Page 28 of Punishing Penelope
Few people can resist the involuntary glance, and The Bull isn’t one of those who can. His gaze flicks for the briefest of moments to a file cabinet that stands to the far right, next to a second, smaller desk and a bookshelf.
Bingo. I knew he sat on those files.
They’re probably neatly filed under either Miller or Borden.
“I work cases all day long, every day of the week. I don’t remember any such case.”
“Your name was mentioned in the investigation, then it was suddenly closed and made to disappear. I have a right to ask for those files, so I’m asking.”
He throws out his hands. “They’re not in my possession.”
I sigh—demonstrating annoyance I don’t feel because I’m too intimidated—pull up a manila folder from my messenger bag and place the folder on the desk before him.
“How about I remind you?” I open the folder and put a picture before him. “This is little Gio Miller. She is fourteen years old. She wears a colostomy bag. Remember her?”
“Not really, Miss.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “I have hundreds of cases a year.”
“Not really? To me, that sounds like you have a hunch.” I put another picture before him. There’s blood on the gravel on the sidewalk, and police tape encloses the area. “Borden has a history of depression. Still, he had a license for the gun. Giordanna was outside the fence when the ambulance arrived. Her little friends would hardly have moved her. She wasn’t trespassing, was she?”
“Borden—” He snaps his mouth shut, little red dots of anger blooming in his cheeks.
“Yes? Borden?”
I wait, but he doesn’t say more. He said too much already, and we both know it.
Placing a picture on top of the others, I turn it so he can see it properly. It’s of Giordanna from the other day, a pitiful image. Wearing a white dress with pink ribbons tied into a bow hanging loosely across the chest, she’s propped up in the ancient wheelchair with the blanket across her thighs. Her eyes are dark pits of despair, filled with pain and questions, and her hands are on her lap, much like the officer on the other side of that desk.
If you don't ache seeing this picture, you have no heart. We’re using it in the feature.
Fraser unties his hands and picks it up, studying it.
“She wasn’t trespassing,” I say. “Why was the investigation closed?”
He drops the image. “It went to court, I believe.”
“No, it didn’t.” I stand, lean over the desk, now taller than Fraser. “I want all the facts, or I’ll drag this whole department through the wringer, along with all your lies.”
He stands too, towering over me. “Back down, Miss Wilder, before I have you escorted out. I’m sure your senior board will be interested in what games their little amateur detective is playing.”
“Just give me the files. What are you hiding?”
“They contain information that’s classified as need to know.”
“Well, I need to know.”
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything.
I sigh. “Give me what you can.”
He seems to contemplate this. “I will see what I can find. My secretary will call you when you can come pick it up.”
I sit again and cross my legs. “No, it’s fine. I can wait.”
I’m wearing him down, annoying him to hell, and in his anger, he’ll do things he doesn’t think through. It’s human nature… like leaving a journalist alone in his office, exactly as I hoped he would.
Not saying a word, he stomps out of the room and storms down the corridor.
Now!