by Edwin Dasso
“Oh my God!” he shouted, thinking on his feet. “Has something happened to Jill?” He started to tremble, and that led to a coughing fit, and then crumpled as Rob and Albert walked him to the recliner.
“No, no, she’s fine; this has nothing to do with Jill,” Albert said. He and Rob exchanged glances; was this a ruse, or was he really shocked? He decompensated, with heaving shoulders, sobbing. It seemed a bit dramatic, but maybe he really was worried.
“Oh, thank God,” he said, sounding relieved. He’d pulled it together quickly. “I know she was being stalked. I saw her briefly Saturday morning.”
Albert frowned, surprised he’d made that confession so quickly. “You saw Jill Saturday morning?”
“I drove in to surprise her, but she was otherwise occupied,” he replied with a sneer, his former concern forgotten, and the inference clear. Albert concluded that Fred Cooper was a nerd. The police training and cool uniform were a façade, and underneath it, he was just a man who lived in a crappy apartment. “If she’s okay, why are you here?” He looked up at Albert and blew his nose.
“Can we sit at the table?” Rob asked.
Fred nodded, getting up from the recliner to clear the table, carrying a pile of papers over to the counter and adding them to the pizza box tableau.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the chairs surrounding it.
“We’re here about Cynthia Caldwell,” Albert said.
The look on Fred’s face was unmistakable; his pallor was gone, replaced with red high on his cheekbones. “Oh,” he said. “I guess I’m in trouble with Jill.”
Albert frowned again, confused. “We didn’t drive across the state to accuse you of infidelity, Fred.”
“It was once, just once. We ran into each other, started talking on the phone again. She was here Friday night.”
“Cynthia was murdered in the city Saturday morning.”
After the news registered, Fred’s expression changed from concern to hostility. He immediately got defensive, not waiting to hear how she’d died.
“I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it. I know it looks bad, but I’ll do anything, take a lie detector test, anything to prove it.”
“Tell us what happened Friday night.”
Fred stood up again and started pacing. “She came here after the club’s party,” he said. “We had a glass of wine and went to bed; then she got up early Saturday and left. That’s all.”
“What time Saturday?” Albert asked.
Fred frowned, thinking, What difference does it make? She’s dead! “Maybe five.”
“Why so early?”
“She had a lot to do and wanted to get an early start. It was Saturday.”
“A witness says she was upset when she left here,” Albert said, deciding to reveal what Paul Cummings told them.
Fred stopped pacing, confused. “No one saw us.”
“Yes, actually, somebody did. He was in the driveway when she left here Saturday morning. He’ll confirm the time she left.”
“Who? I don’t believe this,” Fred replied, stymied, but only for a second.
“An admirer of Cynthia’s. Someone who’s followed her here numerous times in the past weeks. Make it easy on yourself, Fred,” Rob said. “None of this is in your favor; it would be better if you were honest. If someone said the girl was upset, there must be a reason.”
Fred understood the predicament he was in. He could confess everything now and make it easier or drag his feet, biding for time.
“Well, it’s his word against mine,” Fred said, choosing the latter. “She was fine when she left here. It’s a coincidence she was in Detroit when I was. She could have followed me there for all you know.”
Rob scratched his head and looked at his notes. “So let’s see if I got this right. You’re saying it was a coincidence that a woman you’d slept with the night before, who was seen by a colleague upset and crying leaving your apartment before sunrise, is found dead in the same city your girlfriend lives in three hours away from home during the same time you were there.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” Fred said.
“What happened Saturday when you got to Jill’s?” Albert asked.
“I got pissed off because there was a cop in her apartment,” he said. “I acted like an asshole. I’m sure it’s the end of our relationship.”
Albert stood up, giving in and looking at his watch, and stretched out his hand. “Thanks for seeing us,” he said. “Before we leave, do you mind if we take your service pistol with us?” Albert was afraid it had been cleaned, but he still had to ask.
