by Lori L. Lake
"I most certainly would, Ms. Yarborough. I can be there in half an hour."
The woman gave Eleanor the address and general directions, and Eleanor hung up feeling triumphant. If it hadn't been handled too much, she wondered if the police could still get fingerprints off the card. Grabbing her purse and a sweater, she hurried to the parking lot.
AT THE CHURCH, Eleanor parked on the deserted street and went up the stairs to the side door Bonnie Yarborough had instructed her to enter. All the way over from Minneapolis, she wondered about her accounts and if she'd ever get her money back. Would it be possible for the police to crack the case? She was lucky her broker had only managed a portion of her funds, but still, the theft of nearly a quarter million dollars was such an egregious crime. Every time she thought about it, she felt a rush of rage.
She pushed the door open and entered a vestibule. Bonnie had told her to go through the doorway straight ahead and down the hall to the left, but she hesitated. The farther in she moved, the darker it was. She sure hoped that the Bible Study was lit better than this corner of the church.
The passageway to the left grew increasingly dim, but an Exit sign gleamed red at the end, and Eleanor oriented toward it. One hand on the wall, the other clutching her shoulder bag, she took slow, even steps. Under the Exit sign, she pushed open a door and found herself in the church's main entryway. She frowned, thinking she must have misunderstood the directions. Surely the secretary's office was nowhere near the narthex.
She took small steps across the carpet until she came to the entry to the sanctuary. Next to the open door, three sets of metal folding chairs leaned upright against the wall. Otherwise, all seemed in order. The only light was cast by three lancet windows up high, a candle under a red globe near the altar, and a spotlight on the larger-than-life body of Jesus on the cross. She thought the representation must be of Christ after death. His body was too scarred and bloody, and he slumped just like a real crucified dead body would. She shuddered. The whole altar looked downright spooky.
She decided to retrace her path. A noise squeaked behind her. She started to turn. "Hello? Anyone—"
Something struck the back of her head. She fell, out of control, and could do nothing to stop the headlong pitch forward. She hit the floor and let out a whimper. A bitter taste flooded her mouth, and she couldn't see. Gasping, she tried to draw enough breath to speak. She lay on her left side, clutching her bag under her arm, unable to move or respond.
"You miserable rotten bitch," someone said. "And now just watch—you'll weigh a ton, too."
Cool metal bumped against Eleanor's forehead. What in the world was happening? She wanted to call out, but waves of pain radiated through her head and made her sick to her stomach.
"I should've fucking killed you the first time around. And her, too," a soft, matter-of-fact voice said. "You ruined everything. Fucking bitch."
Hands grasped under Eleanor's arms, yanked her up, and dragged her roughly onto a cold metal surface. She lolled there, unable to fight back.
She blacked out for a moment. The next time she felt bodily sensations, there was a dampness under her that smelled like the bitter tang of urine. Had she wet herself? Her head hurt so much that she gave the indignity no further thought. Without warning, bad-tasting bile came up, and she vomited.
She forced her eyes open and squinted to make sense of what she was seeing. Her vision went from foggy to somewhat clear, but it took a moment before she finally identified that it was the ends of pews going by. She lay on her back, her head turned to the side, on some sort of cart. Someone was rolling her up the middle aisle of the church. The cart jerked to the left, traveled a distance, and stopped.
"What a fucked up mess," the woman said.
She stepped away, and Eleanor had a clear view of her face as she stabbed a finger at an elevator button. I know her, Eleanor thought. I can't remember her name, but I know her. What's her name?
"Jesus, hurry up. Damn church has the slowest goddamn elevator ever built."
The woman continued to mutter until the door opened, then she came back and moved the cart forward. A huge figure loomed over Eleanor. She was afraid the giant would hurt her, maybe hit her some more. She thought she might throw up again if anyone touched her. The figure swam into focus, and she realized it was church statuary. Eleanor winced with pain when the cart smacked into the elevator doorway. The pounding in her head increased, and she closed her eyes again and made herself relax.
"Oh, right. Now you go ahead and die. Couldn't die right the first time, but now you drop dead with just one crack to the back of your head. Great. That's no fun for me, you damn bitch."
The last thing Eleanor heard was another string of epithets made all the more dreadful by the fact that they were uttered at the feet of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MONDAY MORNING COULDN'T come fast enough. Leo was in the office before eight a.m. itching to find the elusive con woman and get the case resolved. Before she'd even gotten settled, Fred Baldur was in her doorway.
