Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  Zestful Living and Independence

  With Exceptional Focus on Your Comfort

  Plymouth – Rivers' Rock

  Coon Rapids – Rivers' Rapids

  Minnetonka – Rivers' Hope

  Vadnais Heights – Rivers' Heights

  Minneapolis – Rivers' Edge

  Bloomington – Rivers' Bloom

  Burnsville – Rivers' Park

  Woodbury – Rivers' Arbor

  She recalled that someone—Detective Flanagan, she thought—had mentioned the existence of eight homes, and here were all their names. How could anyone keep them straight, though? She went through them again and noticed some associations. Plymouth Rock. Woodbury Arbor. And parts of city names such as Coon Rapids and Bloomington and Vadnais Heights, but still—how confusing.

  Every city with a Rivers facility was substantial in size. The population of Minneapolis was nearing 400,000, and all of the other jurisdictions, though smaller, ranged from 52,000 to well over 80,000. Except Vadnais Heights, but that was a municipality so enmeshed in the Saint Paul area that it might as well be one big Saint Paul neighborhood. Each of the apartment complexes was in a different police jurisdiction, though, so Flanagan and DeWitt would have a difficult time gathering and compiling information from multiple cop shops. Was that planned by Martin Rivers? Or merely a coincidence?

  Claire Ryerson came down the hallway on the right. "Mr. Rivers is available now, Ms. Reese. If you'll follow me."

  Leo looked down at her long-sleeved silk blouse, tan pants, and flats, then at Claire Ryerson's ensemble. The woman's gold open-toed shoes matched her belt perfectly. Everything about her appearance screamed class with a capital C—and spendy with a capital S.

  One benefit of being a police officer was that Leo never had to worry about the juvenile clothes competitions so many professional women engaged in with such vengeance. Police uniforms were one and the same. Not particularly attractive, but Leo never had to worry about matching her duty boots with her belt. Actually, now that she visualized her sexy police outfit, both her belt and shoes were black leather, so maybe she was doing better than she thought.

  Claire Ryerson stopped outside a door. "Here you go. Would you like me to bring you a coffee?"

  Leo almost said no, but after hesitating, changed her mind. "Sure. That would be nice."

  She stepped into an office the size of a family rec room. A dead ringer for Hoss Cartwright in a navy three-piece suit came around the massive desk. His brow was wide, eyes blue, and hairline receding. He enveloped her hand in his giant paw, and she had to crane her head to meet his eyes, so she put him at six-three, maybe six-four. He looked so much like the actor who'd played Hoss on Bonanza, that she imagined he probably wore a six-shooter under his suit coat.

  "Thanks so much for coming, Ms. Reese. Terrible thing to have happen at Rivers' Edge. Just terrible. Let's sit over here."

  He indicated an arrangement of three leather settees in a U-shape. A square oak table squatted in the middle. On a doily, an ugly vase containing a dried grass arrangement graced the center of the table. Leo wondered why anyone would dig up prairie grass and drag it into a professional office. She expected a gopher to pop out any minute.

  No sooner was she seated than Claire Ryerson showed up with a full coffee service on a bronze mirrored tray complete with two delicate china cups and saucers, a gold caddy containing sugar and cream dispensers, and two golden spoons. Leo noted that it all matched the assistant's outfit. She wondered if she could get a similar set with black leather trim for her own use. Wouldn't that match her duty belt and holster nicely?

  Claire poured. "Please help yourself to cream and sugar, Ms. Reese."

  "Thanks. Black will be fine."

  "Anything else, Mr. Rivers?" Claire asked.

  He sent her away and turned his attention to Leo. "Is there any news about Mrs. Trimble's death?"

  "No, I've heard nothing new." Leo scooted forward to the edge of the seat, picked up her coffee cup and saucer, and took her first sip. The coffee was rich and strong, just the way she liked it. "If you don't mind, I need to tape record this interview, Mr. Rivers. I'm required to write a substantial report, and the facts must be correct."

  "Oh, I'd rather you not."

  She set down the coffee. "I'm sorry, sir, but in this situation, I've got to roll the tape. It's not an option."

