Page 41 of Ground Truth

“I’m not wrong,” Drake insisted. “Be wary.”

“Let’s get in and get out before the trouble erupts,” Flint replied. “I’m not up for a fight with a bunch of bangers half my age.”

“Well, maybe not half.” Drake grinned.

After twenty minutes of waiting their turn, Flint and Drake reached the front of the line. Where was a customer satisfaction survey when you needed one?

The desk sergeant was a tired-looking man of about fifty, working toward his pension. He didn’t even glance up from his keyboard when he asked, “Can I help you?”

Flint took the lead. “We’re looking for Detective Dean Myer. Is he around?”

“Detective Myer is a woman,” the desk sergeant said, looking at his computer screen. “I’ll check. Who shall I say is asking?”

Flint offered his business card.

The sergeant glanced at him, took the card, scrutinized it. “She’ll wanna know what this is about.”

“A home invasion she handled seven years ago. Case is still open. Woman was killed,” Flint replied, friendly, recognizing he was entitled to nothing and angling for a favor. “I know it’s been a minute, but we’ve got a similar case. We might be able to help each other. We solve ours, might solve hers, too.”

“What’s the name of the case?” The sergeant poised to type.

“Ella Belle Reed,” Flint replied.

He typed Ella Belle’s name into the system, which must have confirmed the case existed. “You should work up a better approach when you pitch it to her. We’ve heard that one a million times.”

“Copy that,” Flint replied.

The sergeant picked up the desk phone and punched an extension. “Detective Myer, Seltz at the front desk. I’ve got a couple of private investigators up here asking about the Ella Belle Reed home invasion. Open case from a few years ago. They say they’ve got new information.”

Seltz listened and then replaced the handset on the cradle. “Must be a slow day in Robbery Homicide. She says have a seat. She’ll be right out.”

Flint moved away from the desk and through the milling crowd, seeking an unoccupied place to wait.

Drake followed. “Man, a guy could get claustrophobic in here.”

A child was arguing with his mother nearby. The boy wanted to leave, and the mother explained that they needed to wait.

The argument escalated, getting louder and more intense. The boy began crying, which graduated to wailing and then screaming. He sounded like a wicked seagull at feeding time.

Flint’s headache threatened to take the top of his head off as it was. Added to the existing cacophony, the mother-and-child screaming match definitely didn’t help.

Dark edges surrounded his vision, making him feel as though he might faint again. Flint struggled to stay conscious and upright.

The boy’s screaming seemed to raise the tension in the station to the boiling point. The two rival gangs, if that’s what they were, no longer resisted the pull of a fight.

One of them reached down and pulled a sharp plastic shiv from his unlaced high-tops. He brandished it toward a rival gang member.

“Step back,” he demanded with quiet menace.

The second guy opened his arms and moved forward into striking range.

“What the hell’s wrong with you boys?” An older man pushed through the crowd, approaching quickly. He slipped between the second teen and the shiv. “You wanna spend the rest of the week locked up back there?”

“No, sir,” the glaring young males said in unison.

The second teen smirked insolently as he raised his palms and backed off with a little spring in his step.

The brawl had been about to boil over, but the old man’s intervention lowered the heat level for the moment.

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