“I was planning on meeting with them at nine,” Mills tells him. “Join us then?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Let’s do it now,” the sergeant demands. “Gather ’em in the conference room. I’ll be up in a sec.”
There’s nothing specific about Jacob Woods’s urgency, Mills knows. It has more to do with control than anything else. Woods is not a micromanager, but he’s an impatient son of a bitch and as political as anyone has ever been in the Phoenix Police Department. More political than the chief, even, and that’s probably because Sergeant Jacob Woods sees himself becoming Chief Jacob Woods in the not too distant future. He’ll have to wait his turn, step over a few heads on the way, but Mills has no doubt Woods will make it. Nor does he have any doubt that Woods’s success will likely be on the backs of people like Mills, whose job it is to solve crime in order to make people like Woods look good. Getting killers off the street, it turns out, is collateral success.
A few minutes later in the conference room, Mills welcomes Preston, who shows up first. Myers follows next. Powell arrives last, coffee in hand, and takes a seat at the head of the table. Mills remains on his feet, waiting for the sergeant.
“Where is he?” Powell asks.
“I thought he’d be here,” Mills says. “It’s been ten minutes.”
“You made it sound so urgent.”
“I don’t know, Jan,” he says. Then his phone rings. It’s a department number. He answers and finds himself talking to Jerry Jordan in the Black Mountain precinct.
“You sent out a BOLO for a dark blue BMW SUV?” the officer asks, referring to Mills’s “be on the lookout” request that went out department-wide.
“I did.”
“Got a call from a Safeway over here. They got one abandoned behind the store. Plate comes back to a company called Illumilife. Insured driver is your victim.”
“Davis Klink?”
“Yep.”
A wave of affirmation rises from his feet to his face. He can’t hide the goofball smile from his squad when he speaks into the phone and says, “That’s our SUV. Is the scene secured?”
“As we speak,” Jerry Jordan tells him.
“Great. I’ll send a flatbed to bring it to the lab.”
“I’ll take care of the transport if you want.”
“That would be huge. Thanks. And hey, Jerry, if you can text me the Safeway address, I’d like to send someone over and see about surveillance video. . . .”
“I’m happy to do that, too, Detective.”
Mills looks at his squad. “I got some eager folks in front of me. One of them will handle it. Just send the address.”
“Done.”
When Mills ends the call, he looks at the others and simply says, “Any questions?”
“No,” Preston tells him. “Sounds like we got the victim’s car. Great news.”
“I have a question,” Powell says. “Where the fuck is Woods?”
“I have no idea,” Mills replies. “But in the meantime, let’s get some things out of the way. . . .”
“Did I hear someone call my name?”
Powell’s face goes red.
Woods enters the room, gives a nod, and takes a seat facing Mills who is standing at the whiteboard.
“We were just getting started,” Mills tells the sergeant. “So, our victim is Davis Klink, CEO of Illumilife Industries, a Fortune 500 conglomerate based here in Phoenix. We have met with his executive assistant and plan to meet with colleagues at company headquarters hopefully later this morning or this afternoon. His car was just found and is on the way to the lab to get processed. Powell and I will head out after this meeting to interview Klink’s surviving wife.”
Everyone is nodding back at him.
The list on the whiteboard is growing.
“Preston and Myers, get before a judge and get search warrants for Klink’s bank records, credit card transactions, cell phone accounts, you know, his whole life,” Mills says. “We also need to know what happened when he left his office. Where did he go? Who saw him? When and where did he cross paths with his killer?”
“Got it,” Preston says.
“And in your free time,” Mills says with a laugh, “please run out to the Safeway and inquire about surveillance video. I’ll forward you the location.”
Woods clears his throat and says, “I have to make a statement to the press.”
Mills looks at him blankly. Woods rewards him with a passive-aggressive smile and, in his eyes, the implicit message that Mills should get ready to jump through a hoop. Mills doesn’t jump through hoops. Instead, he lets the stare down hang there. A tug-of-war. It’s stupid and unnecessarily macho, but fuck it, his job is to catch a killer, not to change the sergeant’s diaper.
“It’s forty-eight hours today since the body was found,” Woods says, relenting but persistent. “We’re getting calls, like every ten minutes, from reporters. We’ll release our victim’s name and say we have no motive but we’re pursuing multiple leads.”
Woods is two o’clock, sitting, to Mills’s six o’clock, standing. “Multiple leads might be a stretch,” Mills tells his boss. “And please don’t release his name until I’m able to talk to the wife and confirm that all next of kin know.”
“Your call,” the sergeant says. “What about the secondary grave at All Faiths?”
“I obviously think they’re related,” Mills replies. “But it’s way too early to tell how or why. I think the more we discover about Klink’s murder, the better we’ll be able to connect the two.”
“Before we have another body?”
“That’s the goal,” Mills quips.
“I think we need to keep our resources aimed at the killer,” Powell says. “I don’t think we have the luxury of chasing empty graves.”
“Agreed,” Mills says.
With that, Sergeant Jacob Woods is on his feet. “All right. Thanks, everyone. Good job. Let’s catch our guy and have a great day.”