  He winced, and his face went through strange contortions. For a moment, she wondered if he had control of it. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to call my attorney."

  "You're welcome to do so, but it'll only delay this interview." Jesus, she thought, he was acting like she'd arrested him.

  He rubbed his hands together in a fussy manner. Big men usually didn't wring their hands like housewives. Grimacing again, he said, "Do you think I need an attorney?"

  She slipped into cop mode. "I can't give you legal advice. You need to decide about representation yourself, but you're not under arrest. If you haven't done anything illegal, I'll take your statement as quickly as possible so I can move on to the next interview." She paused, and when he didn't answer, she went on. "I should mention that if you fail to cooperate, DHS rules require that I suspend your license to operate Rivers' Edge. I'll have to launch an investigation into all eight of your homes and—"

  "Oh, no! That won't be necessary. Of course I want to cooperate. Of course."

  With deft fingers Leo pulled out the tape recorder and turned it on. After the initial comments and warnings, she asked, "How long have you been operating Rivers' Edge?"

  "I built it. Built all the facilities from the ground up. I opened Rivers' Rock, across the street, eight years ago, and I've opened a new complex every calendar year since. We broke ground for Rivers' Waterfall down in Lakeville last week. With all this murder mess, it might not open 'til next year. Might be bad press, so I'll probably delay and not keep to my goal of opening one every year." He picked up his coffee in one giant hand. In his grip, the cup looked like it belonged to a doll's tea set.

  "And Rivers' Edge opened when?"

  "Sorry. Five years ago."

  "How do you keep all the names straight?"

  "Easy. Each one is like a child to me. I've used the same floor plans for each, but they all have special little details. If you spent as much time in each of them as I have, it'd make perfect sense to you."

  "Okay. Tell me about Rivers' Edge."

  "Number four. Has the walled garden, which the others don't have. The one across the street here, Rivers' Rock, has a nice-sized fenced yard, but nothing more substantial. Now I'm able to afford bigger lots, so the newest Edge building down in Lakeville will be even more elaborate—a pond, an elaborate walking path, more windows with a view of something besides the street."

  He went on for some time about architecture and landscaping before Leo stopped him. "Have you ever had a murder in any of the homes?"

  "Of course not. No."

  "Have you got any knowledge or information about this murder?"

  "How could I? I haven't been over to Minneapolis in weeks. Rowena—you met Rowena Hoxley, right?" Leo nodded. "She's my most competent manager. I never have trouble with the Edge. Never."

  "So nobody's died in your apartments?"

  "Of course some of the elderly have—have passed. I've got mostly elderly to deal with, and so yes, some have, you know, passed on while living in my apartments."

  She was surprised at how difficult it was for him to use the word "died." He took a gulp of coffee and set the cup down on the table, his hand shaking slightly.

  "In the eight years your complexes have been open, Mr. Rivers, how many deaths have you recorded?"

  "I couldn't possibly know that offhand. I'm the big-picture man. I merely get summary reports. My managers handle the day-to-day events including departure transfers."

  "What do those procedures consist of?"

  Leo had never heard the term "departure transfer." While Rivers droned on about procedures, she envisioned tiny, ema
ciated old ladies and dried-up elderly men, all in their best suits and dresses, standing in a row near the doorstep of a Rivers' complex, all holding tickets to the great unknown. What kind of conductor would come by to collect their transfer and help them depart? Apparently not Martin Rivers.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on his blather. He rose and stepped over to a bookcase next to the office door.

  "…provide you with every single blueprint—whatever you need."

  "Oh, no, that won't be necessary at this time, sir."

  He stopped abruptly. "Are you sure? The police reviewed them."

  "They have different goals than I do. They're searching for a killer. I'm trying to figure out if Rivers' Edge is safe for your tenants and if anyone is liable for what has happened."

  "Of course it's safe. This person's untimely, uh"—he rolled his shoulders and fingered his Pancaldi tie—"passing is a fluke. A terrible event, that's for sure, but it's a stroke of bad luck. No one in my organization is at fault."

