Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  "Violent offenses?"

  "Nope. All con games and theft. The guy was a real slick player."

  Thom came to a stop at a red light. "Where to next?"

  Before Leo could answer, her purse let out a trill. She flipped open the clasp. The phone was wedged in tightly, but she managed to pull it free and answer it.

  "Detective Flanagan here."

  "Hey, I've been trying to call you all day. Iris Fullerton and Claire Ryerson—did their alibis stand up?"

  "Well, yeah. Fullerton is on vacation. We verified it. Ryerson was meeting with a guy who verified her whereabouts."

  "What about Martin Rivers?"

  "He's in the clear, too. Look, I've got more important fish to fry. Thought you'd want to know there was another Rivers murder last night."

  "What? Not Eleanor Sinclair?"

  "No, not at Rivers' Edge. We're in Bloomington."

  "Thank God. But who died?"

  "An older woman named Celia Deveaux. We've been at the Rivers' Bloom facility in Bloomington all night. At this point, I think you might want to meet with us."

  He gave her the address, and she said, "Thom Thoreson and I will be over shortly."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  RIVERS' BLOOM WASN'T far from the Minneapolis/Saint Paul airport, and the flight path was overhead. Before they'd exited the van and made it to the front door, two planes had already gone zooming by, the noise drowning out all but shouts. Thom waited for the jet to pass, then said, "I'd hate to live here. The noise would drive me insane."

  Leo rang the doorbell. "I think they shift the flights around so it's not always so loud."

  "Still not my idea of a good time."

  The door creaked open, and a petite woman in a hot-pink nurse's outfit stood in front of them looking dazed. Thom held up his badge, and she stepped back to let them in. Leo introduced herself and Thom.

  "The police are this way," the young woman said. "Please follow me."

  Rivers' Bloom was laid out exactly like Rivers' Edge, but the accent colors were gold and maroon. The Berber carpet was thick, the lighting dim, and the walls in the common area were cluttered with gilt-frame paintings of hunting dogs, ancient castles, and men in jodhpurs. Overstuffed couches and chairs with mahogany wood trim were arranged around a massive square table upon which two sets of magazines were artfully fanned out.

  "It's like walking into a strange dream," Thom said. "The place is so much like the other, except weirdly different."

  "Yeah, the difference between the twenty-first century and the Renaissance."

  The aide led them down the west hall—or, as Leo suddenly realized, it would be the north hall here. Though the facility was obviously built with the same exact floor plan, the building faced north, rather than west as Rivers' Edge did.

  Outside a room at the far end, a yellow duffel bag, a jumbled pile of brown paper bags, and spotlight racks on a tripod blocked the doorway. As they drew nearer, she saw the bags were labeled as evidence.

  Flanagan poked his head out. "Oh. You're here." He said something to someone behind him then stepped over the paper bags and into the hall. "What a dirty shame. These poor Bloomington cops are about as busy as us."

  "What happened?" Leo asked.

  "Another old woman, but now we're on to him. He blew it this time."

  "Who?" Thom asked.

  "I don't believe we've met," Flanagan said.

  "Thom Thoreson, State Investigative Unit." The men shook hands.

  "I should have kept that maniac in custody when Mrs. Trimble died," Flanagan said, "but we didn't have enough to hold him. Now we do." He seemed to have developed new lines around his eyes, and frustration showed clearly on his careworn face. His brown hair was lank and dull as if he'd failed to wash it for a couple of days, and bits of dandruff contrasted well with his dark green shirt. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, and powerful forearms belied his stooped, tired posture as he leaned against the wall.

  "Who is the suspect?" Thom repeated.

  "Sorry," Flanagan said, as he rubbed his eyes. "Ted Trimble. The son from the other murder."

  Leo's mouth dropped open. She didn't know what to say, but Thom jumped in.

  "Did you catch him red-handed?"

  "No, but he left a little something behind. He lost his wallet during the commission of the crime."

  Leo found her voice. "How did the victim die?"

  "Looks the same as Callie Trimble. Suffocation. The Hennepin County medical examiner will verify it for us as soon as he can."

  "Detective," Thom said, "we've been following a lead that's gone a completely different direction. We need to sit down and discuss this."