When he’s out the door, the room is quiet in his wake. They look at each other. Myers reaches in his front pocket and removes a Twinkie. He unwraps it gingerly, and there isn’t a sound but the crinkly undoing of the plastic sheath. Fully liberated, the snack cake goes directly into Myers’s mouth and down his gullet with minimal chews.
Powell leans back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. “What’s with the cockfight, Mills?”
“Cockfight?”
“Yeah,” she says, “you and Woods waving your dicks around.”
“Is that how you perceived it?”
“That’s how everyone perceived it,” Preston says.
“I’m sorry, folks,” Mills tells them. “But you know what I see? I see a dead CEO. And a dead CEO becomes a very high-profile case. And I see the governor and the mayor, maybe the entire city council—who the fuck knows?—and you know where this all leads.”
“Then let’s get to work,” Preston says.
Mills gives them all a hearty smile. “Thanks for being the adult in the room,” he says to Preston. “Plan on reconvening end of day, everyone, tomorrow morning latest.”
Davis Klink lived with his family on their estate in North Scottsdale, in an exclusive subdivision called Miracle Canyon. It’s guard-gated. Mills just flashes a badge, and the guard on duty waves them in.
The Klink compound sits at the back of Miracle Canyon in the shadows of the McDowell Mountains. They have horses. And riding rings. A main house of stone and glass, mostly glass (Mills counts seventeen windows on the façade alone), sits at the center of the property, flanked by outbuildings on each side, maybe guesthouses or offices. Apparently there is an indoor pool in the building to the left because Mills can see the sun’s reflection shimmering on the water. Whatever it is, it’s befitting a man who lords over a global conglomerate.
The driveway gates open gracefully with a quiet whisper, granting access.
They get out of their car, Powell with an appreciative whistle
to the wealth, Mills with an eye roll to her whistle.
Mrs. Klink, with a uniformed woman to her side, is waiting at the front door. “Hello,” she says. She’s dressed as a minimalist multimillionaire, wearing a simple tight gray skirt and a sleeveless turtleneck exposing arms crafted by Pilates or tennis, or both. Her diamond bracelets are simple strands of gleaming stones. Her face, bronzed by the sun of good fortune, features a nose with the perfect pitch for a woman of her stature—that is, to say, most probably sculpted by the best plastic surgeon money can buy. The rest of her, however, looks fairly spared by the scalpel. Short, blunt, blond hair caps her head.
“I’m Detective Alex Mills from the Phoenix Police Department. This is my partner Detective Jan Powell.”
“Yes,” the woman says, granting them each a once-over. “I figured as much. I’ll have Lola show you to my office and take your drink requests.”
Mills looks at his partner and shrugs at the oddity. They follow Lola, a diminutive woman with a pensive face and quiet smile, through the marble foyer and into a vast room two stories high. A wall of glass overlooks an outdoor pool area reminiscent of the Hearst Castle; another wall is filled entirely with tropical fish, colors so dazzling and vibrant they confound the eyes. They exit the main house there, meander around the mosaics of the pool deck, and follow Lola into the outbuilding on the left. Mills shakes his head, trying to comprehend the necessities of the über wealthy, as they pass through a spa-like setting, like something you’d see on a cruise ship, with the indoor pool, a kidney-shaped Jacuzzi with room for twenty, he guesses, two massage tables, a sauna and steam room, and all of it is just staged there and waiting for barely a soul to use. But surely it’s a conversation piece, the whole place. Lola leads them into an office at the end of a long hallway, more marble, more glass. A Spartan desk and chair, an exquisitely sculpted Italian sofa, the same color gray as Greta Klink’s outfit.
“Mrs. Klink will be with you shortly,” Lola tells them as they sit. “What will be your beverage of choice?”
“I think we can do without,” Mills tells her.
“But Mrs. Klink insists,” Lola says. “A glass of wine, perhaps? I can have Leo mix you a cocktail if you’d prefer. He’s in the kitchen preparing lunch for the house. But he wouldn’t mind at all.”
“We’re on duty,” Mills says. “But thank you anyway.”
“Then I’ll bring in a selection of juices, unless you’d like coffee.”
Mills gives her a friendly, amused laugh and says, “It won’t be necessary, really.”
When Lola ducks out of the office, Mills and Powell are quiet, staring at each other, then around the room. The walls are charcoal and completely unadorned. A few ornaments reside on the desk. The detectives’ prying eyes shift to the door at the sound of approaching heels. The click-clack on marble grows louder. Greta Klink enters, a glass of wine in one hand. She sits behind the desk. “I’m sorry you won’t join me for a drink,” she says.
Mills understands the importance of staying hydrated in the desert, but the emphasis on beverages in this household mystifies him, especially now, given the circumstances. “Mrs. Klink, we’d like to ask you some questions about your husband,” he says.
“First of all, please call me Greta, and second of all, I’m not sure I’ll have the answers you’re looking for. We never discussed the minutia of Illumilife.”
Mills shifts his body, gives her an angle to consider. “We’re not here specifically to ask you about his business unless you believe his business is somehow connected to his death.”
She smiles thinly. “I have no reason to believe that, but I thought that would be your assumption.”
