Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 10

  “No.”

  “No blackmail payments or such?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “You paid Della and Marvin Moore for their services at the Dexter Lake household?”

  “Yes, but there’s something you should know about them.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were using her debit card for their own purposes.”

  Whoa. “Did Sonya know?”

  “Yes. All the extra charges were made at Save-Rite in Prairie Falls, and she said as long as it was spent on groceries to let it go because they were using it to feed their family. It was her charity case.”

  “How long was this going on?”

  “About six months after they started working for her I noticed the debits were larger.”

  “How would you have known?”

  “Because Sonya was an organized person. She had grocery lists prepared, and we knew about how much each list should cost. They got increasingly bold—charging groceries for a time she wasn’t even there, buying things at the hardware store she wouldn’t have needed. They probably thought I’d never figure it out.”

  “When I interviewed them, they expressed concern about not being paid for the services they performed recently.”

  “Ha! That’s rich. I’ll pay them off, but I’m also going to inform them she knew they were stealing from her.”

  “Good for you. You mentioned the stalker to Detective Ryan. Are the shows archived?”

  “We have audio recordings. She had me make copies of most contentious broadcasts for her next book. Fischer’s wife’s call was one.”

  “Do you remember the date she called in?”

  “Maybe early June, and I believe the emails started shortly after.”

  “Were his the only negative emails she received?”

  “No, but his were threatening.”

  “Did Sonya use social media? Facebook? Twitter? Instagram?”

  “Abbie Brotherton handled all social media accounts. Most posts from listeners were positive. Of course, there are always the Internet trolls who make it their job to post hateful comments to incite other haters to post. Abbie would block those ASAP.”

  “What was your relationship with Sonya?”

  “We got along very well. Of course, I always did what she wanted me to.” His brow lifted as he tossed me a half smile.

  “I’d like to speak to the studio crew.”

  “They’re coming in tomorrow before noon to pick up their final checks before we close up the studio. That might be a good time.”

  “Okay, thanks. Do you know of anything else that might help me in finding her killers?”

  “Killers? As in more than one?”

  “We don’t know who all is involved.”

  “I wish I could help, but I can’t imagine who would do this.”

  I thanked him and handed him my card.

  When I returned to the observation room, Ryan said, “Time for a break.” Gill and I followed him to their office. He brought over an extra chair and poured a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup and handed it to me. I took a sip and had to suppress a shudder. I’d become a coffee snob.

  When we were seated around a table, he asked, “Do you have anything to share with us?”

  “I’ve interviewed four people: Della and Marvin Moore, her employees at the Dexter Lake house of whom Thomas Falcon spoke; and Gary Williams, Ms. Donovan’s only cousin, and his live-in girlfriend, Charity Ann Vosika, from Wayzata.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “Mrs. Moore was nervous, and her husband is odd. He was trying too hard. Did you hear Thomas Falcon say they were using Sonya’s debit card for their personal use?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re having financial difficulties and are in arrears on their property taxes and water bill.”

  Gill pinched her face. “From what I heard, Ms. Donovan was kind of a tough cookie, so it’s surprising she let them get by with the theft.”

  “I guess she had a softer side.”

  “What was the cousin like?”

  “Do you want to see the interview? It’s not that long.” I pulled the iPad from my backpack and turned on the video.

  As it was playing, Gill interjected, “He’s a bit of a prick.”

  I nodded. When the recording was completed, Ryan said, “Do you think he’s responsible for Sonya’s death?”

  I shrugged. “Charity Vosika gave him an alibi.”

  “We also need to speak to Sabrina Bennett.”

  “It’s Zabrina with a ‘Z.’ I’m not sure you know Sheriff Clinton is a personal friend of the family—the girl’s godmother. I think she’ll want to be present when you speak with her.”

  “That explains her strong request to station a guard outside her door.”

  “She’ll be down tomorrow. She’s executor, and there’s a lot for her to do.”

  “I’m sure. The sheriff expressed her belief that she feared for Zabrina’s life—that someone could be trying to execute the whole family. What’s your take?”

  “I think the deaths are connected,” I said.

  Gill cocked her head. “Would the cousin have motive? If he takes out the whole family, is he in line to inherit?”

  “Not necessarily. Sonya had estranged step-children who were teenagers when their father left the family for twenty-year-old Sonya.”

  Ryan screwed up his nose. “Forty years later they seek revenge?”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound wacky,” I said.

  “But you never know. They should be questioned, Will,” Gill said.

  Ryan tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the table top. “Okay.”

  “What about the stalker that Falcon talked about?” I said.

  “Cyrus Fischer,” Ryan said. “It’s a good lead.”

  I copied the name down in my notebook. They then shared the recordings of the earlier interviews with the Logan household employees: John and Erica Anderson and Sarah Crosby. John Anderson served as the live-in groundskeeper; his wife was the housekeeper. She also served meals. The Andersons lived in the basement suite of the mansion. Other than hearing the shots and calling 911, they knew little, or so they said.

