Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Page 9

“Um, I don’t think you should do that,” I said. “We have an interview tonight, and we won’t be drinking.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she said, and ordered one anyway—she was never one to be told what to do. Jamie hustled off before she changed her mind.

  “You look great,” Adriana said to me. “Have you lost weight?”

  “A little. I like the short haircut,” I said.

  She pulled on her bangs. “It’s easy.”

  Then I had nothing more. She had nothing more. Tamika leapt in to fill the awkward silence. She pummeled Adriana with questions about her son, Marcus, just a few weeks younger than my twins, then moved on to quiz her on her job and mother.

  She loved her job, she said. She was promised a partnership within five years. Yes, she was still living with her mother, Magna, a bitch with a capital B. My words, not hers. Troy Kern had moved out a while ago; I don’t know how he lasted as long as he had. It would have been my worst nightmare.

  After a while, perhaps as much as fifteen to twenty minutes of me not contributing a solitary word, Adriana turned to me. “Tell me about your new homicide.”

  Tamika leaned in close to her. “This isn’t public info, but she was drowned in her pool, moved, and staged in her bed. Chances are the killer thought we’d think she died of natural causes and not do an autopsy.”

  “Which frequently happens because many families don’t want the expense,” Adriana said and looked to me to add to the conversation, which I didn’t.

  Tamika continued to speak softly. “Yeah, you know the Kenwood shooting? It was our victim’s daughter.”

  Adriana’s eyes grew large. “What?”

  Tamika nodded.

  Jamie brought the wine, uncorked it, and began pouring. I gave Tamika the eye. Jamie filled her wineglass.

  “I’m just going to have a tiny bit.” she said, wiggling her arms in excitement.

  Right. She downed it like water and refilled it. The more Tamika drank the more talkative she became, and that night was no exception. She talk-talk-talked through dinner. I just wanted her to shut up. When Adriana had eaten half her meal, she got up and said, “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”

  After she was out of earshot I said, “Tamika, cool it on the wine. You’re running at the mouth—and you can’t go to an interview inebriated.”

  She shot me a dirty look, then stood. “I have to use the ladies, too.”

  They were gone long enough that I considered leaving. When the women returned, Tamika, tossing me a defiant look, poured herself another glass of wine. Adriana was still nursing her first. The tension was palpable as we finished our dinner in complete silence. Adriana, not one to enjoy conflict, turned and questioned me about the twins. I answered succinctly.

  Tamika topped Adriana’s wineglass, then finished off the bottle when refilling her own. There was no way I could take her along on the interview, and I didn’t want an argument or have to physically remove her from the car at the hotel—mainly because it would be difficult and embarrassing.

  I looked at my watch. “We have an interview in Wayzata at eight. We should be getting on our way.”

  “I have to use the ladies first.” She walked off in the wrong direction, looked around in a confused state, then turned around.

  “They must have moved the restroom,” I said as she sashayed by.

  “Humph,” she said.

  Adriana looked at me. “She’s tipsy. She can’t go on an interview like that.”

  “I told you not to order a bottle.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have known better. Why don’t you go, and I’ll drop her off at the hotel.”

  I thought about that for all of a split second and said, “Thanks. That solves my problem.”

  I handed her more than enough cash to pay for the three dinners. She threw forty dollars back at me, and I left hoping Tamika wouldn’t come screaming down the sidewalk after me.

  I plugged in Gary Williams’s address and followed the GPS instructions via Penn, to Highway 62, to 494, then Highway 12 to Wayzata. I was routed through the quaint city itself, bustling with traffic at 7:00 p.m., down Lake Street where there were several restaurants, any of which we could have chosen for our meal and saved the bloody disaster that dinner became.

  Although I was over an hour early for the appointment, I continued on. The GPS led me down Ferndale, a street of multi-million dollar estates, and around a curve where the voice announced my destination had been reached. I turned onto the first road, which branched into three driveways. I decided to double back to Wayzata to kill time.

  I parked in a free ramp then walked on down to Lake Street, which was lively with pedestrians. Christmas decorations hung on all the lampposts along the street, creating a festive atmosphere. I stopped at Talbots and bought a soft, yellow sweater for Shannon for Christmas from the Twinks, then I meandered down the sidewalk until I spotted a Caribou Coffee. I bought a cup and found a window table.

  A couple with three-year-old triplet girls walked into the shop. They were dressed to the nines in little wool coats and matching hats. I immediately phoned Clara to check in.

  “Things are just fine, Cal.”

  “Who’s crying?”

  “Henry. He’s just tired. We spent a good amount of time outdoors today. I took them on a sled ride, and we built a snowman and a little fort.”

  “Clara, you’re the best.”

  “They had fun. Now they’re tired and crabby.”

  “Sorry I’m not there to help.”

  “That’s why you’re paying me.”

  AT 7:55 P.M., I WAS at the GPS dumping point. I phoned Williams, and he directed me to take the middle drive.

  The large, light-green house had two wings off from the central two-story structure. I muted my phone, grabbed my briefcase, then walked between the evergreen shrubs lining the sidewalk up to the house. When I pressed the doorbell, a gong sounded and a dog began yipping. A man with fading good looks and a paunch opened the door holding a little white mop of a dog who continued barking. Frankly, I found it amusing to see big men with tiny dogs.

