Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 6

  “This will help a lot.” I looked it over. “I see Justine and Sonya have the same address.”

  “Justine and Zabrina have the entire second floor of the Logan house. Why? Do you think that’s weird?”

  “No, my mom and grandmother lived together until just recently. So, how are Justine and Zabrina doing?” I asked.

  Deep sigh. “Not good. We’re all in total shock.”

  Tamika leaned back in her chair. “Absolutely understandable. How was the drive in?”

  “Awful. If the roads are plowed, they’re still icy.”

  I nodded. “There’s nothing on the news. I’m surprised the local media didn’t get wind of Sonya’s death.”

  “It’s a good thing. Maybe the weather kept them home.”

  “Plus, old people dying isn’t exactly news,” Tamika said.

  Patrice shot Tamika a dirty look. “She wasn’t that old. Cal, why don’t you write something up for the media.”

  Oh, no. She’s not passing that off on me. “Patrice, I understand you’re grieving, but if you don’t buck up and act like the sheriff, the public will perceive you as weak and emotional . . .”

  Tamika pointed at her and said, “And they’ll say it’s because you’re a woman and not suited for the job. And you don’t want that with the election—”

  Patrice slammed a fist down on the table. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Give me a piece of paper.”

  Tamika tossed her a writing tablet. Patrice grabbed it and stared at it. After an awkward delay, I handed her a Prairie Falls First National Bank pen. She yanked it out of my hand and wrote a few words, then scratched them out.

  “Take yourself out of the equation, Patrice. You’re a sheriff reporting the suspicious death of a woman who owns a vacation home in the county. Stick to the facts of the case and don’t mention she’s a celebrity. Most people don’t know who Sonya Donovan is.”

  Tamika lifted her brows. “No, that’s just you, Cal.”

  “No, Cal’s right,” Patrice said.

  Tamika rolled her eyes at me.

  “Do you know when her body will be released?” I asked.

  “She’s being cremated in Bemidji today or tomorrow.”

  “Okay. We’re going to need a search warrant on Justine’s accounts, too.”

  Patrice furrowed her brows. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Tamika sat forward and pointed a finger. “Don’t you want to clear your friend before the media accuses her?”

  I nodded.

  Patrice worked her jaw as if she was chewing pebbles.

  “The killer has to be someone she knew and someone who benefits from her death in some way,” I said.

  “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “They went to great lengths to make it look like natural causes. Tell me, does Sonya always arm the security system at night?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s another thing. There was no sign of a break-in, so she either let the person in, or they knew the code.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Are you certain she doesn’t have a lover?”

  “Quite. Well, pretty sure.”

  “Does she entertain much at the Dexter house?” I asked.

  “No. Just family and a few close friends.”

  “Are all those people on the list?”

  “Yes. What I came up to tell you is that I got the autopsy report. Those damn things are Greek to me, but from what I can decipher, she was in excellent health. There was no evidence of her having had been assaulted. She did have a trace of alcohol in her system, but I expected that, seeing the wine bottles in the trash. The full toxicology report will take longer.”

  “She had no defense injuries, which is strange if someone was trying to drown her,” I said. “She would have struggled. There were no wet swimsuits or other clothing, and obviously they dried her hair—”

  Patrice pointed a finger at me. “That’s why it looked so bad.”

  “Our perpetrator dressed her in a dry negligee before he placed her back in bed,” I continued. “Plus, the pool towels were uneven.”

  Both women stared at me blankly.

  “All the towels in the cabinets and shelves were stacked evenly, but those in the pool changing area were askew and uneven by two. I could understand one . . .”

  Tamika said, “So our killer dried her with two towels and took them?”

  “That’s my thought.”

  “You need to know the brand and color,” Patrice said.

  “They were all Ralph Lauren, sage green.”

  “Send me a daily report of who you’re interviewing and when,” Patrice said.

  “We’ll head down to Minneapolis as soon as the roads are better to interview her employees and associates.”

  “Okay, and now I’m going down to my office to work on a frickin’ press release,” Patrice said as she stalked off.

  When I heard the elevator doors close, I said, “Your comment about being a woman and perceived as not suitable hit a nerve.”

  “Think so?”

  “Definitely. I don’t want her passing off her responsibilities on me. That’s why she gets the big bucks. Besides, she can delegate to her deputy chief she insisted she needed.”

  “What does Carole Knight do anyway?”

  “Patrice’s paperwork. And now I’m going to call the Moores.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The Dexter Lake housekeeper and her husband. He does plowing and yard work.”

  “And we have to get Justine in—try and yank a confession out of her.”

  “‘Yank’ doesn’t imply a smooth, calculated questioning technique,” I said.

  “How’s ‘squeeze’?”

  “Better.”

  “How about you call Justine and arrange for her and Zabrina to come in this afternoon or tomorrow morning before they head home to Minneapolis,” Tamika suggested. “They can wait until the roads are better.”

  “Got it.”

