by Lori L. Lake
Teacup poised near her lips, Leo paused. "You're coming along, right?"
He fumbled in his pocket and threw a couple of folded bills on the table. "Let me get this."
He wouldn't meet her eyes. She'd seen that guilty look on the faces of plenty of suspects—a sort of weasel-like avoidance where they hoped you weren't watching too closely to see their guilt.
Leo's hand shook a little as she set her teacup on the tray. She stood but didn't follow him. He took a few steps, stopped, and wheeled around. "We don't have a lot of time, Leona. Let's get crackin'."
"Wait a minute. You're kidding, right? You're not sending me out in the field with no training, no backup, no oversight—nothing?"
He slouched his way over to stand in front of her. "Oh, come on now. In your regular position, you go out on the street daily, question people, deal with miscreants and lawbreakers. This'll be a piece of cake in comparison. It's a retirement apartment. A walk in the park compared to the creeps you must meet on the street."
She had no response for that. She lifted her napkin to her lips and dabbed, tossed it on the table, and followed him out of Piccadilly Point, certain now that Fred Baldur was no prince.
SHORTLY BEFORE TEN, Leo arrived at the Rivers' Edge Independent Living Apartments. Baldur had loaded her up with forms, a manual of guidelines written in unintelligible legalese, and a battery-operated tape recorder the size of a paperback book. She was glad she'd brought along the leather valise her foster father had given her when she graduated from college. To make room for all the DHS junk, she had to empty the valise of the files and materials she carried with her when she testified at court.
She drove her own car with the mileage counter engaged. Baldur had instructed her to keep careful track of all travel because she'd be reimbursed only with proper documentation. He'd given her more instructions about claiming her mileage than about what to do at the scene of the suspicious death, and she was having a hard time not despising him.
Rivers' Edge, in the southwest Minneapolis Linden Hills neighborhood, was only a couple neighborhoods south of where she and Daria lived in Kenwood. She'd driven completely across Minneapolis from west to east and crossed the river into Saint Paul to get to DHS. When she went back to work later in the day, she'd have to do it again. Then return home. What a waste of mileage.
Linden Hills, bound on the north by Lake Calhoun and to the east by William Berry Park and Lake Harriet, wasn't quite as upscale a neighborhood as Kenwood, but the large bungalows and Tudor homes were nothing to scoff at. Rivers' Edge was in a pleasant residential area, and the one-story building took up an entire city block.
Leo circled slowly enough to examine the complex from all four sides. On the north side, the building stretched the entire length of the block. When she turned south at the east corner, she saw the end of the facility and a narrow chain-link gate next to a stone wall, perhaps seven feet high, that butted up against the structure and ran west around the corner halfway down the block until it met with another wing of the building. The parking lot took up the southwest corner and could be entered on the south or from the west. She pulled in, wondering what was on the other side of the stone wall in the southeast corner.
The lot was half-full. She parked next to a well-worn four-door sedan that she recognized as a typical unmarked police car. She grabbed her valise, got out, and glanced in the other car's front seat. It contained an oversized computer jutting out of the dash just like Saint Paul's officers used. Good. Police presence. Now she'd get some facts.
Leo approached the front entrance, a covered portico held up by three white pillars on each side. No stairs. Just a straight shot to the front door, which was extra wide and painted stark white. The pale blue siding on the rest of the building was covered in dust. To the right, at thigh level, a brass-colored metal flap was labeled MAIL and could be operated by a narrow handle. Small packages would fit through. She bent and lifted the handle. When the cover was parallel with the ground, it snapped into place so that the postal carrier had two hands free to insert parcels and letters.
She clicked it shut and straightened up. Did she knock or simply walk in? Before she could make up her mind, the door swung open. The profile of a man in a dark-brown suit filled the doorway.
