Read The Stones Cry Out for Free Online

cubicle—was on the second floor in an unmarked glass block building just off Parham Road. Agent cubicles were identical, except that mine resembled a paper mill hit by a hurricane. I refused to claim full responsibility for the mess. The FBI was a tree-killing agency, and my desk held evidence notes, interviews, task force information, general Bureau notices regarding new regulations and employee changes, and plenty of FD-302s. The latter was a document written after interviews. It described only what was said and only what was known to be true at the time. It was literally, “Just the facts, ma'am.” Reading them out loud, the words sounded like a jackhammer.
    This morning's 302s were fairly simple. Regarding the rooftop death interviews, almost nothing was said. And nothing new was known. But for the federal government even nothing required triplicate. One copy was my working file. I prepared another copy in case anything went to trial: one for our assistant U.S. attorney’s office and one for the enemy camp, aka the defense.
    The personal benefit from spreading this much paper around my desk was that it discouraged other agents from doing impertinent things -- like using my telephone or, worse, eating my food. I was a girl who liked to eat, and I kept plenty of food in my desk. My bottom drawer alone contained a three-week supply of munchies and a range of beverages guaranteed to etch the porcelain right off your teeth.
    The big clock over my desk read 5:15 a.m. as I dove into a large box of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies, washing down the sugar with a can of Coca Cola (never, ever Pepsi). My computer search on Hamal Holmes was not turning up much. He owned a boxing gym on Second Street, and his tax record looked questionable, since he never turned a profit but somehow drove a brand new Lexus that was paid for. His mother's house was mortgaged in his name, and he did indeed pay all her utility bills. Over the years the city had recognized his work with “troubled youth” and presented him with several civic commendations. I found an old story from the Richmond Times-Dispatch . Mayor Louis "LuLu" Mendant called Holmes “a hero.”
    As I was opening a bag of Doritos, my phone rang. And my heart plummeted hearing the voice on the other end. Licking orange chemicals off my fingertips, I walked to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. The top floor. The floor with the office of Supervisory Special Agent Victoria Phaup. She was often the first into the office and the last to leave, and she trusted no one.
    She pointed her pencil at a club chair that faced her desk. "Update."
    I sat down. "Yesterday I knocked on doors with John. The only witness is an old woman who is nearly blind. She probably can't read a stop sign six inches away."
    Phaup nodded. She suspected as much. "You checked into the backgrounds on the two dead guys?"
    "The two deceaseds,” I said, “are Hamal Holmes and Detective Michael Falcon. I met with the mother and widow of Mr. Holmes. They weren't cooperative. And they probably won't be in the future. I haven't gotten to the detective's...."
    I let my voice trail off. Phaup wasn't listening. Head down, she was shuffling notes on her desk. This happened. Too often. According to John, who was the source of most office gossip, Phaup was on the fast track at Bureau headquarters when she sent an email to the wrong recipient. In fact, she sent the criticism to the supervisor she was griping about. Ever since, she had bounced from one field office to another, before finally landing in Richmond. We were among the Bureau’s smallest operations.
    I watched her peel paper from several of her piles, looking at them with a slightly baffled expression. Inevitably, her nickname was Foul-up.
    "Here they are." She looked relieved, holding up two pink message slips. "I got a call from People Magazine . That's right, People . They're writing a story about some rapper from Richmond. He grew up on Southside. He