  Sarah Crosby, the household chef, was off duty and not present at the residence at the time of Justine’s shooting. She had not expected Justine and Zabrina to return until the next day. She lived in an apartment in Uptown and arrived by six o’clock each morning and stayed until after the dinner dishes were washed and put away. She also claimed she knew nothing.

  Ryan lifted a hand to his temple. “I doubt any of their Minneapolis employees are responsible.” He yawned, setting us all off.

  “I agree,” I said.

  “Are we picking up Fischer tonight?” Martha asked.

  “First thing tomorrow morning. My pillow is calling,” Ryan said.

  “Coming back tomorrow?” Martha asked me.

  “If I may.”

  “Of course,” Martha said, with a lingering smile.

  12

  Thursday, December 18

  I WAS SHOWERED AND DRESSED and searching for coffee in the lobby at 6:30 a.m. Tamika sat at a table reading the Star Tribune. I poured a cup and took a seat directly across from her, waiting for the shit storm.

  She handed me the front page. “The Logan shootings are in the paper.” I skimmed the brief article. They didn’t have many details, including names.

  “We’re meeting Patrice at the hospital this morning,” she said.

  “When did you talk to her?”

  “An hour ago. She woke me up because she couldn’t get hold of you.”

  I pulled out my phone to check for recent calls. “She called at 5:45 a.m. I must have been in the shower.”

  “It takes you almost an hour to get ready?”

  “I watched Dog the Bounty Hunter in between.”

  She scowled as she pretended to read the paper. “So what did you tell Patrice last night?”

&n
bsp; “Nothing. Why?”

  She slapped the paper on the table and looked at me with her mean-girl face. “Because,” she sputtered, “she asked me how I was feeling.” She leaned back in her chair, crossed a leg, and glared at me. “I repeat. What did you tell her?”

  “I said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you weren’t with me at Minneapolis PD last night.”

  “Well, shit!” she said too loudly, capturing the attention of the family nearest us, their faces registering disgust at such language. “How did she know I wasn’t with you?”

  I sat forward and spoke softly. “Because I inadvertently told her ‘I’ was interviewing. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you got drunk before the interview.”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  I shook my head. “You were tipsy. You drank four-fifths of a bottle of wine by yourself.”

  “I was fine.”

  I leaned in. “Don’t be an ass about this, Tamika. Just admit you screwed up, and we’ll be done with it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You just left me at the restaurant without discussing it with me. That was rude.”

  “Adriana was the one who said you couldn’t go on the interview. She volunteered to drive you to the hotel. Does that give you a clue as to your sobriety?”

  “She said you asked her to take me back to the hotel.”

  “That’s not how it went down. Whatever, I just need you to know I won’t cover for your drinking again. If you have a problem, you need to address it.”

  “I don’t have a problem. Look, I was stuck at home for six whole weeks, and I was celebrating getting out. You know what? You’re a self-righteous asshole like Shannon says. Why Adriana thinks you’re perfect is beyond me.”

  The parents of the family gave us dirty looks and left.

  “Adriana thinks I’m perfect?”

  “Oh, that’s what you heard? Not the biggest self-righteous asshole part?”

  “Tamika, stop trying to make me the bad guy.”

  She sighed deeply. “Okay. So shoot me. I was having a good time with a friend. Okay, okay, I admit I should have stopped after one drink. Feel better?”

  “Yes, but none would have been better. And don’t you fucking set me up like that again. I didn’t appreciate it.”

  “Sorry. My bad. But honestly, I thought you’d thank me for arranging to have dinner with Adriana.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m with Dallas, and you don’t seem to get that Adriana and I are over. I have no desire to see her again.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, she didn’t have fun, either.”

  Grimacing, I said, “I’m hungry. Want to eat here?”

  “The guy at the desk said there’s a good breakfast place not far from here called the Good Day Café. It’s on the way to the hospital.”

  “Adriana’s not showing up, is she?”

  “No.” Only she pronounced it “No-ah”—like the word had two syllables.

  AFTER WE BOTH ORDERED IGGY’S fried egg sandwiches, and I had a half a cup of good coffee in me, I said, “Shannon thinks I’m a self-righteous asshole?”

  “Okay, I added the ‘asshole’ part. And to clarify, Adriana said you’d be perfect if you were a city boy, which you’re definitely not.”

  I could only shake my head and smile. Tamika’s too honest sometimes.

  Before our food arrived, I was able to reach Kent Donovan, Sonya’s “stepson.” We were to meet him in his office in the Medical Arts Building on Nicollet Mall and Ninth Street at eleven o’clock. He said he’d ask his sister, Natalie, to join us.

  ABOUT 8:00 A.M., WE WERE walking down the hospital corridor to Zabrina’s room.

  “Uh-oh. Why’s the guard gone?” Tamika said.

  I had a bad feeling about this. When I pushed through the door and found the room empty, I immediately called Patrice.

  “Zabrina’s not in her room.”

  “No, they released her. She’s here at the Logan house.”

  “A phone call would have been nice. We drove all the way to Abbott.”

  “I expected you to check in with me this morning.”

  “You spoke with Tamika. Why wasn’t that enough?”

  “I wanted to talk to you, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

  “I was in the shower. Anyway, we’re on the way.”

