Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 4

  After the divorce, Mom dated several men. A few could even have been good step-fathers, but most not so much. And now she claimed Bobby, whom she met during a California vacation when she was twenty-two and recently reconnected with, was the one. I just had to shake my head.

  I considered how to approach Shannon about having the twins for Christmas dinner. A woman planning her funeral would feel a need to be with her babies. I Googled “breast cancer” and read several articles, but it wasn’t especially helpful since I didn’t know what kind of cancer Shannon had.

  Spanky entered the room and sat at his desk with a thud. “I must be living right. I didn’t have a single call this weekend. Thanks for taking the Dexter Lake call.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Before I could expound, Doctor Butch phoned. “Cal, I have a cause of death for Sonya Donovan. She drowned.”

  It took a second for his words to register. “What?”

  “The fluid in her lungs was chlorinated water. You remember I pointed out the foam in her mouth? I thought it could be an overdose. Foam’s most indicative of drowning, but since she was in bed, it wasn’t my first thought.”

  “She didn’t crawl from her pool up to bed herself, did she?” I said. “Now we have a murder.”

  5

  BECAUSE WE’D NEED the state lab’s forensic help, I called the Bemidji Regional Office (BRO) of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA). Leslie Rouch and her techs were to meet me out at the Donovan property. The scene had already been compromised with Patrice and Justine there—and more so, if they had continued to stay at the home the last seventy-two hours.

  I called Patrice, who didn’t answer until the sixth ring. I almost had hung up.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “At Sonya’s. Why?”

  “Because it’s a crime scene. Doctor Butch just called. I’m afraid you were right. Sonya didn’t die from natural causes. She had chlorinated water in her lungs. She drowned, and someone moved her up to her bed in an attempt to make us think it was natural causes. I’m meeting Leslie Rouch’s crew there as soon as they can get a team together. Tell me you didn’t go in the pool area.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Her bedroom?”

  “No.”

  “You should get out of there until they’ve completed their work. A storm is coming in, so you and Justine should leave now.”

  “Her hair didn’t look right.”

  “For me it was the position of the body. So who benefits most from her death?”

  There was a few seconds delay before she said, “You’re not thinking it’s Justine?”

  “I just asked a question.”

  “She’s not a killer.”

  “You need to let me do my job.”

  A pause, then, “Of course.”

  I COULD JUST HEAR a defense attorney saying, “You mean to tell me, Detective Sheehan, that you didn’t seal off the crime scene? You let the victim’s daughter and her friend stay in the home, further contaminating the scene?”

  I called Dallas and cancelled our dinner date and told her why.

  “Dang. I was looking forward to pizza and beer at Buzzo’s.”

  “And I was looking forward to the pie a la mode at your place afterward.”

  “Well, if you get done early enough, come by for that pie.”

  It was our code for a roll in the hay, which meant we would be alone—no Clara, no kids.

  I said, “Sometime, I’d also like to have real pie—any kind except raisin.”

  “I love you because you hate raisins, too.”

  “There . . . you said it.”

  “Oh, shoot. I was going to hold out for at least a week.”

  “Are we playing games?”

  “Nope. I’m just being stubborn. Good luck tonight.”

  I smiled and continued to do so for the first few seconds while I began to fill out the paperwork for the extensive search warrants for Sonya Donovan’s two residences, business, phones and computer records, credit card accounts, and financials. I stopped off at the courthouse and waited thirty minutes until Judge Olann was free to sign the documents.

  “Strange situation you have there,” he said as he signed the documents. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  But I wasn’t sure I needed it. Justine was looking good for this murder. But a small woman couldn’t move a body from the pool upstairs to the bed; she had to have an accomplice.

