by Lori L. Lake
"Thank you, Franklin. Here's my card if you need to call me with any news."
He slipped it into his shirt pocket. "Seven letter word for ungainly. No clues."
Leo rose. "Maybe awkward?"
"I'll pencil that in."
She headed for the parking lot, passing Rowena Hoxley's open office. Nobody was inside, though the desk lamp and overhead lights were on, so she doubled back. Leo wondered if resident and employee records were locked in the desk, so she flicked off the glaring lights and slipped into Rowena's chair. Both file-size drawers opened easily, and the files within were labeled clearly and placed in alphabetical order. In the police admin offices, everything was kept under lock and key. She didn't think she'd want to work in a place where any sneaky passerby could pull her personnel jacket and review it.
She glanced out into the corridor and didn't hear anything, so she eased out Hazel Bellinger's inch-thick file. None of the other employees had such a fat file.
Various personnel forms were tacked on the left side. The right held a thick stack of performance reviews going back ten years with the newest ones on top. In between some of the older evaluations were memos with the subject of "Warning" and "Performance Improvement Plan." Ever since Rowena Hoxley had been at Rivers' Edge, however, Hazel had received stellar marks. Did Hazel like management better and therefore she behaved herself? Or did she have something on Rowena? Once again Leo made a mental note to ask Flanagan about Hazel's alibi.
She exchanged the file for Habibah's much slimmer jacket. All the evaluations indicated that the young woman met or exceeded standards. The file contained two letters, one from a former resident, the other from the daughter of someone who'd died the previous year. Both letters praised Habibah for her kindness and good cheer.
Leo stuffed the file into the drawer and pulled out Walter Green's file folder. Besides a receipt for deposit, all she found was his original application filled out in large block letters, the pen strokes so forceful that she could feel the indentation through the page. She scanned the form, but nothing interesting stood out.
Suddenly she realized that being able to read the file was a gift, a blessing she'd always taken for granted. What if Dr. Spence was right and she really did have a tumor? What if she lost her vision? She was relieved to be sitting down, because for a brief instant, she felt ever-so-slightly dizzy.
From the foyer, Franklin's voice called out, "Say, you don't happen to be good at crosswords?"
Leo shoved the folder into place, shut the drawer, and rose. Who was out there? Someone had answered Franklin, someone with a quiet female voice.
At the doorway she peered out. Two women faced Franklin, their backs to Leo. She recognized Rowena Hoxley's unkempt blonde mop and scruffy blouse and pants, but she wasn't sure who the other blonde woman was. She stepped soundlessly across to the welcome desk and set her valise on it.
Rowena said, "Never been good at word puzzles."
"Thanks for weighing in, anyhow," Franklin said.
As the two women turned, Franklin grinned at Leo, and she gave him a grateful nod. Rowena let out a startled, "Oh!" and stopped abruptly. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Good morning," Leo said in an all-business voice.
"Not for long," Claire Ryerson said. She glanced at her wristwatch. "It's nearly afternoon." The statuesque woman held a thick manila envelope. "I brought over the records you requested from Mr. Rivers."
"That's great. It saves me a trip over to Plymouth."
"I had to drop some other things by, and I thought you might be here."
Leo felt envious of Claire Ryerson. She was the kind of woman high-level executives wanted on staff as their right-hand assistants. She was also the kind of woman who turned heads, not only for her Grace Kelly beauty, but also because she had exquisite taste in clothes. Her slim pencil skirt was navy blue, and she wore a white silk blouse with a button-front and puffed cap sleeves. Around her neck hung a cowl scarf of splashy blues and white. Her pumps accentuated lean, muscled legs. The whole effect was so classy, so elegant, that Leo felt that her plain black slacks and scoop-necked shirt looked like they'd been purchased at Dumpy & Dowdy.
Where did that leave Rowena Hoxley? Shopping at Sluggy & Sloppy?