"…and yes, we'll be in touch," he said over his shoulder. The man turned and was startled to see her. His shaggy hair was light brown and shot through with gray, his face craggy, and despite the fact that he was well over six feet tall, his head seemed far too big for his frame. He regarded her as if she were less than human. "Who're you?"
She had no official DHS identification or badge to share yet, so she said, "Leona Reese, DHS Investigations."
He stepped outside, a skeptical look on his face, and pulled the door shut. "I'm aware that you people have to get involved at some point, but we're not done with the official investigation. Let me give you my card and you can call later. Probably be a day or so." He fumbled in the breast pocket of his suit.
Since she hadn't yet read the book of guidelines, she had no way of knowing what level of involvement the State was assured. In Saint Paul, her officers cooperated with investigators whenever there was a death.
But would Baldur have sent her out if the police shrugged off state investigators like the dandruff this officer needed to flick off his suit jacket?
He handed her a business card. Dennis Flanagan, Homicide Division. "Give me a ring later this week. I work days, and you can catch my cell after hours."
"Detective Flanagan, I've got to begin my investigation. The State needs to determine if this facility should stay open or be closed down." She hoped that was the right tack to take.
He clapped a dinner-plate-sized hand on her shoulder and tried to gently nudge her toward the parking lot. "Call me in a day or two."
She stood her ground and fumbled in her valise.
"Okay." He let out a sigh. "Call me tomorrow then."
She pulled out her badge. "I'm with SPPD on special assignment to DHS."
He squinted and let his hand drop. "Oh. Why didn't you say so in the first place? Okay, I guess you can go in."
"Is there any background you'd like to share with me first?"
He fished a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped through the pages. "The deceased is a 69-year-old female. Trimble, Callie Louise. Found dead last night at approximately 8:05. Seemed natural, but a resident, name of"—he thumbed through his notebook—"Eleanor Sinclair, she raised a stink. Per regulations, the responding officers called for a medical examiner to come to the scene. The assistant who showed up thought it looked suspicious, too, so the vic's scheduled for autopsy today."
"What was suspicious?"
"Position of the body. Possible broken nose. Might've been hemorrhaging in the eyes."
"You think she was suffocated?"
"Could be."
"What's the scoop on the personnel here?"
He thumbed forward two pages, and Leo hastened to get out her own notebook and pen.
"Owner is Martin Rivers, main office in Plymouth. He's got eight of these homes in operation. Manager of this one is Rowena Hoxley. Two nurses on staff visit all eight homes. They've got six aides here who work varied schedules, a housekeeper, and a couple of cooks. Hoxley'll give you a roster for staff and occupants."
"What's behind the stone wall?"
"Big garden. Same size as this parking lot. Walkways and bushes and such for the residents to enjoy." He pulled at his cuff to check his watch. "Look, I've got ten minutes. Let's go in, and I'll show you around."
He pressed the buzzer. Nobody answered for at least a minute. Finally, Leo heard a scuffling inside. The woman who pulled open the door was a five-foot-tall Latina in black stretch pants, white tennis shoes, and a blue, green, and purple scrubs-type top. "You're back, Detective."
"Yes, could you round up Mrs. Hoxley again?"
"Sure." She let them in and closed the door, pressing against it firmly. "I promise I've always b
een careful to keep this door shut," she said nervously as she strode away.
Flanagan rolled his eyes. "Talk about locking up the barn after the horses are already out."
She followed Detective Flanagan across the tiled foyer. On the floor next to the door, a sturdy square basket sat under the mail slot. To the right was an office, hardly bigger than an alcove, but it had a door for privacy. To the left was a reception desk counter with no one behind it. The top of the shiny wood surface was clear except for a telephone and an In Box piled with magazines and unopened mail.
Flanagan stopped in a common area furnished with matching couches, easy chairs, and tables with reading lamps. The paintings on the wall were of restful scenes—a forest with a shaft of sunlight piercing through, a blue and gold ocean under a setting sun, a snow-topped mountain illuminated by the moon. The kind of paintings Leo found uninspiring. She'd take paintings of people any day.