  THE SNOW HAD PICKED UP in the last hour and because my own four-wheel-drive, red Ford F-150 extended cab truck was better in deep snow than a department Explorer, I drove it to Dexter Lake. For a portion of the time, I was behind a plow and a sanding truck, which had advantages and disadvantages. It made for safer but slower driving. The county vehicles worked in tandem to clear the roads. The larger plow was in front, and the smaller rear plow cleared the edge and shoulder of the roadway at the same time it distributed sand and salt from the back of the truck. I kept a distance to prevent my truck from being pelted with the mixture spewing onto the road surface.

  IT WAS AFTER FOUR O’CLOCK when I pulled up to the Donovan home. Two cars were in the driveway: a red Mazda Miata and Patrice’s Audi. Both cars were covered in a canopy of snow, and because I fancied myself as a nice guy—and to expedite their departure—I cleaned both cars off with my brush. I retrieved my equipment bag and briefcase and made my way to the door, where Patrice was waiting for me.

  After pulling off my boots, I placed them on the rug just inside the door. Justine freed her arm from the shoulders of the young woman seated next to her on the couch and walked toward me to shake my hand. Dark circles underscored Justine’s and Patrice’s puffy eyes.

  “I was sorry to hear your mother’s death was ruled a homicide. It certainly doesn’t make your loss any easier.”

  “Thank you for saying that. Detective, my mother didn’t swim, and not many people knew.”

  “She was afraid of the water?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that. She loved boats, and she’d sit in the shallow end and wade in the lake. Dad suggested she take swimming lessons, but she unfortunately refused.”

  I nodded and then faced Patrice. “I thought you’d have taken my advice and would be gone by the time I got here.”

  “I had to let you in, didn’t I?”

  “Point taken. Before I forget, I should know the security code so we can lock up when we leave. You should change it after this is over.”

  Justine nodded. “It’s 3993.”

  I recorded it in my pocket notebook.

  Patrice said, “Come meet Zabrina.”

  We made our way to the seating area in front of the massive fireplace. Flames licked upward from the large logs, creating an atmosphere akin to a ski lodge.

  “Cal, this is Zabrina. Deputy Sheehan is investigating your nana’s death.”

  Zabrina was small boned and slim. She resembled her grandmother except for her mane of dark curly hair. As I approached, she curled her long legs up under herself, then dabbed her red and puffy eyes with a tissue from the pile in her lap.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Zabrina. This must be very difficult for you.”

  She glanced up, nodded, then her young, pretty face twisted into a grimace, and she began wailing, the high volume of which took me aback. Justine rushed to sit at her daughter’s side and engulf her in her arms. Zabrina buried her face in her mother’s bosom.

  Patrice turned away from the two women and leaned toward me. “She’s taking this pretty hard.”

  “Of course. As long as they’re still here, I’d like to get fingerprints and DNA samples.”

  “To eliminate theirs from the killers.”

  I narrowed my eyes and said, “Yes.”

  It took only a few minutes to run Justine and Zabrina’s prints on our portable print scanner.

  “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The plow just went through, so
you’ll be okay if you follow my tracks.”

  Patrice said, “Okay, ladies, let’s head out.”

  “Justine, would it be convenient for you and Zabrina to come into the department before you travel back to Minneapolis?” I asked. “We can wait until after the storm because I don’t want you driving on these roads. I have search warrants, and unfortunately, we’ll have to be a bit intrusive during our investigation.”

  I pulled the paperwork out of my briefcase, and Justine waved them away.

  “Patrice has filled me in on what to expect. You need to find out who murdered my mom.” Tears filled her eyes and Patrice and Zabrina surrounded her with hugs.

  “I’ll be in touch to arrange a time that’s convenient for you,” I said.

  “When will her body be released?” Justine said.

  “It shouldn’t be more than a few days,” I said. “Patrice, to expedite our investigation, would you please help Justine make a list of the employees, friends, coworkers, and associates’ phone numbers and addresses? Include Sonya’s husband’s ex-wife and her step-children.”