Fred tried to control his facial muscles, and the effort resulted in a tick Albert didn’t miss. “You can take it,” he said, walking to the back of the apartment. Albert looked around the living room, by the front door. There was a pair of snow boots and another of leather shoes, but no sneakers. When Fred came out of the bedroom with his gun, handing it over, Albert asked about the shoes.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
“A fourteen,” he replied. “Why?”
“Just wondering. Nike?”
Fred shook his head. “Nope.”
“Ah. We’ll be in touch if anything else crops up, and I expect you to do the same.” They left in silence, and it wasn’t until they got into the car that Rob spoke again.
“Boy, you sure do things differently than I do,” he said. “I would have been a little firmer with him.”
“He’s a cop,” Albert said. “He was playing a game. What’s the point of antagonizing him? If he did it, something more will come to the surface.” He pulled away from the royal blue state police car, Fred Cooper watching from the window above.
John Cranston was waiting at Applebee’s when Albert pulled up. He saw the dirty, dark green car with a longhaired Asian guy and a scruffy, bookish-looking man in the front seat and thought, it figures. A snob, Cranston perpetuated the rift between state cops and locals. He considered himself a better cop just because. That was why the thing with Fred was such a shock. Fred was a golden boy in the barracks, with an exemplary record, never causing a moment’s concern.
That was until he started dating the Detroit cop. Then a shit storm hit. Her aunt was killed by some greasy lowlife with whom she’d had an affair and, unbeknownst to her, had video taped their sexual encounters. It was graphic, sloppy and unedited, two older people who’d discovered their vitality. That was fine, Cranston thought, except the videos disappeared. They’d hidden the discovery from the public as a courtesy for the deceased woman’s brother, who was a retired State Trooper. Cranston was going to destroy the videos, but when he looked for them in the evidence room, they were gone. An interoffice investigation led back to Fred. Denying it vehemently, Fred claimed it was a setup, got his union representative involved, and the situation mushroomed into a mess that had not yet been resolved. As he stood in the freezing lobby, Cranston watched Detroit’s finest walking toward him, talking to each other like they had all the time in the world. When they walked through the door, Cranston made a point of looking at his watch. Albert loved it, wishing they’d taken a little longer.
“Sorry about the delay,” Albert said, sticking out his hand. “Your boy Cooper had more to say than expected.” Hitting its mark, Cranston turned red.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, looking for the hostess. “What do you need from me? I’m still not sure what you think I can offer your case.”
“You can’t offer us anything except information about your boy Cooper,” Albert said. Rob thought the use of your boy was fabulous, troubling Cranston and putting him on the defensive. He wouldn’t want to be associated with Fred Cooper if a murder charge was forthcoming. Hopefully, it would prompt him to spill everything he knew about the man.
“He’s a fine officer,” Cranston said. “A model State Trooper.”
“Then you wouldn’t hesitate to release his work file,” Albert said.
Cranston didn’t think it would get
to this. He wanted to stall, to see if there wasn’t some way he could circumvent the facts without forfeiting Cooper’s legal rights. However, he didn’t see any way out of it. “No, I can’t see any reason not to. He has a union representative who we’ll have to notify, but unless he has any objections, you can look at it.”
“Is there anything in his file that would help us investigate our case?” Albert was counting on Cranston being honest.
“I’m not sure. But that’s all I’m willing to say at this time. I will vouch for Fred’s character and his work ethic. That’ll have to be enough for now.” He stood up to leave.
“I’ll be in touch.” Albert said. They shook hands, and Cranston left Applebee’s.
“What now?” Rob asked, stifling a yawn.
“I want to eat,” Albert said.
13
Albert wanted to talk to Valarie before they returned to Detroit. He texted her and immediately received a text that she’d been waiting to speak with him. Call me, it said. He pushed a few buttons, and her number rang. When she answered, Albert couldn’t put the grown-up telephone voice with the body of the teenager he’d met earlier.
“My parents don’t know anything about me talking with you,” she said. Albert reassured her that he’d keep it confidential unless she needed to testify in court. “Okay,” Valarie said. “Fred Cooper is the cop she’d started to see again. Even though he dumped her for some slut from Detroit, someone he picked up over Labor Day while we were in Traverse City with our parents.