  "We can talk all you want, but we've nailed the guy." He leaned around the corner into the apartment. "Hal, you got a minute?"

  DeWitt shuffled toward the door. If Leo thought Flanagan looked the worse for wear, DeWitt was even more disheveled. In addition to a similar appearance of exhaustion, the legs of his tan slacks were smudged with dark marks, and his shirt was wrinkled nearly everywhere, as though he'd pulled it from the laundry basket and put it on without ironing it. If she didn't know better, she'd wonder if he'd been on a three-day drunk. He said something to another man about being right back and stepped into the hallway to be introduced to Thom.

  "Let's go to the staff room," Flanagan said.

  One of the dryers was running, and the staff room was unpleasantly warm. The bunks were both made up, and one chair sat next to the foot of the bed.

  "Let me grab a couple more chairs," DeWitt said.

  "I'll pass," Thom said with a smirk.

  DeWitt didn't seem to get the joke. He exited, and Flanagan lowered himself to the edge of the bottom bunk, his elbows on his knees. He sat silently with head in hands until DeWitt came back with another chair and everybody was seated.

  "You guys must be whipped," Thom said.

  "We had a drive-by shooting Friday night," Flanagan said as he straightened up. "Then we got this call around eight last night. Before we could even get here to assist and see the Bloomington guys process the scene, some lunatic shot his wife and her boyfriend down at the bar on Lexington, so we got called out on that. Half the squad is on summer vacation, and bodies are dropping right and left."

  "Oh, man," Thom said, "sounds like a recipe for exhaustion."

  DeWitt said, "Bottom line is that Trimble screwed up. Not only did he lose his wallet, but the victim's bank account was cleaned out, and the exact amounts were deposited to Trimble's own account."

  "How do you know that on a Sunday?"

  DeWitt's face blanched white. "Actually, we noted the deposit late on Friday. We've been monitoring various suspects' accounts. We'll get the new bank surveillance footage tomorrow. We couldn't tell where the deposit had come from so there was no way for us to prevent this." He stared down at the floor, as pallid as a corpse.

  "That's terrible," Leo said. "How much was deposited?"

  Flanagan shifted, and the coverlet on the bunk bed came untucked. "The idiot had the deposit slip in his wallet. I can't remember the exact amount, but it was something like forty-four hundred and some change."

  "Literally pennies?" Leo asked. When the cops nodded, she said, "Doesn't that strike you as odd? I'll bet the funds went to the bank through the night depository so you won't have any video. That's the only way it makes sense. I mean, we have a thief who's killed at least five people, three of them undetected, and suddenly he gets all careless?"

  "What?" Flanagan and DeWitt said simultaneously. Both men seemed to zing with electricity.

  "What three undetected deaths?" Flanagan asked.

  Leo exchanged a glance with Thom. "Let's start at the beginning." They ran through all the details of their investigation, taking turns laying out the facts about the other three elderly women's deaths and their discovery of the mystery woman, Victoria Bishop. Leo ended by saying, "I can't help but think Ted Trimble was set up. I don't see the guy killing anybody. Why kill a family
member if there's a whole raft of strangers to bilk and murder? Has he rolled under interrogation?"

  Flanagan shifted uncomfortably. "No. He swears he knows nothing about any of this, but we've got too much evidence for it to be coincidental. For chrissake, the guy's an accountant. He knows how to steal, that's for sure."

  "The blonde is the key," Thom said. "I predict that this Bishop woman is the mastermind."

  Flanagan stood and paced to the closed door. "Could be she's in league with Trimble. This is the kind of con that would benefit from a couple working it."

  "Or a team," DeWitt said.

  "If there are bank surveillance tapes," Leo said, "they'll show who deposited that money. If it was Ted Trimble I'll be shocked. What else was in his wallet?"

  Flanagan said, "Twenty-one bucks, Visa plastic, and some business cards, including one of his own."

  "Driver's license?" she asked.

  The cops shook their heads.

  "Bet he had his license on him when you picked him up, didn't he?" The detectives didn't answer her. "He's been set up, guys. You know it, don't you? The situation is too suspicious. Feels wrong."

  Flanagan let out a sigh. "Jesus, I don't know."