Leo bit back a smile, covering it by saying, "I've interviewed everyone, and I'll be writing my report."
Rowena said, "I haven't heard a thing from the police. Are they closing the case now that Habibah's in custody?"
"I don't know."
Claire stepped forward and handed over the envelope. "I do hope you won't find it necessary to cite this facility."
"I'll let you know as soon as I've talked it over with my supervisor."
"Thank you," Claire said, her voice smooth as velvet. "I just know you'll do the right thing."
"I'll be on my way, then," Leo said.
From the couch, Franklin called out, "See you around, lass."
She waved to him, nodded to the two women, and left, fumbling to don the clunky sunglasses.
Though she'd left the driver's window open a crack, so much heat rolled out that she thought she could fire pottery inside. She leaned in to start the car and stood next to the open door and broke the seal on the two-inch-thick envelope. A cover page listed the contents:
All-facility employee background checks – 2 year retrospective
Rivers' Edge tenant data – 3 year retrospective
All-facility deaths – entire historical record
She leafed through the packet. She didn't imagine that Martin Rivers had compiled the data. Claire Ryerson must be every bit as efficient as she was elegant. Leo couldn't wait to dig into the records.
She dialed Daria's cell phone, but she didn't answer. Just as well. She wasn't sure that cancer was something you shared with your partner over the phone. She snapped the phone shut, no message. Daria rarely checked missed calls. If you wanted her, you had to leave a message.
THE NEON ART deco sign above Mickey's Diner in Saint Paul read Free Parking with a flashing arrow pointing to the right, but there were never any open slots in the tiny lot. The closest parking ramps were hidden a couple of blocks away, and street parking was at a premium. Once upon a time, before the city center had spread and commercial corporations gradually took over, many mom-and-pop joints and small businesses dotted Seventh Street. Now the dining car squatted at the base of an enormous two-tone stone building. With the Children's Museum to the east, Assumption Catholic Church across the way, and the county juvenile justice center kitty-corner from the diner, the area was active day and night. While on patrol in that area, Leo and her officers constantly ticketed illegal parkers.
Searching on the street, Leo had no luck finding an open meter, so she parked in a multistory monstrosity that charged more per hour than her lunch would probably cost. A quick survey of her pupils assured her the dilation wasn't so bad now, so she put on her regular sunglasses.
By the time she strolled up to Mickey's, the insistent sun was making her sweat. The sight of the old-fashioned railway car made her smile. When she and Kate were in their teens, sometimes they'd ride the bus down Seventh Street and meet Dad Wallace there for his dinner break. She'd consumed more pancake dinners and grilled cheese sandwiches than she could count while interrogating her foster father about the police calls of the day.
She'd thought the 1930s diner was ancient back then, but someone had maintained it, and the diminutive restaurant had aged gracefully. The façade sported yellow and red porcelain steel panels, red letters on yellow that spelled out Mickey's Dining Car, and a horizontal band of windows exactly like railway cars had, even though it had never been used as such.
Once she was through the miniature glass vestibule, she smelled the heavy odors of grease and syrup. Inside, the fixtures were mahogany and stainless steel. Mirrors made the interior seem less claustrophobic, but the place was packed and the booths tight. Luckily, two patrons rose, and she threaded her way toward their table.
S
he was relieved to have arrived so early. She didn't relish the thought of sitting knee to knee with Fred Baldur, but before he arrived, at least she'd have some time to herself for a quick review of the documents Claire Ryerson had collected.
Instead, she heard her name called. Ahead, in the far corner, Fred waved, a cup of coffee in front of him.
Just her luck that he'd come early, too. She wended her way through backpacks and shopping bags on the narrow floor and squeezed into the seat across from him. His cheap polyester tie glistened with a spot of spilled coffee.
"You're early," he said.
"I could say the same for you."
"I was glad to get away from that endless ringing phone. Are you done with Rivers' Edge yet?"
