, Vedder. What happened with Hash—that was not my fault. I was cleared in—”
“Okay, okay.” He raised both palms in surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He cursed again and smoothed his palm over his hair once more before turning to face his window. He stood in silence for a moment, his back to her, watching the sleet against the panes. Tension shimmered between them. Angie’s heart thumped. Her neck was wire taut.
“All due respect, sir,” she said quietly, straining for calm, “I didn’t run this story. That woman shanghaied us outside the hospital. I frankly don’t see that it’s such a big deal, anyway. Half the stuff in that piece of tabloid trash is either fabricated, slanted, or unsubstantiated, and people know it.”
He nodded slowly, turned. His eyes met hers. “Apologies, Angie,” he said, softening his voice. “We all miss Hash. Tensions ... are just running high right now. Everyone’s expecting Gunnar’s head to roll, and who knows who’s going with him—could be me next.” He paused. “You doing okay? Holgersen working out?”
“It’s early yet.”
“He’s good. Make it work.”
She inhaled. “Yeah.”
“So what’ve you all got? Catch me up.”
“The cemetery assault could be linked to the old Fernyhough and Ritter cases.” She quickly gave him a rundown, hitting at the similarities, but before she could finish, a knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Vedder called.
The door opened. It was one of the uniforms. “We got Jane Doe’s mother,” the cop said, excitement hot in his eyes. “She’s at Saint Jude’s right now. Lorna Drummond. She saw the newspaper headlines this morning and rushed right over, hysterical because her kid hadn’t come home from her Saturday night shift at the bakery.”