  “Great idea. Cal, may I speak with you privately?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  I followed her into the library. “Shannon shared with me she has breast cancer. Since you two are officially divorced, you can’t legally take family illness time off for her medical issues, but I’ll turn a blind eye to any days you feel are necessary—to support her—within reason.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Did they catch it early?”

  I shrugged. “I hope so, but we’ll know more next week.”

  “You understand this case is our priority, but testifying at Michael Hawkinson’s trial coming up will take a day or two from the investigation.”

  We were both witnesses for the prosecution. I’d put his upcoming trial out of my mind. Michael, Mike, Hawk, depending on who you were talking to, was my ex-buddy who’d been charged with the murder of his brother. He’d confessed to me, and I was the one who brought him to the jail.

  Patrice pulled a set of keys off the end table. “One of these is a house key, and another should fit the desk. You can return them later.”

  “Thanks. Please put out the fire before you leave.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I know you added to the garbage, but did you take anything to the laundry room?”

  “No,” Justine said.

  After the three women left, and I was alone, I donned my gloves and footies and went up to the master bedroom. All linens would be taken by the BCA. Hopefully, the killer left a little something for us—hair, a drop of sweat, fingerprints.

  Death wasn’t glamorous. When people died, their muscles relaxed and urine and fecal matter were excreted. Because Sonya was moved, it was possible the water or filter in the pool would contain traces of feces. Whoever killed her had dried her hair. I would specifically request a DNA sample from her hair dryer. I pulled her Fitbit watch from the drawer and bagged it. I’d check later to see if it was synchronized with her phone.

  When I checked out her linen closet, it struck me how the sheets and towels, all a wheat color, were stacked in perfect, even rows. I checked the tag: Ralph Lauren.

  The bedrooms upstairs had their own baths. The sheets and towels in each room matched, but each room had a different color scheme, and the used towels and washcloths were still hanging on racks.

  I went downstairs and looked in the laundry room for linens that the killer—or killers—might have used to clean up or dry off the victim. There were two sets of the same wheat towels in the laundry basket. I’d let BRO bag them.

  6

  MY FIRST SUSPECT WAS JUSTINE, but Sonya’s death could have been an accident and someone else covered it up. Maybe she was having hot sex in the pool with a secret lover, accidentally died, and he or she panicked because they didn’t want the scandal. Or she was swimming laps, then bam! Someone caught her off guard, held her head under until she was dead. End of the radio queen. But there were no bruises, which would be likely if she fought for her life. Plus, she didn’t swim.

  I glanced out the front window. The snow was really coming down, and if the roads were impassable, I could always go next door and stay with my mom and Bobby Lopez . . . but it would have to be one honking blizzard before I resorted to that.

  DARKNESS HAD FALLEN by the time Leslie’s BCA crew arrived.

  “How are the roads?” I asked her.

  “Not good. The forecast was bumped up to a foot of snow by morning. We’re going to try and work as expediently as possible.”

  “Wonderful. If you need my help, let me know.”

  I STOOD ON THE SIDELINES as the technicians did their thing in and around the pool: taking water samples, vacuuming the entire tile floor and the changing room, removing the pool filters, taking DNA swabs from various surfaces. After they finished with the changing room, I took the opportunity to examine it myself. I hadn’t considered it part of a crime scene earlier, so I hadn’t given it a glance—yet another lesson for me.

  The room was ten by twelve. Along the left, shorter wall was a set of storage cubes holding sage-green towels. Two of the cubes had six towels each, but one held a skewed pile of four. I took a photo and checked the brand: Ralph Lauren. They were larger than bath towels but smaller than a beach towel.

  The other cubes held various supplies: lotion, deodorant, hairspray, tissue, toilet paper, and extra swimsuits. There were two small hand towels on the rack by the sink in the small bathroom.

  I didn’t know if the uneven stacks were significant, but they struck me as odd for Sonya’s persnickety housekeeping ways, so I went upstairs to the master bath and photographed her perfectly stacked wheat towels. I looked up and saw Leslie standing in the doorway.