  “No, Corky,” he said, shoving his index finger in the dog’s face. The dog looked up at his owner and growled.

  “Mr. Williams? Detective Cal Sheehan.” I showed him my badge to prove I could ask him invasive questions.

  The man nodded. “Gary Williams. Come in.” He held the dog tightly with his left hand while he extended his right. “He won’t hurt you.”

  “Just sounds mean, huh? What breed is he?”

  “Maltese. Do you have a dog?”

  “A yellow lab.”

  “Figures,” he said.

  I didn’t ask what he meant because I didn’t care.

  An island of long, dark, sparse hair topped Gary’s large head. His tanned, broad face made his dark eyes look even smaller. Dog hair clung to his black slacks and the cashmere V-neck sweater he wore without an undershirt.

  I followed him through a foyer directly into a living room filled with exotic, large, chunky art pieces. Like a scene in a bad movie, a bearskin rug lay before the large brick fireplace.

  “Hello,” said an attractive woman sitting on the sofa. “I’m Charity.”

  “Hello, Charity,” I said and smiled.

  “Drink?” he asked as he made his way to a portable bar.

  “Just water, thanks.”

  He filled a glass with ice and poured water from a pitcher. He handed it to me, then took another glass and poured three fingers of an amber liquid, then a bit more.

  I took a seat in a chair across from Charity, who wore a long white dress with a plunging neckline and slit up one side of the skirt revealing a long, shapely leg. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, which was considerably younger than Gary’s fifty-three years. But money was an aphrodisiac to some, and I guessed that was why she was with an aging fat man with minimal hair.

  Gary, standing by the sofa, caught me admiring Charity. “Isn’t she lovely
?” he said. He sat next to her and gave her a kiss.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something stronger? Charity, get him a glass of champagne, will you, love?”

  She started to rise.

  I put a hand up in protest. “No, thanks. Water’s fine.”

  She sat back down.

  “I’m assuming the detective would like to speak to me privately. Am I right, Detective?” Williams asked.

  “It’s up to you, sir.”

  He leaned over to whisper in Charity’s ear loud enough for me to hear: “Be a good girl and go watch dirty movies and get yourself nice and wet for me.”

  Classy guy. Charity’s eyes met mine, and her face turned scarlet. She grabbed a wine glass and an open bottle of red sitting on the small silver cart. “It was nice meeting you, Detective Sheehan,” she said sweetly.

  “On second thought, stay.”

  She returned. I pulled out my iPad, propped it on the marble coffee table top, turned it on, then adjusted the location so I had a good angle on the couple.

  “You’re recording this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gary took the Maltese off his lap and placed it next to him, brushed off dog hair, then ran his fingers through his wisps of hair.

  “If you’re ready, I’ll press play.”

  He brought his arms around and folded his hands on his lap, then nodded. I had pressed the red button minutes ago and recorded all the preening. I gave the case number, date, place, and stated who I was interviewing, where, and why.

  “Mr. Williams, I understand Sonya Donovan is your cousin?”

  “Yes, our mothers were sisters.”

  “How often did you see her?”

  “Not very often. I believe the last time was two years ago at my Aunt Violet’s funeral. That’s Sonya’s mother.”

  “Did you have any contact with her after that?”

  “There wasn’t much interest on either of our parts. I didn’t see the point.”

  “Did you know of any conflicts or problems she had with anyone?”

  “Sonya had a conflict with everyone she met.”

  “Oh?”

  “She had a tendency to make people feel they were disappointing her.”

  “You as well?”

  “I didn’t let her get to me, but my mother did. Okay, I lied earlier. I saw her once, about three months after Aunt Violet’s funeral. My mother wanted me to arrange a lunch with Sonya. So I agreed. Well, it was a disaster. Mother came away so upset I told her she never had to see her again.”

  “What happened?”

  “Sonya told my mother she hadn’t helped Aunt Violet enough. You see, Violet got herself knocked up right out of high school, then expected my folks to support her. Mom said it was like a bottomless pit. She was constantly coming to them for money. They finally cut her off. Sonya said they had to go on welfare. Well, my parents never knew that, and it wouldn’t have made a difference if they had. People make choices. Hers was to get pregnant and not get married.”

  “What about Sonya’s father?”

  “Mother said she doubted Violet knew his name. She was running wild in those days. Sonya was a product of a one-night stand.”

  “Where were you last Thursday and Friday, December eleventh and twelfth?”

  A look of concern spread across his face. “Here. Why?”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Charity was with me.” His eyes narrowed, then looked at Charity.

  “We were home,” she said.

  “Should I call my attorney?” Gary asked.

  I shrugged. “If you feel it necessary.”

  “Well, if you’re insinuating I killed Sonya, you’re wrong. Why would I?”

  “She’s a wealthy woman. You may have believed you’re in line to inherit.”

  “Look at me.” He made large swooping gestures with his arms. “I don’t need—or want—her money.”

  “Charity, what is your full name?”