  Tamika put her half-eaten cinnamon roll between her teeth, picked up her belongings, and made her way across the hall to our office. I followed with the box holding the remaining roll, which I wasn’t going to eat. The third gave me a sugar high.

  First, I made a copy of the list of names for Tamika. Then I reserved two rooms at the La Quinta off 394 in Minnetonka for Wednesday and Thursday. When Tamika hung up the phone, she said, “You’re not going to believe this. Patrice’s husband said Justine and her daughter just left for Minneapolis.”

  “On these roads? Didn’t Patrice tell them we needed their statements before they left?”

  “He said Justine felt it important she tell the employees of her mother’s death in person before it hit the news. He mentioned Patrice told them their interviews could be held in Minneapolis.”

  “Shit.” I punched in Patrice’s number on my cell phone.

  “Yes, Cal,” she said.

  “Justine already left for Minneapolis.”

  “Did she? I advised her to stay until after the interview.”

  “But you mentioned it could be done in Minneapolis?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “I wanted to tape her here, damn it.”

  “Oh, relax, Cal. It’ll be fine.”

  I took a breath. “We’re heading down tomorrow.”

  “Good. Keep me updated.”

  I hung up and shook my head.

  Tamika had a pencil in her mouth. “You ever notice how Patrice discounts what I say? She never ever agrees with me like she does you.”

  “Nope, never noticed.” Females have all sorts of stuff going on in their heads I couldn’t begin to understand.

  “Pay attention next time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shannon stopped by yesterday to tell me the bad news. Cancer’s such a bitch. Do you know what she said to me?”

  “No.”

  “She said she was confident you could raise the kids as well as she could.”<
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  “Jesus. She’s thinking she’s going to die?”

  “When I thought I had uterine cancer, I picked out the songs for my funeral.”

  “Well, she’s not going to die.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Tamika diverted her eyes to the list of names and started taking notes. I took a deep breath and started making calls. The first was to Della Moore, Sonya’s housekeeper.

  “My husband doesn’t want me to drive on these roads,” she said.

  “Is he home?”

  “He’s out plowing and will be all day.”

  “Okay. Would tomorrow morning be a convenient time for you both to come in?”

  “If I can come in before work. Is seven okay?”

  “Perfect. Ask for me at the front desk and have Marvin call to arrange a time. When was the last time you were in the Donovan house?”

  “Friday, the fifth.”

  “Did you clean the entire house?”

  “Most of it.”

  “The workout room?”

  “I wiped down the equipment and floor.”

  “Thanks.”

  If she’d seen the tissue, she would have picked it up, but perhaps she’s the one who dropped it.

  WITHIN MINUTES. MARVIN MOORE called. I set the interview for the next day at 8:00 a.m. Then Tamika and I split the tasks and would spend the day gathering information about our victim. I had Tamika look into her finances, while I checked phone records.

  After an hour, Tamika twirled around in her chair, her face pinched. She leaned back, crossed her arms across her stomach, and said, “Do you realize Sonya spends about as much money in a month from her personal account as I gross in a year? She’s loaded.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “Anything interesting on your end?”

  “The week before she died, she received four calls from Patrice’s landline, two from her cell. Six calls. Isn’t that a lot?”

  “Women communicate, Sheehan.”

  “But there was only one from her daughter.”

  “Maybe they didn’t like each other much.”

  “Why would they plan to spend the weekend together if they didn’t?”

  “To throw us off. It’s got to be Justine.”

  “Investigations are thousand-piece puzzles.”

  “But what if it’s one of those baby puzzles with a few pieces, and we muck it up by making it too complicated?”

  I shook my head. “Even if solving the murder is simple, the county attorney needs a shitload of evidence to prosecute. At this point we know nothing. We just dig and dig and then dig some more until something stands out.”

  “The interview stuff is my favorite part, and this storm is screwing it up.”

  I sighed. “It is.”

  TOWARD MID-AFTERNOON Tamika was folded over at her desk, her head on her arms.

  “Why don’t you go home and rest, pack for our trip to Minneapolis, if you think you’re still up for it.”

  “I’m up for it,” she said. And with lightning speed, she had her coat and boots on and was headed out the door.

  As a courtesy, I contacted Minneapolis Police Department, notifying them we were investigating the death of one of their residents. After explaining the situation to whomever answered the phone, I was put on hold. After a few minutes I heard, “Homicide. Ryan.”

  I told Ryan the story. He said to let him know if there was anything he could do.

  SINCE OUR DINNER DATE had been canceled the night before, I invited Dallas over for Buzzo’s pizza. When it was the twins’ bedtime, she said she was going home. Clara gave her a look I couldn’t interpret. Dallas usually avoided coming over when I had the kids. She once told me she didn’t want to confuse the children, that they didn’t need another mother figure in their lives. When she did come over, she didn’t give them as much attention as she gave Bullet. Made me wonder if she was cut out to be a mother.

  As I walked her out to her car, she handed me her phone. On the screen was an email Vince had sent her. He said his family had booked a cruise for Christmas, and they’d paid for her passage. He said she owed him a second chance.

  “You owe him nothing.”

