Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 13

  “Yeah.”

  “You have access to customer information?” “Yeah, I guess.”

  “If Sonya Donovan was one of your customers, you’d be able to access her address?”

  “If she was one of our customers. I don’t know that she is. But you remember I said I didn’t know her last name?”

  “Yes, I recall you said that. Where were you last Thursday and Friday, December eleventh and twelfth?”

  “I was off those two days, so like I told the other cop, I pretty much just stayed home and played games.”

  “All day and all night? If you went out, someone may have seen you and would be able to verify your whereabouts.”

  “Okay, yeah, I got some beer and some snacks at the corner liquor store, then I went home.”

  “Anyone come over? Any neighbors who could verify you were home? Maybe they saw you pick up your mail, for example.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “Hey, that’s right. I saw one of the people in my building when I threw my garbage out.”

  “Name?”

  “Dunno.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About three o’clock.”

  “On Friday afternoon?”

  “Yes. Look, I didn’t kill nobody. I didn’t even know that Justine person.”

  “Well, we’ll see what the evidence shows. Won’t we?”

  He shrugged.

  When I walked out into the hallway I inhaled, trying to clear my nose of the stench.

  “Whew. He’s a ripe-smelling fella,” I said to a grinning Martha.

  “No alibi for either killing,” she said.

  “We got the bastard,” Ryan said. “In October he applied for a gun permit.” “We’re still checking to see if he actually purchased one,” Martha said. “What was used in the Logan shootings?” I asked.

  “A thirty-eight caliber.”

  “We have motive,” Tamika said. She gave Martha Gill a high five.

  The celebrating was a bit premature because if the creep was confident we’d find nothing, we probably wouldn’t. And if he had a handgun, why wouldn’t he have shot Sonya Donovan at her home here in Minneapolis? Why on earth would he stage her death in Dexter Lake to look like natural causes? No, I didn’t like him for Sonya’s murder.

  15

  TAMIKA AND I WERE GOING to tag along to Fischer’s in the off chance I was wrong about his being responsible for Sonya’s death. After we put our coats on, Martha handed me copies of Sonya’s appointment calendar.

  “Thanks.”

  As we were taking the elevator down, Patrice called and said, “You need to come back to the Logan house right now.” She promptly hung up before I could ask what was going on. Obviously, something big.

  “We have to bow out,” I said. “Will you do me a favor and look for largesized sage-green Ralph Lauren towels at Fischer’s?”

  “Towels?” Martha asked.

  “There were some missing from Mrs. Donovan’s pool area. They would tie him to the crime scene.”

  “Sure, okay. I’ll bag them if I find them.” She winked.

  ONCE BACK IN OUR VEHICLE, Tamika said, “I think Martha has a little crushy-poo on Deputy Cal.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You don’t see all that smiling and drooling?”

  “Nope.”

  “You big, fat liar.”

  Okay. She was right. How could I not notice?

  The traffic downtown was thick, but it was a simple route to Kenwood via Hennepin.

  “Patrice didn’t give you a clue as to what was wrong?” Tamika asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I hope no one else is dead.”

  We didn’t talk much during the drive. I considered using lights and siren, but decided against it. Once there, I rang the doorbell. When the door was pulled open, I wasn’t expecting to see a smile. Patrice took our coats and showed us to the living room with brocade wallpaper.

  “So, what’s the big emergency?” I asked

  “Whatever gave you the idea there was an emergency?”

  “Because we were to stop what we were doing, however important, and race over here.”

  “I didn’t want you to be late for the special dinner Sarah prepared for us.”

  Whaaat?

  “Have a seat and relax.”

  “Wait a minute. We were on our way to a suspect’s apartment.”

  “In your opinion, was this suspect responsible for Sonya’s death?”

  Tamika nodded and I said, “I have my doubts. He’s too cooperative.” “Well, then, enjoy this dining experience.”