"I need to check in with the police detectives, but yes, I guess I've found out all I can without staking out the place."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What's your assessment?"
"Is there some kind of template I can use to figure that out?"
"Surely you're kidding? Don't you do reports and handle cases all the time for the cops?"
He said it with such irritation that she wanted to yell, "Hey, will you lay off? We've only known each other a couple of days, and certainly not long enough for you to harangue me." But she took a deep breath and instead said, "Fred, this is completely different from my regular job out on the streets where I have a team of officers keeping the peace. Sure I write reports, but this is a completely different animal."
"Oh."
A waitress swooped by, leaving two menus on the table in her wake. Leo said, "You must have some general form I can follow, right? An old murder file, a previous report—something that will help me adhere to the proper format?"
With a sigh he said, "Sure, I'll get you one. Can you move on to a new case now?"
"I guess."
"But you'd recommend leaving the facility open?"
"I don't think it does anyone any good to close it. You'd probably get a lawsuit served from Martin Rivers, and nobody would be one step closer to finding out who killed Callie Trimble."
"It happens like that sometimes. You have to let it go. In the meantime, we've had a rash of complaints, and it's probably best to move on. Why don't you work on the report, submit it to me in the morning, and start fresh tomorrow."
The waitress skidded to a stop at their table, pad in hand. She pulled a pencil from over her ear and took their orders. Fred got bacon, eggs, sausage, and more coffee. Leo ordered a club sandwich and lemonade.
After the waitress left, Leo looked out the window at the people passing by. A woman with a stroller the size of a baby elephant attempted to corral three small children. Luckily the sidewalk was wide or Leo would worry about one of the kids stumbling into traffic.
A pulse beating behind her right eye gradually intensified. She recalled her morning appointment once more and felt sick to her stomach. With a start, she realized Fred had asked her a question.
"Excuse me? What was that?"
"I asked how long you've been in police work?"
"Since I was 22."
"Weren't you involved in a shooting recently?"
Leave it to this guy to brazenly bring up topics that a police officer doesn't discuss with civilians. She was surprised he didn't know how inappropriate his question was. "Yes, we did have an officer-involved shooting on my shift. I don't much like to talk about it."
"I imagine. I know a copper up in Forest Lake who shot a ten-year-old. Seems like he took forever to get over it…"
Fred droned on and on, pausing twice to hold out his coffee cup for the waitress to pour a shot from a foot away. When Leo was younger, the waitresses filled Dad Wallace's cup the same way. Had this waitress been here since Leo was a teenager? How did she manage not to slop all over everything?
Leo watched Fred's mouth move, with those yellow teeth periodically smiling as though he were talking about something anyone would care about. Their meals arrived and she bit into her club sandwich. How the hell was she going to get through this lunch? She'd never been a fast eater, but today, she chewed quickly and guzzled most of the lemonade in record time. She pushed her plate away.
"…and I served on the governor's task force for nursing home reform. Governor Perpich's blue ribbon task force, that is. We haven't had a guy in office like him since."
Leo choked back a laugh. Rudy Perpich, affectionately called "Governor Goofy" because of the slightly hare-brained ideas he sometimes proposed, had died over a decade earlier. He hadn't been in office at any level since his gubernatorial term ended in 1991. That gave her an idea of how long Fred had been around, and if Perpich's task force was his last major claim to fame, no wonder Thom had no respect for him.
She looked at her watch. "I can't believe how fast time's flying. I need to run."
"But you get an hour for lunch."
"I know, but I had a doctor's appointment this morning, so I better get going. I'll stay a bit later tonight to make up for the extra time."
"This isn't the police department, Leona. There's no roll call and no lieutenant watches your every move."
"Actually, the department no longer has lieutenants."
He stared blankly.
"After sergeant, there are commanders and senior commanders. We did away with the lieutenant category when we ushered in the new millennium." She rose and tossed more than enough money on the table. "See you back at the office, Fred."