  Leo bit her lip and reminded herself not to speak. The death of a sixty-nine-year-old woman was simply bad luck for Martin Rivers; for Callie Trimble's family, her murder was a horrific event likely to haunt their memories for years, if not forever. Could this man really be so uncaring?

  "What do you plan to do to ensure this never happens again?"

  Rivers came around the back of his settee and peered down upon her with a puzzled expression on his face. "I don't follow your meaning."

  "Are you concerned about the safety in your apartments?"

  "Why, no. I provide a wonderful living situation. This is a total aberration I'm sure will never happen again."

  "I'll need information on the background checks for every employee."

  He strode to his desk, got a legal pad, and returned to the settee. With a flourish, he whipped a pen from the breast pocket of his suit and said, "Background checks, Rivers' Edge."

  "No, sir. I want information for every worker in your employ."

  "What? But the police only asked for—"

  "The police have an entirely different objective. I need to verify that your staffing has no irregularities. I'll also need records for employees going back two years."

  "That's excessive. It'll take my assistants a great deal of time to assemble this material, and all for nothing. Our hiring practices are sterling."

  "Surely you've had to provide such data in the past whenever your license was up for review."

  His face flushed bright red all the way up to where his hair was receding. "Fred Baldur personally vouched for me."

  "You know Mr. Baldur."

  "Yes, he was a few years ahead of me in college."

  "I see. So you've never provided records to DHS."

  "Of course I have. Just not—not to that extent."

  "Now you can compile all the data, and you'll be ready for a future audit. Mr. Baldur won't be at DHS forever. Sooner or later you'll have to get the information together, so it may as well be now. I'll also want copies of rental applications and all file data on tenants. That includes complaints from and about all tenants living at Rivers' Edge for the past three years, no matter how short a time they lived there."

  "But I don't know those details."

  "Your managers will. Please contact them, and assemble the information."

  "I'm a busy man, Ms. Reese. This will take considerable time."

  "I'm happy to close Rivers' Edge during the interim so you can find the time."

  "You don't understand. We broke ground on the new complex." He glanced at his watch. "I need to be in Lakeville in forty minutes to meet with the contractor."

  "If you want your license for all eight complexes suspended for failure to provide requested data, that's your choice."

  "But it'll take days to pull all that together."

  Leo pressed her lips together and ignored the urge to tell him that Hoss Cartwright never whined. "Actually, I wasn't done with my requests. I'll also need records of every single death that's occurred in any of your facilities since Day One. Any death in an apartment, the halls, the grounds, anywhere on your property."

  "The police didn't want all that."

  "You're not hearing me, Mr. Rivers. You've had a murder in your facility. I don't mean to be unfeeling regarding your business needs, but the State has a keen interest in making sure there are no repeat murders. You're going to have to drop everything and cooperate."

  He sat as if she'd poked him with a pin and all the air had gone out of him. With his shoulders slumped and knees splayed out, he reminded her of a muscular version of the Michelin Baby.

  With a sigh, he put the legal pad on his knee and scribbled notes. "What's your deadline?"

  "By the end of the day tomorrow would work well."

  LEO LEFT THE Rivers' administration building with a sinus headache. The air outside carried the faint scent of garlic from an Asian restaurant up the street. Ordinarily the aroma might be pleasant, but today it made her head pound.

  She drove off feeling irritated and hating the new assignment. Only a day and a half had passed, and already she missed the comfortable roles she played as a patrol sergeant. Even when she patrolled alone—which was most of the time—with the flick of her shoulder mic, she always knew she had backup. The officials in charge of this new assignment had basically abandoned her. She was stuck out in the field, no peers to rely upon, no supervisor providing support and instruction. What a rinky-dink setup.

  She'd intended to return to the murder scene, but instead she did a U-turn and headed back toward Saint Paul.

  The DHS office hummed with activity. She went to her assigned cube and left her valise on the desk.

  Outside Ralph Sorenson's office, his secretary was talking into a headset. Leo had met Monique Miller the day before and been impressed by her friendliness. She was a big-boned woman in her fifties with bottle-dyed hair of a peculiar maroon color. Given time, the color would fade and appear more natural, but at the moment, it reminded Leo of a puffy burgundy handbag.

