Don't Know Jack Read Online Free PDF

up?”          
    Gaspar didn’t reply to that. Neither did Kim. Something about the office was nagging at her. Something odd. What was it?  She scanned the room, unobtrusively, observing each detail.
    She noticed the scents first. A familiar but faded memory. Ahhh . Lingering traces of Old Spice and the faint wisp of Irish Spring bath soap. Both from the private bathroom in the corner behind the door. The office smelled like her father’s den, a dark-paneled man-cave. In fact, everything about Roscoe’s home away from home screamed Boston Brahmin instead of Margrave Top Cop.
    Not just odd, Kim decided. Downright weird .
    In the man’s world of law enforcement’s upper ranks, females in the top spot were as scarce as an innocent felon. Even in small towns like Margrave close to big cities like Atlanta. Roscoe had no doubt achieved her status through years of hard work and sheer grit. She’d never have made it otherwise. Roscoe had every right to be proud of herself.
    Yet, she’d owned the office for eight years without making it hers?  Under the same circumstances, Kim would have redecorated in eight minutes. Of course, Kim wouldn’t have stayed in any job for eight years, either. Up or out was a better career strategy. Yet Roscoe was still here. Had she topped out?
    Kim double checked. Scanned the entire room again. Confirmed she’d been right the first time. The room contained nothing personal except one photograph of a younger Roscoe with a Navy man in uniform. The husband, probably. No pictures of her kids. The file said she had a girl of fourteen and a boy of eleven.
    The rest of the photo wall was all grip-and-grins: Roscoe with the Governor; Roscoe with the current Mayor of Atlanta and the prior one as well; Roscoe with Jimmy Carter. But the last one was the money shot: Roscoe with a large, attractive black guy dressed in a tweed sport-coat and sweater vest.
    Bingo .
    Kim recognized him immediately, from his file photo: Lamont Finlay, Ph.D. Interview subject number two. A Harvard man. The guy who had decorated this office, clearly. Roscoe’s predecessor as chief. Maybe her mentor, too. Were they still connected? Such that she couldn’t bear to erase his presence?
    Weird, but good to know. A possible angle. Kim hadn’t pegged Roscoe as the sentimental type. A clearer picture of the woman was emerging.
    She said, “Nice office, Chief Roscoe.”
    “Thank you,” Roscoe said. She didn’t invite Kim to dispense with the formal title.
    Sergeant Brent came back with the ID wallets. He was lanky, with red hair and a freckled face. He seemed young for his job. He put the photocopies on Roscoe’s desk and handed the originals back to their owners. His forearms below his uniform shirt’s short sleeves were covered by a wild tangle of red hair. Even his fingers were freckled.
    “Any chance we could get a cup of coffee?” Gaspar asked him.     
    Brent looked to his boss. Roscoe nodded.
    “How do you like it?” Brent asked.
    “Four sugars,” Gaspar said.
    Brent looked horrified, as if no real man, let alone an FBI Special Agent, would so pollute a cup of joe.
    “What?” Gaspar said. “I have a sweet tooth. Something wrong with that?”
    Brent seemed to realize Gaspar was baiting him. He grinned, and Gaspar added, “And maybe a couple of jelly donuts?”
    Brent laughed out loud. Roscoe sat quiet. Brent turned to Kim for her order. She said, “You wouldn’t have chicory coffee, would you?”
    His freckled face reflected genuine sorrow. “I wish we did, ma’am,” he said. “I haven’t had chicory since my Louisiana grandma died.”
    “Don’t worry. Regular black will be fine for me.”
    As if to compensate for his chicory failure, Brent asked, “Want a jelly donut, too?” 
    “You’re a bad influence, I can tell,” she said. He bowed his head shyly. He was just a kid. Early twenties, max. She said, “But if only all men were so thoughtful,” and shot a mock glare at