She stamped out of the diner, angry that he'd tried to bring up the Littlefield matter, which was none of his damn business.
Early in the summer, Zach Littlefield had been in a stolen SUV with three others who'd decided to take a joyride. Two officers in one-man cars were pursuing them when Littlefield lost control, sideswiped three parked cars, skidded through an intersection, and crashed into a Vietnamese bakery front. Leo arrived at the scene as three guys bailed and ran. Her officers bailed from their cars and ran after them shouting, "Stop! Police!"
She was out of her cruiser when one of the car thieves wheeled around and fired. The shot sounded distant, but it registered in her mind as gunfire. One of her officers went down. Leo pulled her service weapon and shot the man.
Not until she approached the suspect on the ground did she discover he had the pink-cheeked, acne-ravaged face of a teenage boy. He lay in the street, mewling and crying like a grade-schooler. Zach Littlefield, the driver and ringleader, was fourteen.
Afterwards, when she thought about the event, she couldn't remember unholstering her Glock, aiming, or firing. She recalled the sound of the two loud reports and could recollect the figure falling. But not even moving or breathing registered until after she cuffed the shooter and handed off his .45 to one of her rookies. Everything came into clear focus when her fellow officers called out that everyone was secure. She was relieved to find that none of her officers were injured after all.
One of the joy-riders had wisely hit the ground and didn't resist arrest; the other was captured two blocks away. The fourth kid, injured in the crash, was unconscious in the SUV.
Hands cuffed behind his back, Zach Littlefield lay on his side in a fetal position. Blood flowed from a wound below the kid's collarbone. Leo keyed her shoulder mic and requested backup and paramedics. She got her uniform shirt off and knelt next to the boy, rolled him so his back was against her knees, and leaned over him to press her shirt against his chest to stanch the blood flow. She heard sirens and shouting. Red and blue lights flashed all around her. She felt like she was in a strange dream, as if the world was slightly out of focus. Someone appeared at her side with a first-aid kit.
"Sarge?"
She looked up to see a patrol cop from another sector and assumed they'd called in the cavalry.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.
"Can you get pressure on the other wound?"
"Where?"
"The kid's arm is bleeding."
They attended to Littlefield until the medics finally a
rrived and she could step away. Only then did she see the amateur photographer with a video-cam. Just what she needed—some jerk ready to sell rights to film at eleven.
The intersection was a mass of flashing lights, squad cars up on the curbs, officers all over the place. Scores of people from the neighborhood stood watching as well. Two people held up their cell phones to film what was happening. She trudged over to the commander's cruiser in her t-shirt and vest, noticing blood, which felt wet against her thighs, staining her uniform pants.
Later, she was grateful for the home movie, which showed her attending to the boy, calling out orders, and following procedure. Zach Littlefield wasn't a particularly nice kid. He'd been arrested previously for assault and expelled from one junior high for bringing an unloaded gun to school. The expected media salvo didn't materialize, and the department cleared her in record time of any wrongdoing.
She spent time with the department shrink and met all the psychological requirements before returning to regular duty a week after the shooting. Leo knew officers who had developed post-traumatic stress syndrome, but she had not. Despite the severity of the events of that night, she didn't believe she carried any lasting horrors. Only anger and frustration that she and her fellow officers had been put through the wringer. On the side, her commander told her he thought she should have gotten a commendation for firing twice and hitting her target both times. It was remarkable shooting considering the circumstances and the fifteen yards distance.
Of course, nobody could celebrate her accuracy or anything else about that day. Zach Littlefield was only fourteen, and the public didn't take kindly to police shooting kids, even if they were armed and dangerous.
Thank God he hadn't died. Leo thought about him often, but she didn't care to talk about the incident, especially with a lunkhead like Fred Baldur.
She wasn't sure how the heat had increased so much in a mere twenty minutes, but on the way back to the car, she felt as though she were roasting. Her face was damp. She reached up to wipe away the moisture and instead of perspiration found tears.