"Leona, I've been more than patient, but I must get the completed report on Rivers' Edge. I need you to move on, work on other cases."
"It's wrapping up, Fred."
"That's what you said last week!"
He sounded so whiny that Leo took a deep breath before answering. "Murders are obviously not going to be open-and-shut cases. I'm sorry that it's more involved than you'd planned for."
"I certainly hope you're getting all these witness transcripts squared away."
"Transcripts?"
"Yes. You do need to have the tapes readied in case they need written documentation for every single discussion and interview. Haven't you been labeling them and ensuring that they're ready for transcription?"
Leo bit her lip as she nodded. She'd been so good about taping talks early on, but she couldn't remember the last person she'd spoken to with the recorder running. Ooops. She wasn't about to admit that to Fred Baldur.
"How about we get this piece completed today, all right?"
We? Did he have a mouse in his pocket, or what? He'd done nothing but nag. "Wait a minute, Fred. Didn't you hear there was another murder at one of the Rivers' complexes?"
"What? That's not possible. I don't have a police referral."
"You're sure to get it soon."
"You must be mistaken."
"I was out at Rivers' Bloom yesterday."
"Nonsense. Yesterday was Sunday, and you weren't scheduled to work."
Was this guy the stupidest man in creation? Was he calling her a liar? Or did he have so little imagination that he couldn't possibly envision anything happening except by official channels?
"Fred, Detective Flanagan called me yesterday. Both Thom and I went out to Rivers' Bloom and talked to a few people. I followed up with some additional interviews in the afternoon."
"That's comp time, then. To get credit, you'll need to file a special form. Monique monitors that for Ralph. You're actually supposed to get comp time preapproved."
"I don't care about comp time. I care about finding out who killed Callie Trimble."
He stood blinking in the cubicle entryway, a puzzled expression on his waxen gray face. "This isn't working out. You were brought on to help us catch up. It's not working."
From down the hall, a voice called out, "What's not working, Baldur?"
The look of dismay on Fred's face was enough to make Leo laugh out loud, but she pushed down the desire. Fred stepped aside and Leo could see Thom's legs and part of his wheelchair in the hallway. He leaned forward and peeked around the edge of the cubicle. "Good morning, Leo." He sat back, and she couldn't see his face anymore, but she could hear him clearly.
"Now, Fred, what's your problem today?"
"I was just telling Leona the department is in a shambles. I'm doing all I can to knock down the paperwork, but we've got multiple visits to make and the reports are stacking up. You weren't brought down here from D
uluth to devote all your time and attention to one single case. The complaints are pouring in faster than I can read them. I can't run this department all by myself."
"And we don't expect you to. Leo is probably hours away from finishing off this murder investigation. We're going to check a mail drop, get an address, and after we find the witness, I'll work on the other cases for most of the day. We'll make a dent this week, don't worry."
"Excuse me, boys." Monique Miller squeezed past to hand Leo a couple of sheets of paper. "This fax is marked RUSH, so I brought it over rather than stick it in your mailbox."
"Thanks," Leo said.
"What's with all of you crammed into this miserable little hallway? We do have a conference room if you need it."
Fred let out a huff and shouldered his way past Thom.
Monique said, "He's getting grumpier by the minute."
"I'll say," Thom said.
Leo glanced at the cover page, which identified the sender as Jo Ellen Wiesniak at Saint Vladimir's. She flipped back the cover page to find a photo of six people around a picnic table. One of the women was circled in thick black pen.
"Holy shit, Thom, we've got to go."
"To the mail drop?"
"Nope, we can skip that completely."
ON THE WAY out to Plymouth, Leo called Flanagan's work and cell phones, but couldn't reach him. She left a message relating what she'd learned the day before in her interviews with Jim Lucas and Jo Ellen Wiesniak.
"Good thinking," Thom said. "I should have been there, too."
"You deserved your weekend, especially since you had Twins tickets."
"Yeah, but they lost in the ninth. Total bummer." Thom wheeled into the Rivers administrative building lot.
"I hope you're getting reimbursed for gasoline," Leo said. She put her valise on the floor, but kept her cell phone.
"Yup. I'm keeping track." He hastened to get his wheelchair out.
She went around the back of the vehicle and watched him drop smoothly into the chair. "Your exit reminds me of those old Westerns where the cowboy jumps from the upper story of the saloon down onto his horse."
"That's me, all right. Giddy-up." He slammed the van door, and they rushed inside.