  Thom said, "Eleanor Sinclair is also part of the solution here."

  "Yes," Leo said. "Eleanor is our sole living witness, and why is that? Her accounts were plundered like Celia Deveaux's and the other three ladies' were. Why wasn't she suffocated? Instead, Callie Trimble was murdered. I've been thinking about this. My theory is that the killer doesn't actually know the victims. That's part of the safety valve. If the mark doesn't know the thief, and the thief doesn't know him—or her—or them—it's a lot harder to link them, right? But that also means mistakes could be made. In this case, Callie Trimble was sleeping in Eleanor's apartment, and since the killer didn't know one from the other, he—or she—killed the wrong woman."

  "That's pretty farfetched," DeWitt said.

  "But possible," Thom said. "You have to admit it's possible."

  The cop's skepticism made Leo mad, and she had to temper her words before they flew out in an attack. "These are money crimes, eventually covered up by what appear on the surface to be natural deaths. What about Celia Deveaux? I'll bet you never would have known this was a murder without the wallet."

  "That's not true," Flanagan said. "Any death at a Rivers' facility will be on our radar now for a long time."

  "You've had three deaths already that weren't on your radar." As Flanagan's eyes narrowed, Leo regretted the sharpness of her words as soon as they came out. Quickly, she added, "Celia Deveaux—was it readily apparent that she was murdered? Would you have thought anything out of the ordinary if it weren't for the wallet?"

  "Maybe not," Flanagan admitted.

  "I rest my case, Detective. You're being manipulated, and not by Trimble. We've got to find this Victoria Bishop."

  DeWitt rose. "There's no 'we' in the equation. Dennis and I will find her. We appreciate how forthcoming you've both been and all the work you've done, but at this point, let us handle the situation. It'd be best if you'd skedaddle now and come investigate tomorrow when the Bloomington techs have got the crime scene wrapped up."

  Thom rolled his chair backwards toward the door. "Right. We're going to have to open up a whole new investigation on this death. More interviews, more poking around here at Rivers' Bloom. Of course we can wait until morning. We don't even have the official report yet. We'd appreciate it if you'd keep us in the loop, though."

  Leo was silent as she followed Thom to the front door. The thought of a whole new investigation for a similar murder made her angry. She felt she'd somehow failed.

  She reached for the front door as someone turned a key in the lock. She pulled back just in time. The door swung open with real velocity.

  Martin Rivers stepped into the foyer, his eyes blazing. "What the hell is going on here?" He slammed the door, glared at Leo, and frowned at Thom. "Who are you?"

  As Thom introduced himself, Leo watched Rivers closely. Mr. Hoss Cartwright was genuinely distressed. His shaggy hair was windblown, and he was dressed casually in a red polo shirt, tan shorts, and leather sandals that showed a pronounced golfer's tan around his ankles.

  Rivers slammed his car keys on the counter to his left and ran a hand over his face. "How can this be happening to me?" he muttered.

  "Are you just finding out about this, sir?" Leo asked.

  He focused on Leo, his eyes hard and angry. "No, I found out last night and have just spent fifteen hours driving like a bat out of hell from Canada. No sooner did we arrive at the fishing shack than I got this call." His tone was scathing. "I think you can assume my alibi is good. Where's my manager, Ms. Reese?"

  "I don't know. We've only conferred with the police since we got here."

  "Oh, God. Let me through." He pushed past Leo and Thom and stomped toward the dining hall.

  "Such a nice man," Thom said.

  "Yeah, but I suppose you'd feel the same way if your business was taking the same kinds of hits his is." She opened the door. "Let's go regroup."

  LEO AND THOM went over the facts in the van all the way back to Leo's house, but neither one of them could come up with any brilliant solutions.

  "Victoria Bishop," Leo said. "You're right. She's the key."

  "Blondes have more fun. Who are the blondes you've interviewed?"

  "Sherry Colton. Rowena Hoxley. Oh, and Hazel Bellinger, but she's a bottle blonde."

  "If I remember correctly, Hazel also has a shaky alibi. What about Nettie Volk?"

  "Nettie?"

  "Yeah, that cotton candy blue could easily be dyed yellow anytime."

