They watched as the figure they presumed to be Keith Ainsley flumped down at the base of the bridge. After a few seconds, his head fell to his chest and stayed there. “He’s out,” Foster said.
“Keep it rolling,” Li said.
Foster kept her eyes on Ainsley, on the stairs, on the path, on the time as it ticked off on the counter. At four minutes after midnight, two dark figures descended the stairs from Michigan Avenue onto the Riverwalk, one with a backpack and long hair, one dressed in dark clothing, a large duffel slung over their shoulder.
Li pointed at the screen. “There’s Birch.”
Foster’s eyes were glued to the screen. Keith hadn’t moved. “That could be Rimmer. This person has a slim build. Five eight, five nine?” Foster stopped the footage to get a good look at the bag. “The bag worries me.”
“You know who walks around with a duffel at midnight?” Li said.
“Killers,” Foster answered glumly. “Could be his kit.”
Li looked up. “She doesn’t look like she’s being forced.”
“Killers can be disarming.” Foster started the tape again, but the pair was out of view. She quickly cued up the footage from a different camera mounted farther east, clicking through, not finding Birch and the stranger. “We lose them somewhere between the first camera and this one,” she said.
“In-between’s where she was found,” Li said.
Foster advanced the tape slowly until the dark figure showed up again forty minutes later with the duffel, heading toward Keith Ainsley. Alone.
Li shot up from her chair. “Holy shit!”
The talk and bustle of the squad stopped, and cops gathered around them, including, she noted, Griffin. Foster rewound the footage, started back at the critical moment, and narrated for everyone, her heart beating so loudly she would swear cops in the next room could hear it.
“Ainsley, first,” Foster said, “then Birch with someone else. This camera picks him up at a little after eleven. There.” She stopped the image, pointed at the time, then played it again. “From the marina.” She started again. “And there. He weaves by. Stops. Watch his head fall.”
“No knife visible,” Li noted. “That’s a good shot of him under the lights.” Everyone drew in closer. “He’s unsteady on his feet.”
“Now wait.” Foster started the footage again, and everyone watched as it picked up the two dark figures, one with a backpack, one with the duffel, as they moved into the frame. “They walk toward the marina. Nothing changes for a time. Then forty minutes later, one figure walks back, not Birch, and stops at Ainsley. He squats down, and—” Foster freezes the footage at the point it captures the figure’s arm outstretched toward Keith. “He touches his jacket.” She turned to the team. “And what’d we find on Ainsley’s jacket? Blood.”
“We don’t see a knife, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t have one,” Kelley said. “He’s got pockets.”
“They tested his jacket six ways from Sunday,” Foster said. “No blood trace in the pockets. Only that one spot.” She turned back to the screen. “Put there by that guy.”
“Aww man,” Symansky said. “The scumbag framed the kid?”
“If it was supposed to be a frame,” Foster said, “it would’ve been Peggy’s blood. Something else is going on. But this proves Ainsley was in no condition to kill Birch. Someone unknown made direct contact with him, presumably Birch’s killer.”
“Then what the hell?” Kelley said. “Whose blood are we looking at?”
Li slumped down in her chair. “Honestly, I’m almost afraid to find out.”
“This could be Rimmer,” Foster said. “Birch wouldn’t have been afraid to walk with him along the Riverwalk in the middle of the night, I don’t think.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
The team turned to find Lonergan standing at the fringes of the huddle.
“Where’ve you been?” Griffin asked, none too gently.
Lonergan had the good sense to squirm a little under Griffin’s glare. “Tryin’ to track down Rimmer. What’s all this?”
Griffin wasn’t letting it go. The team stood holding its collective breath as the boss stared into Lonergan’s eyes and gave him time to absorb the heat. “I didn’t get a heads-up you were going out solo. Neither did your partner, I suspect. You do know we’re up against it here? That we’ve got two dead women?”
“I figured divide and conquer. Foster’s on the tape. I thought I’d try and get a line on him.”
“And did you?” Griffin’s eyes held his. “Get a line.”
“One of the coffee shop kids had a name of one of Rimmer’s bandmates. I tracked him down. He didn’t know where Rimmer was, but he did tell me the band cut ties with him the day we talked to him. He was too much of a showboat, apparently. Hogging all the limelight. I got a name of a pal he might be crashing with to keep off our radar. Foster and I can run it down.”
“Nuh-uh,” Griffin cut him off. She turned to Foster and Li, pointed at the screen. “Have you two gotten through all that?”
“Not yet,” Foster said. “We’ve just made it a bit past midnight. I think if we roll it back a couple hours before and a couple hours after we—”
Griffin interrupted her. “Finish it. But first, Foster, my office. Li, keep looking.” She turned and walked away on angry heels.
Foster walked into Griffin’s office on a high. They were making progress, finally. So why was she in Griffin’s office losing momentum? “Boss?”
Griffin sat down at her messy desk. “I’m teaming you with Li. I want you working full force, and Lonergan’s a burr under my saddle.”
“What? Boss, I can deal with Lonergan,” Foster said. “We’re not children.”
Griffin looked up at her through narrowed eyes. “As a team, you’re inefficient. I can’t have inefficient right now with brass breathing down my neck. That’s all.”
The elation Foster had felt just seconds ago was gone, popped like a balloon at a three-year-old’s birthday party. She turned for the door, her feet not wanting to get there.
“Li isn’t Thompson, Foster,” Griffin said to her back as she opened the door. “Send Lonergan in.”
How quickly lows followed highs, Foster thought as she made her way back to her desk. A step forward, one back. A climb to a steep summit, only to have someone knock you off it. Two partners in less than a week. The start of another climb. A new record for her, one she hoped she wouldn’t have to break. Li was still at it. “Anything?”
“Not yet,” Li said, not bothering to look up.
Foster looked over at Lonergan, glowering at his desk. “Boss wants to see you.”
He bristled, stood, adjusted his belt. “Goin’ to the woodshed.”
When he walked away, Foster watched him go, feeling oddly sympathetic.
“So it’s you and me,” Li said, sliding Foster a look and a sly grin. She held out a hand for Foster to shake. “Formally. Detective Vera Li.” To Foster’s confused look, she added, “Griffin might have hinted a shuffle was coming. Back at the hot dog. I was testing the waters.” Li jabbed a thumb toward Griffin’s door. “She sees all, knows all. We good?”