Pallorino knocked on the door, her spine erect and her shoulders squared, her game face back on.
The door opened, revealing a young man of average height, blond hair fashionably cut around a boyish face. He wore a bathrobe and stood barefoot on the wood floor.
“Jon Jacques?” Pallorino said.
“Who are you?”
“Detectives Pallorino and Maddocks, MVPD homicide,” she said, holding out her badge. Maddocks offered his. “Can we have a moment of your time?”
Jacques made a laborious show of carefully checking both their IDs. Behind him hardwood floors gleamed toward an expanse of windows that looked out over the city. His living room furniture was white. Music played inside. “What is it, J.J.?” came a female voice.
“Nothing, babe,” he called over his shoulder. “Stay hot for me. I’ll be right back.” He returned their badges to them. “How did you get into the building without buzzing me first?”
“We understand you knew Gracie Marie Drummond,” she said.
“Gracie? Yeah, from the tennis club, yeah.” His body posture changed slightly, and his hand went to the doorknob, as if blocking entry.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
A beat of silence. “I hardly knew her.”
“Can we come in?” Maddocks said.
“No.”
“You drive a black Bimmer,” he said. It was not a question—he’d already checked. A BMW Z4 E89 Slingshot was registered to this punk.
“So what if I do?”
“You dated Drummond,” Pallorino said. “That’s a little more intimate than ‘hardly knew her.’”
“Look, I have company right now, and I really don’t like your questions, and I really don’t have to answer them. My father told me that you cops had bugged him about someone else yesterday and that you might come around. He’s put a lawyer at my disposal, and—”
“And your father just made a leap of logic that because cops asked him questions about ‘someone else’ that we’d come here and ask you about Gracie Drummond?”
He gave a laugh, but his eyes showed nerves. J.J. Jr.clearly was not the sharpest tool in the shed.
“Not at all. My father has just learned from experience that when you guys go on a fishing expedition, or on one of your witch hunts, that you attack his family from all angles—this is harassment, so unless you’re going to charge me with some trumped-up thing, I have nothing to say.” He began to shut the door.
Maddocks put his foot in the way. “Next time,” he said, “we do this down at the station.”
“Obnoxious little fuckhead,” said Maddocks as they drove off, his partner at the wheel.
“Jacques, Pennington, Butler, that pastor Gilani from what Holgersen and Leo say—it’s like there’s a conspiracy of silence,” Pallorino said.
“Except for the media and Merry Winston and her loose-lipped informant.” He hesitated. “What did happen with her this morning?”
She cast him a sideways glance. “I told her to back off, and I asked her who her other rape cases were and who the leak was.”
“She give anything?”
“No.”
“No surprise there. What did you mean when you said you ‘got to her’?”
Pallorino took a deep, slow breath, and he could see her hands tightening around the wheel. “I told her that I cared. About Fernyhough and Ritter. About justice for Drummond and Hocking. That I cared about protecting vulnerable young women and kids, and that’s why I did this job. I told her that her reports using confidential information could put other young women in jeopardy.” She paused, moistening her lips, and Maddocks got the sense she’d opened the window, just a crack, and he was getting a glimpse of the real Angie Pallorino inside. “But although she told me nothing concrete, I know I got through to her. And I did get something else, a feeling she’s damaged goods. She’s been in a bad place, and we need to look into her background, because the more we know about her, the closer we’ll get to her informer. I’m sure of it. I’m going to have her run through the system.”
“You think Fitz hasn’t already done that? She doesn’t have a record.”
