High Noon

on my list, geographically, is a casualty from a bank robbery. A spree—three men hit a couple of banks heading down from Atlanta, then tried for one here, where they ran into trouble. Radio car made their plates from an APB, called it in. There was gunplay in the initial phase, and a woman was hit. A few hours into negotiations I managed to talk them into letting us take her out. But it was too late. She was DOA before she made it to the hospital.”
    “How’s that on you?”
    “She died, and that’s enough.” She dug into her bag again when her phone rang. And frowned at the Unknown Caller display. “Phoebe Mac Namara.”
    “Hi there, Phoebe.”
    She signaled Sykes, who quickly stepped off to use his own phone to call in for a triangulation. “Who is this?”
    “Your secret admirer, sweetheart. It sure was nice of Roy to have your cell phone logged into his. I wanted to check in, see how you were feeling. You looked upset when you left the station house this morning.”
    Cupping the phone between her ear and shoulder, she dug in her bag for her notebook. “Aren’t you the bold one, coming around all those cops.”
    Georgia cadence. Sounds satisfied, sarcastic.
    “That doesn’t worry me. You know, Roy said you were a hell of a good lay.”
    “You call me just to talk dirty, or do you have something to say?”
    Sweetheart. Good lay. Intimidating the female.
    “Just passing the time. Oh, you don’t want to waste yours trying to trace this. Isn’t it something, this age we live in, when you can walk into a place and buy some toss-away phone already loaded up with minutes? Didn’t see that pretty little girl of yours go into school this morning. Hope she’s not sick.”
    Her pad shook in her hand, dropped onto the sidewalk. She had to bite back the rage, the absolutely blinding red flash of it. “Spying on little girls? That seems low for a clever man like you.”
    Fighting to keep her voice cool, she squatted to pick up her book, and crouched there, continued writing notes.
    Watching the house, the family. Wants me to know.
    “Why don’t you and I get together and have a real conversation? Get down to the nitty.”
    “We will, I promise you. We’ll have us a nice, long talk. You won’t know when or how or why until it happens.”
    “Who was she? Did you love her? How’d she die?”
    “We’ll talk about all that. You know, I could’ve taken out your boyfriend that night you had your romantic dinner on his boat. I had the shot. Maybe I’ll take it next time. Maybe I’ll give myself the green light on that. Bye, Phoebe.”
    “He’s off,” Phoebe said to Sykes.
    “Keep yours open, they’re going to try to triangulate off your signal.”
    “Unregistered cell. He’ll have been moving while he was on with me. I could hear traffic. And he’ll have tossed the phone. He’s too smart not to ditch it.”
    She looked around, down the street, across at a little strip of shops. He could be anywhere. He could’ve been driving right by while she was talking to him. How would she know?
    Slowly, she straightened, then skimmed her notes. “I think he’s a cop.”
    “What?”
    “He’s smart, but he’s puffed up, too.”
    “Smart and puffed up equals cop?”
    “He needs to show he’s smarter and better.” She tapped her pen on her notebook. “He said he could’ve killed Duncan, taken him out, was how he put it, when we were having dinner on Duncan’s boat. I could’ve taken the shot, he said. And that he might give himself the green light next time.”
    “How does that—Hold on.” Sykes angled away, listening to his own phone. “They had him on River Street,” he told Phoebe. “Moving west on River, and lost him.”
    “He threw it in the water, that’s what he did. Small investment in a phone, big results. But he had to give me that one last needle. He didn’t say I could’ve shot your boyfriend, but I could’ve taken the shot. That’s cop speak, or military.”
    She held up a hand before Sykes could answer, walked a few paces down the sidewalk and back while she thought it through. “And yeah, anyone who watches TV could pick up the jargon, but it was natural. I don’t think he planned to say it, he just had to push my buttons a little harder, so it came out. Green-light the shot. It’s not the usual term for a civilian to use. He’s a cop or military, or he was.”
    “Arnie’s clear.”
    “It goes back further than Arnie Meeks. And it goes deeper than just being a