  By the smile on Tamika’s face, I’d say she had no complaints. She immediately chose one of the two green-and-cream striped fabric chairs. I stayed standing and looked about the room. My eyes were drawn to the large Christmas tree in the corner decorated completely in elegant gold trimmings. I’d get one half that size.

  I glanced around the room and focused on the large oil painting of Sonya and Donald Donovan. He was sitting in one of the green-and-cream chairs, Sonya posed at his side with her hand on his shoulder. The artist captured an air of sophistication in the couple, Sonya’s beauty, and Donald’s pointy chin and high forehead.

  Sarah appeared with a wine bottle and glasses on a tray. She poured us each a glass of a chilled white. I sat on the edge of the couch next to Patrice and watched Tamika lift an eyebrow as she took her first sip, her pinky finger high in the air. Then she pursed her lips, lifted her chin, and batted her eyes at me. I wrinkled my nose at her silliness.

  Seconds later, Sarah came back with a tray of hors d’oeuvres: spinach balls, crab puffs, bacon-wrapped something or other. I chose one of those. As I chewed, I speculated as to what the center was—perhaps a date.

  Then Patrice asked for a summary of our day’s activities. I told her about the interviews, neglecting to mention the Hamline girls. As Tamika grabbed for a spinach ball, she said, “Cal was a star this afternoon questioning Cyrus Fischer, the number-one suspect in the drive-by.”

  Star?

  “Did MPD arrest Fischer?” Patrice asked.

  “Yes, they’re searching his place now, which is where we were headed when you called.”

  “Tamika, you think this Fischer character is a good suspect?” Patrice asked.

  “Totally. He has motive, he harassed Sonya, and he looks like a pervert.” She reached over to grab a couple appetizers from the plate.

  “You don’t agree, Cal?”

  “I’m not sure he’s the type to go to all that trouble of drowning Sonya, placing her in her bed, meticulously executing every detail. He’s a slob,” I said.

  “But he’s creepy enough,” Tamika said.

  “Well, we’ll see what they get on him,” Patrice said.

  “He applied for a gun permit. They’re checking to see if he actually bought one. What about Zabrina’s father?” I said.

  “Honestly, I don’t think he cared about either one of them anymore, but it wouldn’t hurt to look into him.”

  Zabrina appeared in the archway, and the room went still. She lifted the phone in her hand. “Daddy wants to know when the funeral is going to be.”

  Patrice said, “Oh, hi, darling. Soon. I’ll arrange everything. That is, unless you’d like to help.”

  “No, you can do it,” she said.

  She spoke into her phone, then hung up.

  “Come sit by me,” Patrice said, patting the empty space beside her on the couch.

  Zabrina was clad in Hamline Pipers logo wear: black pants, a white T-shirt, and a red zippered sweatshirt with only one arm in the sleeve, the other side of the garment draped over her wounded arm. She shuffled across the room in over-sized frog slippers and sat next to Patrice, who pulled Zabrina in close to her.

  “Did you call your dad, or did he call you?” Patrice asked.

  “I called him. He’s flying here to be with me.”

  “Hmm,” Patrice said.

  Zabrina sat up and lo
oked at Patrice. “Why are you reacting like that?”

  “I just didn’t think he’d come,” Patrice said.

  “Why not? He loves me.”

  Patrice pulled her in closer. “Oh, of course he does.”

  “I overheard you say he didn’t care about us.”

  “I meant your grandmother and mother.”

  Zabrina turned to stare at me. “Why are you talking to my friends instead of finding my mom and grandma’s killer?”

  Patrice narrowed her eyes. “Why on earth would you need to interview Zabrina’s friends while investigating Sonya’s death?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m pretty sure the murders are connected. Zabrina’s friends could have picked up on something Zabrina didn’t.”

  “And?”

  “And we got nothing.”

  “Humph. What a surprise.”

  “I have to try every angle.”

  “Some are a waste of time—like that.”

  “We interview many people in investigations. Sometimes people acquainted with family members can deliver great clues,” I said.

