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No one was talking, and that pissed Jefferson off.
Torture was needed.
He was already being tortured, torn asunder by love and duty. He dialed O’Grady, to pass it on.
“You wanted to dust those bills? Where do I go?”
“Forget that. Something’s happened. Hang on,” O’Grady said. She put the phone down on her desk and began speaking to those around her.
“When was this supposed to have happened? Police radio, right? Let’s make sure we get an accurate report log time. We need a copy of that call,” she said, picking up the phone.
“Your buddy got shot and killed.”
“Who?”
“Edgar Smith Wilson. That’s right, that’s the photo I want,” she said to someone else on her end.
“Okay,” a voice in the background said.
“Now. Yeah, what’s her name’s Dad. He was coming out of a restaurant Downtown. Got killed a few minutes ago in a drive-by. Broad daylight, right on the sidewalk.”
“Damn! Anybody else get killed?” Jefferson said.
“Nope. Turn on channel 6, they got a news break. I gotta go,” and she hung up.