“On Black Friday, Cindy ran into Fred at the mall. Cindy admitted she initiated seeing him again, calling Fred to invite him for a drink and then going to his apartment. She told me before, Fred was into porn. Not addicted to it, she wouldn’t go that far, but that he liked to watch it with her, when they were you know. My mom and dad would have had a fit. It was so unlike the Cindy I knew, but she said it was a turn-on.
“The duplicating machine was right on the dining table the first time she’d returned to his place after they got back together, and it got her attention. The player was already loaded up with a tape. When he was taking a shower, she played a few seconds of it and said it was disturbing, horrible stuff, not what they’d watch to get aroused. Next to the duplicating machine was a box that contained pornographic tapes marked evidence. She assumed it was from a crime he was investigating; it was in all the papers here—evidence gone missing. He was making DVD copies of the porno tapes, I think to sell. Cynthia said she thought he stole the tapes, but when she confronted him, he said he was hiding them to protect the woman he’d been dating who was a niece of the dead woman. He told her he wasn’t copying them to sell, just making DVDs out of the tapes. When she was able, she took a couple of the DVDs and stuffed them in her purse, along with several tapes.
“He must have discovered Cynthia took the tapes. You have to have known my sister, Detective. She was real. By taking the tapes, Fred was betraying the family of the dead woman, not protecting them. It made her angry, and it had to have something to do with her next move. She was going to try to find out where Fred’s girlfriend in Detroit lived and was going to tell her. We were supposed to go together.”
“Why’d she choose this weekend to go to Detroit?” Albert asked. He could hear Valarie crying.
“I’m not sure. She must have believed he was going to sell the videos, or she would have never risked going alone. I’ve never known Cindy to be so determined or so impulsive. She was going to get even with Fred by exposing him.”
Now Albert felt like he was getting somewhere. The story about the do-gooder who was trying to save the reputation of a dead woman was a little difficult to swallow.
“Why do you think she went straight from Fred’s apartment to Detroit?” Albert asked.
“She had to work every day this week, and Saturday morning was the only time she could go. She had a wedding to do Saturday evening. She’d taken the videos to show her boss, too. Evidently, he felt Fred must be trying to profit in some way.”
Albert looked up from his notepad to Rob. “She told Mr. Becker?”
“Yes,” she replied. “He was sort of her mentor. Mr. Becker was great to Cindy. He’s going to be devastated when he hears she’s gone.” Valarie started to cry again.
Albert didn’t say anything more, waiting for her to pull it together so he could hang up. James Becker knowing about the videos put the focus on him again, and Albert planned to call him as soon as Valarie came back on the line.
“What are you going to do?” she asked nervously. “Do you have a suspect yet?”
“Everything you told me will help put the pieces of the puzzle together, Valarie. Thank you. We have to get back into Cindy’s cottage as soon as the police are finished. It’s a priority. Do you know if she had a diary?”
“She didn’t. But she journaled on her computer.”
Albert hoped it was still in the house. “Would you meet me back at the cottage?”
“Anything I have to do to prove Fred Cooper killed my sister, I will do,” she said; bright spots of red high on her cheeks and glassy eyed, she was glad the detective couldn’t see her face.
“Thank you again, Valarie. I’ll find out when we can get inside and text you back.”
Rob had fallen asleep with his head back on the seat and mouth open, snoring. Albert let him be. It would be easier getting the last few things taken care of without listening to him whine. He dialed James Becker’s home phone, and the answering machine came on again with its corny message.
“Hey, Jim, it’s Albert again. I’m still here in Grand Rapids. Why didn’t you tell me about the video…”
“Detective, I’m here,” James Becker said, out of breath. “Aren’t you ever going to go back to Detroit?”
“Not until I get your lies cleared up,” Albert said. “I told you to level with me or it would come back to bite you in the ass. Now I hear from a reliable source that Cynthia confided in you about a video. Did you know it was stolen evidence from a murder down in Saugatuck? You had it in your possession. You should have called the police.”
“She came to me looking for help. I did what she asked, looked at it and told her she needed to get rid of the tape right away.”
“She might still be alive if you’d contacted the police, Becker.”