  Leo laughed. "She's built like a tiny bird. There'd be a better chance of Ted Trimble getting away dressing in drag with a blonde wig."

  "Now that's a good theory. What was Hoxley's alibi? Hoxley's the manager, right?"

  "Yes. She claimed she was home alone until about ten when her husband came home from work."

  "She's my number one suspect then," Thom said.

  "Wish I hadn't left the paperwork on the desk. I have her address, and we could have tracked her down and talked to her."

  "I hate that today is Sunday. What an obstacle. Any other day, and we might be able to make some progress, but nothing's open. Do you have a key to the office?"

  "No. Sorry. I'm so temporary they haven't given me any keys, not even to the executive washroom."

  Thom laughed. "If there was one, you'd never get it away from that buffoon Fred."

  "What's wrong with that guy? This is an interesting job. What's his problem?"

  "I'm not sure if he's lazy or burned out or what. All I know is that when I first came for training, he was no help at all. I've got no use for anybody who can't function as part of the team. Sure, we're all individual investigators with our own cases, but there's no reason to dump the majority of the work on others. Besides, the guy's a glory hound. Have you figured out yet that he wants you to submit the report so he can personally bring the facts to Ralph, perhaps also to the assistant commissioner, and take credit?"

  "No. All he said was that we needed to move on to the next case."

  "As my grandpa used to say, that's horse-pucky. Old Baldurdash gets everyone else to do all the labor, and he tries to take all the credit. I worked with him during my first eight months before they sent me to the Duluth office. He burned me a couple of times taking credit for my work. I don't trust him, and you shouldn't either."

  "How far are we supposed to delve into these murders, Thom?"

  "Heck if I know. Haven't had too many cases like this. Usually when there's a homicide, it's an accident or some kind of altercation that went on between clients or a client and staff."

  "I guess I'm not sure how I'm supposed to finish off the report and make recommendations. Seems like the best recommendation would be for Martin Rivers to close his facilities as long as his residents are getting murdered."

  Thom pulled off the main tho
roughfare and slowed at a stop sign. "Rivers certainly could beef up security for a while."

  "After the Callie Trimble death, I'm surprised he didn't hire a temporary security service to watch over things, maybe have someone do a complete safety assessment."

  "But how was he to know that someone at a different complex would be targeted?"

  "True," she said.

  Thom stopped in front of her house. "I guess I'll be late, but I'm off to the Twins game now. If anything comes up, call my cell phone. The Target Field isn't conducive to hearing a cell phone call, but I'll have it on in case."

  "I didn't know you were due at a game. I'm sorry you're missing it." She opened the door and slipped out.

  "Don't worry about it, Leo. See you tomorrow."

  She shut the door, and with a wave he drove off. Thom had used her nickname. Usually only family and friends called her Leo, or sometimes Lee. Though she didn't know him well, it sounded natural coming from him.

  She trudged up the walk to the house and let herself in. "Daria?" She'd left her valise on the bench in the entryway and tossed her bag next to it. The stuffy air felt warm and heavy. Daria had left the thermostat set too high. Leo turned it down, and the air conditioner cycled on.

  In the kitchen she found a note. "Working – won't be back for dinner – D."

  It figured that she'd spend the day at the office. Leo should have assumed she would. No rest for the weary and all that.

  The remainder of the day, and the evening, too, was hers to do as she wished. The thought made her feel tired. But her head wasn't pounding, and she decided to take advantage.

  She went upstairs and changed into shorts, a t-shirt, and workout shoes. When she returned to the kitchen, she buttered two pieces of toast and ate them with a carton of blueberry yogurt. With a water bottle from the fridge and a change of clothes in her workout bag, she took off for the police station.

  AFTER HALF AN hour of lifting weights and forty minutes on the elliptical trainer, Leo felt she'd had a good enough workout. She headed to the locker room showers feeling her muscles pleasantly relaxed. The throbbing in her head was back, faint, but bearable. She hadn't kept up her workout regimen in the last couple of weeks since the pain had intensified, and she didn't feel anywhere near as strong as she had before the problem had gradually worsened. She needed to increase her workouts, even if she did get headaches from them. Once she returned to patrol, feeling fit and flexible was critical.