  Monique raised a manicured finger and pointed to two chairs by a window. Rather than sit, Leo gazed out the window at the city. From the fourth floor, much of her view of the skyscrapers in the center of Saint Paul was blocked by a parking ramp and other office structures, but off to the left, the wide Mississippi River sparkled in the morning sun. She imagined herself and Daria in a speedboat, wind in their faces, spray in their hair...until Monique bid goodbye to her caller and said, "Ms. Reese, may I help you?"

  She turned. "You can just call me Leona."

  Monique smiled. "First name basis is great with me, too."

  "May I make an appointment with Mr. Sorenson for sometime today?"

  "No can do. He's out indefinitely. I can't predict when he'll be back. I can get you in tomorrow morning."

  "I guess that'll do."

  Monique gestured for her to come closer. "Come sit here," she said, pointing to a chair to the right of her wide desk.

  When Leo was seated, Monique leaned over and spoke in a stage whisper. "I oughtn't be saying anything, but, well, you probably need to know a few things if you're going to be here awhile."

  "Oh?"

  "Ralph was so happy to get someone with experience for License Investigations. Even if you're here temporarily, it'll help so much, what with the problems he has with Fred."

  Leo liked to think she wasn't much for gossip, but to be honest, every cop she knew survived by finding out the dirt on everyone else, both in the department and out on the street. "What exactly is the problem with Mr. Baldur?"

  "Gambling."

  "Is he off gambling now? On a Wednesday morning when he's supposed to be at work?"

  "Oh, no. He's way too smart to get caught during office hours." Her face took on a delighted expression, and she scooted her chair closer. "He goes off to one of the area casinos and stays out all hours of the night. Imagine his surprise when he can't wake up in the morning. Sometimes he shows up i
n the afternoon, saying he's over his stomach flu or whatever."

  "How often does this happen?"

  "At least once a week. He was doing a better job of covering it up when Brad and the gals were here, but with us being short-staffed, he's in for it. I pulled the paperwork today for a PIP—a performance improvement plan for Fred, that is. I hope Ralph will take the hint. He's never been much for PIPs, but nobody needs it more than Fred. Now that you're here until the end of the year, maybe we can get rid of Fred once and for all."

  "He's that bad?"

  "No, he's just not that good. Not reliable at all."

  "What if my term here ends before he's sent packing?"

  "An investigator from the Duluth office came down to help out. He just got here this morning."

  She wrote something on a pad of paper, ripped off the page, and handed it to Leo. Thom Thoreson and a phone number were written there.

  "Forget Fred. That's Thom's mobile phone, in case you need it after you go out in the field today. Gracie's leave is over in about six weeks, and Barbara's sometime after. We'll have to make do until then."

  Leo relaxed in the chair and resolved to stay in Monique's good graces. She'd learned ages ago that the secretaries and duty sergeants and clerks of the world wielded far more power than most people gave them credit for. "Look, this has turned out to be a murder case I'm working on right now."

  "What? I hadn't heard that." Her blue eyes opened wide, and she leaned in even closer. When Leo didn't speak right away, Monique said, "You can tell me everything. I'm Ralph's confidential secretary, and I've got access to documents and information you aren't privy to, so you're not abridging confidentiality or anything like that. Maybe I can help you."

  In a few brief sentences, Leo outlined the facts. "My understanding is that DHS has a multitude of cases requiring investigation, but without Mr. Baldur, I don't have a clue where to get that information or how I should prioritize tasks."

  "Oh, honey, that's easy enough." She rose. "Come with me. You need to meet Thom Thoreson. I hope he's still in."

  Leo followed the heavyset woman through the maze of cubicles. In a loose, yellow linen dress, Monique teetered along in a pair of ropy espadrille platform shoes. Leo had never been fond of any type of tall, block heel. Monique looked like she'd break an ankle with any quick movement. Leo knew her own fashion sense could easily be ridiculed by other women, but if you couldn't run in a shoe—on or off-duty—Leo usually wouldn't wear it. She only made exceptions and wore low heels to weddings and Daria's work parties and even then, the heels were minimal and she could maneuver in them.