“We assume nothing,” Powell tells her. “When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“I can’t recall, honestly. Probably on Thursday of last week,” she replies. “If he went missing on Friday night, then, yes, probably Thursday.”
“And you were in Italy?”
She nods. “Milan. I bought him a new briefcase to celebrate the acquisition.”
“Acquisition?” Mills asks.
“Yes,” she says, beaming. “Illumilife bought out Portman Brands last month. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“I don’t follow business news,” Mills tells her. “But contrary to what you said a minute ago, it does seem like you followed his business.”
“Well, of course,” she said, clutching the wine glass. “Of course I follow the business. What I mean is that we don’t discuss the details or the inner workings.”
“Do you have a career yourself?”
“I’m just returning to work as a management consultant,” she says. “I left my career to raise a family.”
“How many children?”
“Two of ours, together. One from his previous marriage.”
“Do they all live here?”
“Douglas, my stepson does,” she replies. “The girls are at boarding school in Flagstaff.”
“So you last spoke to your husband on Thursday from Milan,” Mills says. “Was there anything remarkable about the conversation? I want you to think really hard about what he said. In fact, I want you to recall any recent conversations with him when he might have expressed any anxieties or concerns. What was bothering him?”
She sighs. Her face, like a fifth sterile wall in the room, has not yielded an expression. This ice queen won’t melt. Not even now, talking about her dead husband. “I can’t think of anything,” she says. “Really, I’ve been trying. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember something important.”
“Had he argued with anyone to your knowledge?” Powell asks.
“Look,” the woman says, leaning forward, “someone who does what my husband does for a living argues with people because arguments lead to better decisions. Of course there were conflicts. You don’t lead a major, global company without running into conflicts. They happen several times a day. Let’s not be naïve, Detectives, my husband was entrusted with the livelihoods of thousands of employees, thousands of stockholders. He made unpopular decisions. He rubbed some people the wrong way. But look at the stock price. It’s up thirty percent from two years ago. That’s why they pay him what they pay him.”
Mills lets a few seconds linger, allows her dissertation to hang in the air. Then he shifts again, squares himself to her, and says, “Let’s cut to the chase, Greta. Can you think of anyone who would want your husband dead?”
She takes a sip of wine, puts the glass down with a clink. “Like I said, he made some unpopular decisions. Some people were not in favor of the acquisition. But I can’t imagine anyone killing Davis over business matters.”
“Names?” Mills inquires.
“Names?”
“Do you have names of people who opposed your husband’s unpopular decisions?”
She laughs. “How could I possibly? There could be thousands of people out there.”
“Thousands,” Powell says. “Wow.”
“Anyone prominent?” Mills asks. “A thorn in his side?”
“You can always ask the board,” Greta Klink suggests. “Or any one of the chief executives.”
Lola enters the room, stops just inside the doorway. “Mrs. Klink, can I get you another glass of wine?”
“Please,” the lady of the house replies.
Mills pulls up a JPEG on his phone. It’s Davis Klink posing in the morgue. Maybe this will break her. He puts it on the woman’s desk. She notices it as soon as Lola leaves the room. “What’s this?” she asks.
“I’m sorry to have to share this with you now,” Mills tells her.
“Why would you show me this?”
“To make sure we’re talking about the same man.”
She pushes the phone back to him, and it almost falls to the floor. Then her folded hands hit the desk, her jewels banging the surface. “I know my husband is dead, Detective Mills. You don’t have to prove it.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” he says. “But I’m puzzled
by your demeanor.”
“My demeanor?”
“He means you don’t appear all that upset by the news,” Powell suggests. “Were you and your husband on good terms at the time of his death?”
“What on earth do you mean? I loved my husband.”
“Were there infidelities?” Powell asks. It’s always better when the woman asks that question.
Greta Klink looks away. She does this odd, pursing thing with her lips. Then she looks down at her hands and says, “That question is too personal.”
“You should answer it,” Powell says. “If you want to help us catch your husband’s killer.”
The woman looks at Powell fiercely, then at Mills. “I don’t see how this”—she waves her hands at both of them—“is helping.”
“How long had you been in Italy?” Mills asks. “Three weeks,” she says.
“Is that a typical vacation?”
“It wasn’t all vacation. I did have some R and R, but I was visiting with several clients.”
“As far as we know, the last family member to speak to your husband was your daughter Jordan. Is that correct?” Mills asks.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” Greta says. “But I can’t confirm that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
Lola enters the room, quietly places a glass of wine on the desk, and retreats.
“Because,” Greta continues, reaching for the glass, raising it to her lips, “we’re a bit estranged, my daughter and I.”
“Estranged?”
“We don’t get along. But she’s daddy’s little girl. Wouldn’t surprise me if she called him because she had a runny nose. All the way from Flagstaff!”
“And do you know when your other children last spoke with their father?”
“Douglas said he spoke with Davis over breakfast Friday morning,” she replies. “They usually get up at five to run together if Davis isn’t traveling. Joanna, my other daughter, said she hadn’t talked to him all week.”
“We need to speak with all of them,” Powell says. “I’d imagine they’re home, now, given the circumstances.”
Dig Your Grave Page 6