  “Did you do any swabbing around the cubicles in the changing room?” I asked.

  “Yes, we noticed the disarray. We pulled fingerprints, but we’ll see. The culprits could have worn gloves.”

  “If the murder had been planned.”

  “Yes.”

  LESLIE AND CREW HAD MOVED up to the master bedroom to swab for DNA and take fingerprints, most of which would belong to the victim herself, her family, or the cleaning lady. Which reminded me, I needed to question her as well.

  After I asked them to swab the hair dryer, I made my way down to the office off the kitchen. I found the correct key to the four-drawer desk on the set of keys Patrice gave me. The top left drawer held an unlocked metal box containing five-hundred-fifty dollars. The lower drawer held a plastic container of several CDs, labeled by months and years. The last one had been dated October of this year. The top drawer on the right contained a tablet filled with notes, but no other paper documents or bills. The bottom drawer was empty. My guess was she had mail sent to her Minneapolis address.

  I then examined the contents of her purse. The only items worth entering into evidence were her cellphone, wallet, and address book. I slipped them into separate evidence bags. I would also bag the CDs. Maybe some nutjob connected with her radio show killed her. But that seemed unlikely with the staging—unless it was a clever psychopath.

  I rechecked all the kitchen cabinets. The amount of trash had multiplied in the few days since Sonya’s death; the recycling bin contained six empty wine bottles. Obviously, Patrice and Justine were drowning their sorrows. It was now all going to have to go to the lab.

  BEFORE THE BRO TEAM pulled out just after ten o’clock, I made sure they had the bags containing the family’s DNA swabs. I locked up the house, then walked through a half foot of snow to my truck. Because Dallas got up early, she went to bed promptly at ten. I sat in my truck and texted her, saying I was on my way home. I waited for her to text me back to tell me my pie was waiting, but she didn’t.

  I followed the tire tracks of the BCA vans out of the driveway. At Highway 10, the vans turned left and would head north up 371. I turned right. The plow hadn’t been through lately, and I took my time on the slippery roadway.
I put on Chris Botti’s Impressions album.

  I hadn’t met a single car for ten miles when an orange Camaro zoomed past in the other direction, throwing snow into the wind. The fool would end up in the ditch. I glanced at the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the red tail-lights fishtailed, then sharply veered into the ditch. Shit.

  By the time I turned around and parked on the shoulder, two individuals had exited and were at the rear of the vehicle, attempting to push it out. I put on my flashers, grabbed my Fenex flashlight, jumped out and, staying on the road, shined the beam down on the Camaro wedged in a snowdrift.

  “Everyone okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but we’re stuck.”

  “Yeah, there’s no way you’re pushing that baby out,” I said.

  The driver rolled down his window. Smoke curled out. “Hey, buddy, do you have a chain?”

  “Nope, and it doesn’t surprise me you ended up in the ditch. You were driving way too fast for the conditions.”

  “Hey, asshole, if you ain’t gonna help, move on.”

  “Hey, asshole, I’m Deputy Sheehan with the Birch County Sheriff’s Department.”

  He lowered his head to the steering wheel.

  As I called dispatch, the front seat occupants moved about in the vehicle, indicating they were trying to hide something. The passenger opened the window and chucked objects out, most likely beer cans. I told the two young people still attempting to get hernias by pushing a 3,500-pound vehicle to come up to the road. They trudged their way through the deep snow and came up beside me. As I suspected, they were kids, one a female. I pulled my badge, then asked, “Where are you headed?”

  “Home,” the young male said.

  “Mind if I pat you down for my own safety?”

  “Uh . . . okay,” he said.

  I asked them to put their hands on the front of my hood. While patting them down, I detected beer breath. I pulled the wallet from the boy’s pocket and looked at his ID. Kirk Jackson, age twenty, Dexter Lake address. Since I had my own vehicle, I had no cuffs, no computer, or my citation book to make an arrest. Where was dispatch?