  When I hung up, Tamika patted me on the back. “Sheehan, I’m proud of you for standing up to her. Reverse the situation and we’d have hell to pave.”

  “It’s hell to pay.”

  “Don’t be silly—it’s pave. Hell would be hot to pave. Get it?”

  “You’re getting it confused with ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions.’”

  Tamika remained silent for one whole block. “Sheehan, I shouldn’t have told you what Adriana and Shannon told me in confidence. We women complain about our men even though we love them to death. It’s a sisterhood thing.”

  “That’s been abundantly clear to me since I was a small boy.”

  She patted me on the back again.

  I said, “Love them to death. Does that mean until death? Or so much you’d like to kill us?”

  “Mmm . . . maybe both. I’m going to buy you a book on idioms for your birthday.”

  “Hell to pay. Look it up.”

  She clicked on her phone for a minute, then put it away and gave me a dirty look. “You may be right this once.”

  I nodded. “Elvis has left the building.”

  She looked the phrase up on her phone. “‘The event has ended.’ What event?”

  “This discussion.”

  I PULLED UP TO THE SPANISH MISSION-style home on Logan Avenue across from a park in Kenwood, an affluent Minneapolis neighborhood of beautiful old homes, and parked behind a dark sedan on the street. A few feet of crime scene tape lying by the driveway was all that remained as evidence of the shootings—no strangers sitting in parked vehicles watching the house, or cars with bad mufflers driving by.

  When a woman opened the front door, I recognized her as Erica Anderson from the interview film. “You must be Sheriff Clinton’s deputies,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Tamika muttered, “Sheriff Clinton’s deputies?”

  I shrugged and followed the housekeeper through the expansive foyer, past a formal living room, and up the grand staircase. We moved by a living room, a small kitchen, a den, and two spacious bedrooms. The second floor was set up as an apartment.

  Zabrina’s room was at the end of the hallway. She was propped up in bed, her left arm in a sling resting on a pillow. Patrice, in full uniform, sat on an armchair to her right. Gill and Ryan stood on opposite sides of the bed. They nodded a greeting as Tamika and I moved in. I introduced Tamika.

  Patrice said, “To recap what Zabrina told the detectives this morning—she heard the car’s muffler approach, but can’t identify the vehicle or the shooter.”

  “Zabrina, which direction was the vehicle moving? North or south?” Ryan asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “North toward Mount Curve or south toward Franklin?” he asked.

  “Franklin.”

  “Then the driver or a backseat passenger could have taken the shots,” I said.

  “Yes,” Ryan said.

  Zabrina started sniffling, which quickly turned into a full wail. Tamika blinked, her cheek muscles tightened; obviously she was trying not to laugh. Gill and Ryan were eyeing each other, scratching cheeks, clearing their throats, running hands through their hair. Patrice patted Zabrina’s hand, and said, “She’s exhausted. She didn’t get much sleep in the hospital.”

  Zabrina sniffed and wound it down fairly quickly.

  “Are you up for some questions?” I asked.

  She nodded, sniffed again.

  “Do you live here full time, Zabrina?”

  “I live on campus.”

  “I’ll summarize what she’s already told the detectives,” Patrice s
aid. “She goes to Hamline, where she’s been living on campus since August and, on average, comes home a weekend a month. She usually brings friends.”

  “Were you aware of any problems your mom and grandmother had with anyone?”

  “She’s already answered that, also,” Patrice said. “And no, she wasn’t.”

  There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence before Gill said, “Well, we’re going to let you rest, Zabrina. We’ll leave our cards in case you remember something later.”

  They both pulled the cards and placed them on the bedside table. As Martha passed by me, she rolled her eyes. I followed the detectives down the stairs.

  In the foyer, Ryan said, “We’re hoping ballistics will help us out. Too bad she didn’t see the shooter.”

  “It’s unfortunate,” I said.

  Gill crossed her arms and leaned in. “Boy, your boss is something. You might try to interview the girl when she’s not around.”

  “Do you think she knows more?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily, but wow. How is she to work for?”

  “Good, although she sometimes micromanages a bit.”

  “A bit?” Martha said.

  Ryan said, “Ms. Donovan’s cousin and his girlfriend are coming in at nine thirty. You’re welcome to join the party.”

  “Thanks. What about Fischer?”

  “We’re still trying to locate him,” Martha said. “We should have picked him up last night.”

  “Wouldn’t have made a difference,” Ryan said.

  Martha rolled her eyes.

  I went back upstairs. Tamika and Patrice were sitting in the living room.

  “We’re letting her rest,” Patrice said.

  “How long are you staying in Minneapolis?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. The wills are both being read tomorrow morning. I’m executor, but the attorney will do most of it. David thinks we ought to put both houses on the market as soon as possible, put the proceeds in a trust, and when Zabrina’s older she can buy a condo or whatever she wants.”

  “She’ll be without a home?” Tamika said.

  “My home will be hers now. I think she should take spring semester off and come and stay with me.”

  “That’s a lot of change for her,” Tamika said. “She’s grieving. Maybe going to class and keeping busy would do her good.”