“That’s unfair! I’m not to blame for her death, Detective Wong. I’m hanging up now. If you want to speak to me again, you may do so through my attorney.” He hung up on Albert.
“What a schmuck,” Albert said out loud.
Rob stirred and looked over at Albert out of one eye. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten,” Albert said as Rob moaned. “We need to get over to Cindy’s cottage again, and then we can leave.”
Rob didn’t say anything, but turned over and faced the window, trying to fall back to sleep, while Albert texted Roger, telling him his whereabouts. It felt like he’d packed two days into the last eight hours. Then he called Jill and gave her the edited version of the rundown.
“It sounds like you got a lot accomplished today,” she said. She didn’t ask about Fred. He’d left out the chat about Fred taking the tapes from the evidence room, Cynthia finding the tapes in Fred’s apartment, and her planned visit to inform Jill about Fred. No point in telling her something that would upset her now.
“What are you doing tonight?” Albert asked.
“Nothing much. Just resting. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Jill said goodbye and, as she hung up from the call, smiled at Mark, who was sitting on the window bench with her, looking out over the city.
Feeling trapped, Valarie was glad for the opportunity to get out of the house and meet Albert. She tiptoed past her parents’ bedroom, leaving for Cindy’s cottage. Listening by the door, the TV was on, and she thought she could hear her father’s soft snoring. Understandably, her parents were having an awful time. Cindy was their beloved firstborn; they placed so many hopes and dreams on her. She was successful, beautiful and always cheerf
ul. They just couldn’t fathom someone wanting to hurt their child. The detective told them it appeared that she may have known her murderer. That shocked them more than the murder itself. Why? Why would anyone who knew her kill her? It just didn’t make any sense.
“Murder never makes sense,” Valarie tried to reason with her parents, afraid with good reason that they would eventually turn on her. They needed to let it go, to grieve for Cindy and stop worrying about the whys. Her father was acting crazy when they returned from Detroit that afternoon.
“It’s not enough to call it a piss-hole,” he yelled. “I’m going to write to the editor of the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal.”
“Dad, they don’t care about Detroit or about Cindy.”
But he’d stopped listening, sitting down on the living room couch with his head in his hands, crying. “Cindy! I can’t believe she’s gone. Who would want to kill her? She’s never done a thing to hurt anyone.”
“Just leave him alone,” Elizabeth Caldwell whispered to Valarie. “He needs a scapegoat, and better he choose the city rather than us.”
“I’ll try not to make everyone miserable. God forbid I grieve my only daughter’s death.” When he realized what he’d said, he looked up at Valarie and shrugged his shoulders. “I mean my oldest daughter.” But she knew what he meant.
When the discovery was made that Cindy’s house had been ransacked, William fell apart. Returning home, they holed up in their bedroom, and she hadn’t heard from them since. William’s brother would field telephone calls from sympathizers, make funeral arrangements, keep the house running. Valarie felt invisible, but she was used to it, growing up in the shadow of someone as fabulous as Cindy.
Putting the family car in reverse, she backed it out of the long driveway without starting the engine, waiting until she was well away from the house. Detective Wong hadn’t texted yet, but she wanted to look for something first before he joined her. She turned the car lights off, trying not to attract attention when she pulled up in front of the cottage. Grabbing her bag, she ran up the steps and let herself in to the house with her key. She had a small flashlight and swept the living room until she spotted a footstool. Grabbing the stool, she went into Valarie’s tiny bedroom off the living room, put the stool in the open closet and climbed on, flashing the light up. Cindy taped the DVDs to the ceiling with duct tape. Just as Valarie finished stuffing them in her purse, her cell phone went off; she’d received a text message from Detective Wong. He was on his way and would meet her at Cindy’s in fifteen minutes. Running back to the kitchen, she swept the flashlight around to the pantry where Cindy’s collection of vintage food tins where stacked, hiding Cindy’s treasures—her iPad in an old cracker tin, which Valarie crammed in her purse, too. Out in the living room, the computer was already gone. Valarie wanted Cindy’s personal business to stay personal, but it looked like someone else did, too.