The sole occupant of the lounge area, an elderly man, sat on a sofa reading the newspaper. The whole room would look downright cozy except that the floor was covered with the kind of black, brown, and tan no-nap institutional carpet designed to show no stains. Leo figured such a smooth, flat carpet would minimize falls. No throw rugs. No wrinkles. Nothing to trip over. But it sure was ugly.
Flanagan said, "Public cans there." He pointed toward the corner where two doors led to restrooms. "The dining area—cafeteria and kitchen—are off through those double doors to the right." For the first time, she became aware of the smell of cinnamon. Something was cooking that smelled tasty.
"Straight ahead is a staff bunk and bath. The residents live in the two wings over there." He gestured across her to the left with a thumb that was the size of the French baguette she'd eaten for breakfast. "There are six apartments in the west wing, three on each side of the hall. Same for the east wing. You can go over and see how it's laid out. The owner, Rivers, said he designed the interiors of all his complexes exactly the same."
"I see."
"I have to get back to work. Can you find your way around?"
"Which room was the victim's?"
"10-East, but she was killed in 9-East." He saw the look on her face and said, "Things are loose around here. People come and go from one apartment to another. Trimble was found in the room directly across the hall from her own. Good luck. You find out anything important, please call me right away."
She thanked him. After he left, she stood waiting at the edge of the common area. Now that she was inside, Leo got her bearings in the T-shaped building. The residents lived in apartments situated on the top of the T's crossbar. She strolled that direction until she came to the intersection of the two wings. Against the far wall, between apartments 5-West and 7-East, was an open area, a blue-lit TV Room. A silver-haired woman slept in a recliner in front of the TV. The recliner's footrest was up, but she was so tiny her legs didn't reach the footrest's cushion. The TV played silently—some home shopping show flashing a pale blue scene.
Leo saw movement to the left. The woman who'd opened the front door walked toward her.
"I think Mrs. Hoxley—the manager—must be out in the garden. She's nowhere to be found here. Come with me."
Leo retraced her steps to the common area.
"I didn't catch your name," the aide said.
Leo introduced herself and learned the young woman's name was Silvia Garcia. "You work here full-time, Silvia?"
"Yes. The early shift. I start at six a.m." She led Leo through the double doors and into a dining area. The tables were already set up for lunch, and Leo heard clinking and thumping noises coming from a doorway she assumed went to the kitchen. Silvia gestured toward an open sliding glass door, and Leo followed.
Despite autumn coming on, the garden retained some freshness. Along parts of the stone wall a waist-high, dark-green hedge with a flat-trimmed top stood proud and square. Two maple trees sported red and gold leaves. The rhododendron and forsythia were fading, but a line of rosebushes still showed blooming pink roses. The daylilies had died, but the ever-hardy hostas grew in many patches throughout the garden. A smooth flagstone walkway wound under the trees and around the garden beds.
A woman dressed in jeans, white tennis shoes, and a navy blue cardigan sweater over a red t-shirt sat on a wide stone bench angled beneath a maple tree. Her gray hair was cropped short. Very lesbian looking, Leo thought, then wondered if her gaydar was correct. Was this small facility one where lesbians would congregate?
Another woman stood a few feet away, her hands moving so fast that at first Leo thought she was signing to a deaf person.
"That's Rowena," Silvia said.
The conversation stopped, and Rowena glanced their way, then did a double take. Her hands dropped to her sides, and when she spoke, her voice was angry. "Who's this now?"
Silvia dropped back, leaving Leo to come forward on the smooth flagstones. "Mrs. Hoxley?"
"Is this a necessary visit, because if it's not, I need to ask you to leave. Are you press?"
"Oh, no. I'm here from DHS."
"You've come at a bad time."