  “I know.”

  “Is there any part of you that wants to go?”

  “I can’t believe you just asked me that. No. No. No.”

  “Okay, good.” I would make a point to look him up when I was in Minneapolis.

  8

  Wednesday, December 17

  MY DEPARTMENT CELL PHONE’S ring cut through my sleepy fog. I glanced at my clock radio. 5:07 a.m.

  “Detective Sheehan,” I said, more asleep than awake.

  “This is Will Ryan, homicide detective with the Minneapolis PD. We spoke yesterday. I hope I’m not calling too early, but I’m about ready to go home to catch a couple hours of shuteye.”

  “It’s fine. What’s up?”

  “I thought you’d want to know Justine Donovan was shot and killed last night outside her residence.”

  I bolted to a sitting position.

  “Her daughter, Zabrina, was also wounded—hit in the shoulder. She should be okay.”

  Holy shit. “Do you have any leads?”

  “Appears to have been a drive-by. A neighbor out watering his dog in the park said a dark vehicle with a loud muffler drove by. A few seconds later he heard the shots. He couldn’t identify the model or plate number.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About eight o’clock. I would’ve called you earlier, but I left your number at my desk.”

  “Well, this changes things. Justine was my prime suspect for her mother’s death.”

  “Stands to reason.”

  “Where did they take Zabrina?”

  “Abbott Northwestern. Anyway, since we share some witnesses, you might want to interview in our department.”

  “Sure. We plan to be down later this afternoon. Hopefully the roads will be better by then.”

  “Yeah, hell of a storm passed through. How many inches did you get up there?”

  “Close to a foot.”

  “Us too. I’ll give you my phone number and email address. Let me know if you find out anything I need to know. I’ll do the same.”

  “You bet.”

  We exchanged information and hung up.

  “What the bloody hell?” I said to myself.

  I turned on the news on the TV in the bedroom. The male anchor was reporting the shootings on Logan Street in Kenwood, but the police hadn’t released names. Then a photo of a much younger Sonya Donovan appeared on the screen.

  “Authorities in Birch County have confirmed the death of Minneapolis resident Sonya Donovan. Ms. Donovan was an accomplished author and columnist but may be best known as the host of the popular radio program Love ’Em or Leave ’Em. An official from the Birch County Sheriff’s Department states the circumstances are suspicious and they are investigating. Her family is unavailable for comment.”

  “Unavailable? That’s putting it mildly,” I mumbled.

  “After the first major storm of the year dumped up to twelve inches of snow across the metro and most of the state, this morning’s commute continues to be a challenge for drivers. Let’s go to Johnny Cross for current road conditions.”

  I called Tamika. “What time is it? It’s dark out,” she croaked.

  “Justine Donovan was shot to death outside her home in Minneapolis last night. Her daughter was wounded.”

  An audible gasp, then, “Oh, my God in heaven, it’s a conspiracy.”

  I told her what I knew and said I was going in early and would see her when she arrived.

  AT 7:00 A.M., TAMIKA was sitting with her feet up on her desk. “What took ya?” she said.

  “First, I had to walk Bullet, and when we got back, the twins were up, so I had breakfast with them. I feel guilty leaving them when it’s my week.”

  “That’s why you have the best nanny in town. Seriously, how much do you pay Clara? I’m go
ing to offer her more and steal her from you.”

  I glared at her.

  “Wow, don’t look so lethal, Sheehan. I’m just kidding. So the MPD detective thinks it’s a random drive-by?”

  “Sounds like it. Why would someone want to wipe out the entire family?”

  “Maybe because Sonya wrecked theirs.”

  I considered. “Possibly. She pretty much destroyed her husband’s first family.”

  “Do her step-children live in the area?”

  “I believe they live somewhere in the Cities. I should see if Patrice is in. See how she’s handling this one.”

  I made my way to first floor. Her secretary, Georgia, wasn’t at her desk, but Patrice was. She had her back to the door and faced the window.

  “Patrice . . .”

  She swiveled her chair around. I couldn’t tell by her face if she knew about Justine or not.

  I said, “Minneapolis Police Department called this morning.”

  “I meant to tell you I called them yesterday to give them a heads-up.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Patrice, Justine was shot and killed outside of her home last night. Zabrina was hit in the shoulder and is in the hospital, but she’s going to be okay.”

  Patrice’s face turned ashen. Her eyes rolled back, and she began sliding out of her chair. As I rushed around to grab her, I heard her head hit the floor with a thud. I used her desk phone to call 911.

  I found her coat in the closet, folded it, and placed it under her head. I used two printer packs for her feet. Patrice’s eyes fluttered open. She appeared disoriented as she lifted her head.

  “Lie still. You’ve just fainted.”

  “I don’t faint.”

  “Smile,” I said.

  “I don’t feel like it,” she said.

  “I’m checking for stroke. Raise your arm.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake.” She simultaneously lifted her arm, stuck out her tongue, and said, “There. Now help me up.”

  “No, lie still. I called 911,” I said.

  “What did you go and do that for?”