Gathering Dark Candice Fox (e reader TXT) 📖

account had changed, become simpler under the guidance of a legal professional. She had indeed charged over to the Orlov household to confront the couple about the music, and Orlov had grabbed his gun in a rage and pointed it at Harbour. In a vicious struggle for the gun, which included Zea, the weapon somehow got turned around, went off, struck Orlov in the chest. That explanation didn’t wash with Sanchez and Nandermann either. Ballistics had shown Orlov was hit from a distance of five feet, and Harbour’s bizarre behavior after the crime didn’t indicate an accidental shooting.

Harbour had been psychologically assessed by specialists from both the prosecution and defense. She was perfectly sane, and showed no signs of a hidden, lingering mental illness that might have peaked during the altercation. There were no signs of perinatal depression or mania that the defense could lean on.

Jessica paused the video and sat back in her chair, looking at the image of Harbour. She wondered again what she was doing, why the Harbour case was drawing her back in. It was open and shut. Neighbor snaps, kills neighbor. Just because Harbour had a cute kid, Jessica reminded herself, that didn’t mean she wasn’t a stone-cold psychopath. Plenty of vicious serial killers had normal, well-adjusted kids. Jessica saw a write-up about one every now and then in the Times: My Mom, the South-Side Baby Killer. She closed the Harbour video and was about to rise when a hand fell on her shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice said.

Jessica winced, but it wasn’t Wallert or Vizchen standing over her. It was a man in his sixties whom Jessica hadn’t personally encountered in her brushes with IAG, but nevertheless knew well. Detective Cheng Woo slid a buttock of his gray trousers onto Jessica’s desk, forcing her to retreat backward in her chair, bumping into the divider between her desk and the next. Already she could feel the eyes of her colleagues on her again, people glancing around computer monitors or taking conspicuously brief trips to the coffee area to see what was happening over the cubicle wall.

“Detective Woo.” Jessica nodded in greeting. “I was just checking on some open cases, making sure they’ve been taken up in my absence.”

“Everything’s fine, Sanchez. You’ll find all your cases have been reassigned. Running like clockwork without you, as difficult as you might find that to believe.”

A snicker from nearby. Jessica didn’t bite.

“In fact, I’ve already begun seeing to the two internal investigations that feature your name,” Woo said. He was talking loudly enough for a group of people at the end of the row of desks to hear.

“Two investigations?” Jessica said.

“The officer-involved shooting and the Brentwood inheritance.”

“Ah,” Jessica said. “You guys over there in IAG are so quick, I thought you’d have figured out by now that the two are related.”

“It’s a very curious set of circumstances, the Lonscote Place shooting in particular,” Woo said. He eased more of his bulk onto Jessica’s desk, nudging aside pencils and papers. “I can’t really get my head around it. To me it seems that either two diligent, capable, and committed officers like Wallert and Vizchen failed to back up a fellow officer in life-threatening circumstances—”

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘capable’?” Jessica asked.

“—or you, a decorated officer with some regrettable disciplinary marks against your name, someone who had only just learned of a life-altering change of fortune, stormed off on your own to try to play the hero cop.”

There it was again. Hero cop. Vizchen had said it the night of the shooting. Jessica bit her tongue.

“So which is it?” Woo held out his hands.

“I think it’s completely inappropriate for me to comment here,” Jessica said.

“Why?” Woo looked around. “We’re just talking informally. I’m not wearing a wire.” He laughed. “Our interview is scheduled for next week.”

“You’re trying to get me to—”

“From some initial reports I have seen, there’s a suggestion that Wallert might have been under the influence of alcohol,” Woo said. “His judgment might have been impaired, and it might have caused him to fail to follow you on your pursuit of the suspect. Is that true, Sanchez? Was your partner drinking that night?”

Jessica’s hands formed fists in her lap. The knuckles cracked. No one was doing much to disguise their interest now. A group of officers had moved in from the coffee area and were standing, cups out from their hips like guns, in the middle of the aisle, only feet away, waiting to see if she would betray her partner to IAG. If she would betray them all.

“I’m not…” Jessica took a deep breath. “I’m not talking about it here.”

“And then there’s the house, of course,” Woo said. “We need to talk about that when we meet. You said just now it was connected to the shooting. In what way was it connected? I’m so curious about all this. Was your judgment compromised by the news, perhaps? Were you so filled with confidence from receiving such a substantial reward for your services that you—”

“I said I’m not talking about this here.” Jessica rose from her seat so fast that Woo shot backward, almost falling off the desk. The two stood in the tiny cubicle, chest to chest, everyone watching them. Jessica locked eyes with her adversary. “So hold on to your fucking curiosities for the interview room.”

Woo smiled and raised his hands in surrender as Jessica slid past him into the aisle and walked stiffly to the bathroom.

Jessica kicked over the trash can in the women’s room, relishing in the huge clanging sound it made, a noise that rippled off the tiled walls. The bathroom had been the wrong choice. Women went to the bathroom after an argument to cry. She did not cry, but instead grabbed handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser and wadded them into a dense ball, pressed the ball against her mouth, and screamed. The scream came out as a gruff howl, but it felt good. Jessica went to the