  “And did my friends deliver great clues?” Zabrina asked.

  I smiled. “No.”

  Both she and Patrice delivered smug looks, then Tamika said, “They’re anxious to see you, Zabrina.”

  “They’re coming over after dinner,” she said.

  “Are you up for company?” Patrice said. “I think you need to rest.”

  She pulled away to glare at Patrice. “I need my friends.”

  Tamika was nodding like a bobble-head doll. I don’t think she understood the whole keep-your-opinions-to-yourself concept—especially when none of it was her business, and her boss was involved.

  “What’s for dinner?” Zabrina asked.

  Patrice said, “Your favorite—crab legs.”

  Zabrina’s pushed out her lower lip into a pout. “How am I going to manage crab legs with one arm?”

  “I’ll crack them for you,” Patrice said.

  “This sucks so bad,” Zabrina whined.

  I understood the frustration. The girl’s entire family was dead, and she was in emotional and physical pain. But even so, I couldn’t help thinking she acted like an immature brat.

  A man I recognized from the MPD video interviews entered wearing a flippin’ tuxedo. “Dinner is served,” he said.

  I stood and offered my hand as I introduced myself. I was fully aware I was committing a faux pas, but he politely shook my hand and said, “John Anderson. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “You serve as a groundskeeper and a butler?” I asked.

  “My duties are wide and varied,” he said. “Please follow me.”

  He escorted us across the hall into the formal dining room where the large mahogany table was set in Martha Stewart style. The elaborate crystal chandelier illuminated the room with a soft glow; the stemware and china sparkled. The elegance of the setting was completed with purple and pink flowers and pale pink candles, magazine perfect for an ordinary weeknight meal.

  John rushed over to pull out Zabrina’s chair, then pulled Patrice’s at the head of the table.

  “Miss, this is your chair,” he said to Tamika, as he pulled out a chair across from Zabrina. An enormous grin grew on Tamika’s face as she touched the pink linen napkin folded into a flower. John pointed to the seat next to Tamika’s, indicating my place. A stringed-instrumental piece played softly in surround sound. People actually live like this?

  Erica carried in a soup tureen on a tray, which she placed on a side table. She wore a maid’s uniform: a black dress with a white collar. We watched silently as she ladled and served a bowl of creamy soup to Patrice, then Zabrina, then she approached me.

  I pointed to Tamika and said, “Please serve Tamika first.”

  Tamika rolled her eyes at me. She remarked to me once that she chose to let racist slights roll off her back, and I wasn’t to concern myself. But it pissed me off, and when I thought it appropriate, I said something. Erica blushed and did as I asked.

  “Lobster bisque,” Patrice announced, as she sipped the first spoonful. “Mmm, delicious.”

  Tamika made a funny face at me, which made me feel like we were playing roles in a comedic movie scene where the country bumpkins screw up at a high-society dinner, spilling beverages, dripping soup on the pale pink linen placemats. Patrice, on the other hand, seemed comfortable with the formality. It was like she had taken over the role of matriarch of the house—and enjoyed every minute.

  The Andersons served the dinner in courses: the bisque was followed by a butter lettuce salad, then the main course of crab legs, risotto, and roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon and shallots. The meat from Zabrina’s crab legs had already been removed and cut into bite-size pieces. I had never eaten crab legs before and waited to attack them until I observed how Patrice used the tools provided. Seemed like a lot of work for a tiny bit of food. Sarah Crosby came out while we were eating to ask how we were enjoying our meal.

  “It’s like a gourmet meal in a five-star restaurant,” I said.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “It’s absolutely delicious, as usual,” Patrice said.

  Tamika lifted her pinky finger as she took a sip of wine. “It’s fabulous, darling. Am I in Downton Abbey?”

  Everyone chuckled except for Zabrina, who asked what dessert was.

  “Mixed berry cobbler, your favorite,” Sarah answered.

  “I’ll take mine upstairs.”

  “Sure, I’ll have Erica take it up.”