  “Charity Ann Vosika.”

  “You work for Mr. Williams?”

  She giggled. “No, I’m his girlfriend. I live here.”

  He patted her knee. She smiled at him.

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “Almost a year.”

  “Where were you last Thursday and Friday?”

  “I was home, except for the two hours I went shopping at Ridgedale on Friday afternoon.”

  “What about Gary?”

  “He went to work during the day, but we were home together both evenings.”

  “Had you met Sonya Donovan?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any information that could lead me to Sonya Donovan’s killer?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “Okay, that’s all I have for you both now, but Minneapolis Detectives Ryan and Gill may have questions for you later.”

  The sleeping Maltese didn’t stir from the couch as Gary Williams led me to the door.

  “Detective, I didn’t particularly like Sonya, but I respected what she’d accomplished. Good luck finding her killer.”

  11

  I HAD FIVE PHONE MESSAGES. None were from Tamika.

  Adriana sent me one: “I got Tamika back to the hotel safely. She didn’t seem upset you’d left without her. It was good seeing you, Cal, although Tamika mentioned you weren’t thrilled to see me. I get it. Maybe it’s better that way.”

  I knew Tamika was sloshed, but it pissed me off she said something to Adriana. Then again, they were close friends—what did I expect? An unexpected wave of relief passed over me when I realized I didn’t have to worry about Adriana calling and screwing things up with Dallas like she did with Shannon.

  One message was from Detective William Ryan. He said, “I’m interviewing witnesses in the Kenwood case, and you’re welcome to come down this evening and sit in.”

  I left a message telling him I’d be down ASAP.

  Patrice had left three messages, each one increasing in curtness. I called back, and she answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Patrice, sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I was interviewing.”

  “Did you see Zabrina?”

  “Yes. She was too sleepy to talk, so we’re going back tomorrow morning.”

  “Did MPD post a guard outside her door?”

  “Yes, and we had to show our ID to even get her room number.”

  “Good. I’m coming down tomorrow. I’m executor of Sonya and Justine’s wills, and they’re being read at the same meeting.”

  “The doctor said it was okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just fainted, no concussion. Where are you and Tamika staying?”

  “At the La Quinta on 394, but I’m hoping we’ll be finished up here by tomorrow. I’m going down to MPD right now to co-interview witnesses.”

  “Pulling an all-nighter?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Isn’t Tamika with you?”

  “Oh . . . she’s not feeling well.”

  “Flu? It’s going around.”

  “I’m not sure what she has.”

  “Call me tomorrow morning. I’ll be up early.”

  I would make it very clear to Tamika that I covered for her for the first and last time.

  The traffic was lighter this time of night as I made my way on 394 to the downtown Minneapolis Police Department on South Fifth Street. I showed my badge and asked for Ryan. The officer at the desk said Ryan was expecting me. He had me sign in, gave me a visitor’s pass, then had me wait for someone to come and fetch me.

  It wasn’t long before a woman somewhere in her forties approached me. She was wearing tan wool pants, a white button-down shirt and a navy blazer; her badge hung from a lanyard.

  “Cal Sheehan?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Martha Gill. I’m Will Ryan’s partner.”

  “Thanks for including me in the interviews.”

  “S
ure.”

  As we walked down a long hallway, she said, “Right now Will’s talking to Thomas Falcon, the business manager for Donovan Enterprises. You can observe. Then when Will’s done, feel free to step into the room to ask questions.”

  We went through a security point, then down a long hall through a large common room, and into an observation room. Gill directed me to a folding chair, then sat next to me. Ryan’s back was to the camera.

  Thomas Falcon was younger than I expected. His curly, dark hair framed his round face. He was saying Justine was Sonya’s executive secretary and publicist. “I only know what she told me. I think the guy’s last name was Fischer. In any event, he harassed Sonya with threatening emails and tweets. Justine blocked him.”

  “What was the context of his communication?”

  “He called her vulgar names. The mildest insult was she was a piranha feeding her bank account on other people’s pain. He made it clear she ruined his life.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Sonya and her guest had told his wife to leave him because he was abusive. It’s what they did. Judge a relationship. The show was called Love ’Em or Leave ’Em.”

  “Did Justine ever personally interact with Fischer?”

  “No. She reported him to the police, and they suggested she contact her Internet provider and have his emails blocked, which, as I said, she did.”

  “Okay. Hang here a minute,” Ryan said. He walked out of the room and came around into the observation room.

  He said to Martha Gill, “Have Cyrus Fischer picked up.”

  Then he turned to me and extended his hand. “You must be Cal Sheehan.”

  “Yes, nice to meet you, and thank you for inviting me in.”

  “No problem. I’m done with the business manager if you want to interview him. His name is Thomas Falcon.”

  “He’s the money-handler?”

  “Yes.”

  Falcon’s overly applied aftershave did little to mask the stale odor of the room. I introduced myself as the investigator on Ms. Donovan’s murder case, not only for Falcon, but for the record.

  He nodded.

  “I understand you’re Sonya Donovan’s business manager.”

  “Yes.”

  “For the Dexter Lake household as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any expenditures out of the ordinary lately?”