Leo was now officially tired of people. Baldur had given her the run-around. Detective Flanagan hadn't been particularly helpful. And now this woman. Leo went straight for the jugular. "I'm afraid this is very important and concerns the Rivers' Edge operating license granted by the State."
Rowena Hoxley's face flooded red. She was forty-ish and dressed in rumpled tan pants and a baby-blue scoop-necked shirt. Her dyed blonde hair was a mess of unkempt curls. She'd be pretty, except for the scowl on her face. She looked extremely unpleasant, especially when she stiffened as though she were going to pitch a fit. Her head jerked toward the seated woman.
The bench's occupant raised a hand. "Don't worry about me, Row. I'll be fine. Go ahead."
"Are you sure, Eleanor?"
The woman gave a curt nod and turned away, but not before Leo noticed her tear-stained face. She was in her early sixties, certainly not much older than Leo's foster mother. She clutched a flowered handkerchief to her chest with both hands. Even in her grief she was sturdy and alive, and Leo wondered what had brought her to live at an apartment facility for the elderly.
Rowena Hoxley said, "Shall we go inside?"
Without waiting for an answer, Hoxley marched off, and Leo followed her to the front office. She invited her to take a seat and went around to the other side of her desk to plop down. When Leo lowered herself to the chair, the space was so tight that her knees touched the desk front.
Hoxley picked up some loose pages, shuffled them together, and stuffed them in a drawer. "All right then, what can I tell you?"
"First, I'm required to tape record this. Also, I have to provide you with some information." Leo dug through her valise, put the recorder on the desk, and flipped it on.
She recalled Fred Baldur's meager instructions. She must insist that witnesses, including staff and owners, speak to her. The people in charge were in a difficult position. If they told her anything incriminating or facts that proved the facility was unsafe, Leo had an obligation to share it with the police and to act in such a way that the residents of the program were protected. She was required by law to inform each interviewee of these facts and already thought of that as a kind of Miranda Warning with no rights. They had no right to remain silent, nor did they have the option of dragging in their attorney, and no attorney would be appointed unless criminal charges were filed. But anything they did say could possibly be used in a court of law. Leo could understand if management balked at talking to DHS investigators.
"I'm required to read a statement about your rights and responsibilities and the ways the State might use your witness statement."
Hoxley let out a snort of impatience. "I've been here since ten p.m. last night. I don't have the time or energy to deal with this." But she listened to Leo's statements with resignation, and when she was done, Hoxley said, "Okay, fine. Can we get on with it then?"
"I understand this must be
a very trying time. I'm going to ask you questions that will help me understand how you run your program. I'll interview all staff and residents."
"But the police already did that!"
"And if it happens that Mrs. Trimble didn't die from natural causes, they'll likely be back to do it again. Repeatedly. I can't make any promises, Mrs. Hoxley, but with any luck, I'll only be here off and on for a few days, and then the State's investigation will conclude without any fanfare."
"Oh, this is a nightmare. Nothing like this has ever happened at Rivers' Edge. Never."
"Nobody's died?"
"Not under suspicious circumstances. We had a heart attack in May, but he later passed at the hospital. Three months ago, Mrs. Levinstein fell at the shopping mall and broke her hip. She didn't make it through the surgery to put pins in. Other than that, I don't know that anyone has actually died on the grounds before. In the three years I've worked at Rivers' Edge, we've had no deaths in-house."
Leo made notes on a legal pad. She suspected that the packet of information Baldur had shoved into her hands as she left probably contained a form with an official format for doing this, but she didn't have time to search it out. She could rely on the tape recording if she needed it.
Hoxley brought her hands up to her temples and ran her fingers through her wild fake-blonde curls. When she met Leo's gaze, her blue eyes were bloodshot. She looked like she needed another drink. "Can we just get this over with?"
Leo spoke as kindly as she could. "I'm sorry that you're exhausted. Let me get the basics now, and I can ask you other questions later on. You have twelve occupants?"