  “How do you manage to eat dorm food after this?” I asked.

  “I mostly eat out.”

  How would it be to grow up with such privilege? Even though her life had been controlled by a grandmother with the purse strings, the girl had opportunities afforded few. She had yet to experience all the reverberations from the murders. She would never again celebrate another holiday or birthday with her family. Sure, Patrice would try to be fill their shoes, but it would never be the same. Okay, I did feel sorry for the girl.

  AFTER DESSERT, I SUGGESTED to Tamika we should leave and get some work done.

  “What work?” Tamika asked.

  “I need to examine Sonya’s social calendar, the list of radio program guests, and listen to the CDs we found in Dexter.”

  Patrice lifted a finger. “Oh, and I need someone to be here tomorrow morning by seven thirty while I meet with the attorney. I want Zabrina protected.”

  “I don’t have time, and I’m planning to go home tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tamika said.

  “Great. I’ll see you before you take off, Cal?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Have you heard anything about Michael Hawkinson’s trial?” Patrice asked. “Has jury selection been completed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tamika smiled and said, “I could ride back up with you, Patrice, if you need me to stay to guard Zabrina.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  That “excellent idea” fueled the slow burn I was feeling about how Patrice and Tamika were treating this investigation.

  I stood to take my leave. “Thank you for inviting us to dinner, Patrice,” I said.

  “Well, now your meal won’t have to show up on your expense report.”

  Ah, we’re trying to conserve money here. The woman is a walking contradiction.

  “I’ll drop Tamika off in the morning.”

  WHEN WE GOT TO THE CAR, I pulled out one of Sonya’s CDs and put it in the player. She was giving a lecture on the art of listening. As we were pulling away from the curb, Grady LaMere pulled up, followed by three girls in an old Chevy Impala.

  “I wonder how long ol’ Dragon Lady will allow them to stay this time,” Tamika said. We didn’t get a block before Tamika turned down the sound.

  “You can give these to Crosby and Spanky to listen to. They’re happy to do the grunt work.”

  “It’s our job.”

&nbs
p; “You sound pissed. What did I do?”

  “You’re treating this trip like a junket.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember, we’re down here on a murder investigation, not fancy dinners.”

  Her head whipped toward me. A few seconds passed before she spoke. “This is about Adriana, isn’t it?”

  “No.” I turned the sound back up.

  Tamika remained silent until we got back to our hotel. As I parked the Explorer, she said, “I’ve overdone it after my surgery. I need to lie down.”

  “Be ready by 7:15 a.m.”

  We walked into the hotel and to our rooms in frosty silence. Her door was next to mine. She slammed it when she went in. Good grief.

  First thing I did was call Dallas. After I unloaded about my frustrating trip, I finally asked how she was.

  “I’m good. Went snowshoeing yesterday with the gang in South Park.”

  “Fun. We’ll go again maybe next weekend.”

  “Perfect. I miss you, Cal.”

  “I miss you, too. Anything more from Vince?”

  “He called again. I told him to stop.”

  “File a restraining order.”

  “For what? He hasn’t threatened me or anything.”

  “If he does, do not hesitate. Promise me?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Unless something unforeseeable happens, I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  I PULLED OUT THE NOTEBOOK where I had written Vince Palmer’s address. I grabbed my keys and left.

  Palmer lived in a condo near Lake Calhoun, the lake where Zabrina met Grady LaMere. The building was secured, so I held back until I saw a couple exit the elevator and when they came out of the front door, the man held it open for me. I took the elevator to the ninth floor and followed the signs to apartment number 913.

  I rang the bell. I’d never met Vince or saw a photo of him, so it surprised me how short and out of shape he was. I had to give him one thing: he was good looking in a chiseled sort of way. Yeah, I was tempted to pop him in his perfect Roman nose.

  “You have to be Cal,” he said.

  “That’d be me.”

  “Let me guess. You want me to leave Dallas alone. Well, she’s my wife, and you really have no right to make such a request.”