Blood Ties by S. J. Rozan Page B

was over.
    â€œTory,” I said. “Was she close with Gary Russell?”
    â€œOh no, Mr. Detective,” she said. “If I tell you, you have to tell me.”
    The waiter returned with the coffeepot, poured us both more coffee. “You want something to eat?” I asked her.
    â€œNo, thanks. But I think we need more milk.” She poured what was left of the milk into her cup, gave the pitcher to the waiter with another smile.
    â€œSullivan said he’d arrest me if I didn’t drop the case and leave town,” I told her.
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFor real? Can he do that?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWell,” she said, looking around, “this isn’t exactly out of town.”
    â€œI have a reprieve, maybe an hour. Then I have to go.”
    â€œI could put that in my story,” she offered. “Abuse of police power. He might back down, if it’s in the paper.”
    â€œNo thanks. But he won’t be happy to hear I’m talking to a reporter.”
    â€œDo you care?”
    I thought about it. From Sullivan’s point of view he was doing what he had to do, telling me to drop it, throwing me out of town; but he was also cutting me as much slack as he thought he could, promising to let me know if he found Gary, letting me stay to talk to Helen. If he got seriously pissed off he’d keep doing the job, stop doing me favors. On the other hand, Stacie Phillips might be able to lay out Gary’s life for me in a way an adult couldn’t do. And Sullivan might be out of favors already.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œMe, either.”
    â€œYou might get in trouble,” I warned her.
    â€œFor what? He didn’t tell me not to talk to you .”
    â€œI hear this town’s sensitive about stories that might make them look bad.”
    â€œBecause of what happened before? God, that was before I was born . When do people stop being sensitive about things?”
    â€œThings like that, maybe never.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “if they don’t want to look bad they should stop doing things that make news.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. “Sullivan might stop letting you into press conferences,” I said.
    â€œI don’t think that’s legal. Besides, he won’t bother. He doesn’t take me seriously anyway. None of them do.” She grinned again. “I get some good stories because of that.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I’ll tell you about the Wesley house. But Gary’s mother’s my client and Gary’s my nephew, so I’m not going to tell you much about that. And then you’ll tell me what you know about Gary and his friends.”
    â€œDeal.”
    I described the scene at Tory Wesley’s house, the garbage and the flies, the cat, the position and location of the body. I left out some things: what a body looks like, smells like after a few days. It would take an autopsy to determine what killed Tory Wesley, but she’d been nude and bruised. Sullivan or the chief might cover some of that in the press conference, but I didn’t see any reason to talk about it now, to another teenage girl in a sunny booth at the town diner.
    Stacie Phillips took out a spiral pad, took notes in a round, open hand. She didn’t interrupt, and except for a tiny pause, a stutter in her writing hand now and then, if anything I told her upset her, she didn’t show it.
    I finished, drank some coffee while she looked at her notes. She seemed to think about something, lifted her eyes to me. “Tell me the gross parts.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s Wednesday. If Tory died Saturday night and was just lying there all this time . . .”
    â€œYou don’t want to hear it.”
    â€œYes, I do. Stuart Early can get all the facts, just like you gave me. I want a color piece. It’s the only way I’ll get a byline.”
    â€œThis