The office was quiet, and once more, the nap of the carpet lay in perfect, vacuumed lines that they disturbed as they approached the main counter.
Leo hit the bell on the counter, but no one answered. "Hello? Anyone here?"
Thom said, "Ring it again a couple of times."
From the distance, a voice called out, "Coming." A dark-haired woman emerged from the office. She was younger than Leo, perhaps in her mid-twenties. "Sorry. I was in the workroom. May I help you?"
Leo said, "Is Martin Rivers in?"
"Not today. He's out at the construction site."
"What about his assistant?"
"I'm his assistant. I'm Iris Fullerton, and chances are good that whatever you need help with I can handle."
"We really need to find Claire Ryerson. Do you expect her in today?"
"Oh, no, you just missed her. She's on vacation for two weeks."
Leo looked at Thom. He got out his ID, and she flashed her Saint Paul Police badge. She didn't know how much her badge would help since she wasn't in her jurisdiction, but she figured it couldn't hurt. "It's critically important that we speak to Ms. Ryerson."
"Sorry. I was gone on vacation last week, and now it's her turn. She's flying out today."
"Where to?"
"Gee, I don't know. She and I aren't close. Seems like she usually goes somewhere warm so she can keep up her tan." Her tone had changed, become stiffer, more hostile.
Leo took a chance. "Ms. Ryerson is in big trouble, Ms. Fullerton. We need your help."
"Really?" She brightened considerably.
"Yes, and this may be a matter of life or death."
"I don't know what I can do."
Leo asked, "Did she leave any paperwork at her desk?"
"No, she dropped by to tidy up and print something then left."
Thom said, "What did she print? Maybe an e-ticket?"
"I couldn't say. I wasn't paying attention."
Thom said, "Would you mind if we checked it out?"
Iris winced. "I don't know if I should."
"Please," he said, smiling, "I promise I won't disturb anything." Before she could respond, he rolled around the side of the counter and through the office door. "Ms. Fullerton, you've got a dandy printer over there."
"Yes, it's brand new."
"Do you work off a main server or are your desktops linked?"
"We both have access to the same records. I guess they're linked."
"Have you printed anything since she left?"
"No, I've been assembling packets in the storeroom."
"Your system can reprint recent documents. May I?" He gestured toward the computer, and she shrugged.
Leo waited in the doorway, watching, then thought to take the opportunity to redial Flanagan's cell phone. No answer. She tried again. Nothing.
Thom rolled his chair over and grabbed a page from the printer. "Sun Country to Dominican Republic. She flies out of Humphrey in less than an hour. Let's go."
"Iris," Leo said, "did she leave by taxi?"
"Yes, only a couple of minutes ago."
As they hustled toward the door, Leo called out, "We'll get back to you as soon as we can." When she glanced over her shoulder, the young woman was standing behind the counter with a pleased smirk on her face. Leo wished she had time to find out what Claire Ryerson had done to her.
In the van, Thom was grim. "We've got miles to travel in bad traffic. It's possible we might not catch her."
"We have to. Just drive like a bat out of hell. She's only got a few minutes on us."
"You think she's going on vacation? Or that she's not coming back?"
"I'd bet money she knows this gig is up. She'll fly down to the Dominican Republic, catch a charter somewhere else from there, and that'll be that. We'll never find her again."
Thom cut into the fast lane and expertly passed a slow-moving car. "You're probably right. I went to Puerto Plata with a bunch of guys on spring break my freshman year in college. We joked about ditching school and hopping a flight to Europe or South America. There were more airlines down there than we have in the Twin Cities. Of course, it was easier to travel before the 9/11 restrictions."
"That won't stop her. Victoria Bishop, or Claire Ryerson—whichever name is right—is shrewd. No doubt she set up the identity she needed long ago. If she's been flying back and forth periodically to keep up her tan, I'll bet she's got this exit all figured. We have to catch her before she boards that plane, or we'll never see her again in Minnesota."
"Does the Dominican Republic have criminal reciprocity? Will they extradite her?"
"Heck if I know," Leo said. "We can't take that chance."
"Call Flanagan again."
Leo tried once more with no success. "Damn him."
"Call the department. Call the airport police. Just call 9-1-1."
"I'll try Flanagan one more time."
The phone rang twice, and a sleepy voice answered.
"Flanagan, thank God. Leona Reese here. We've got a lead on the Callie Trimble killer."
"What? Huh?" He mumbled for a moment, then his voice was sharp. "What the hell? We've already got the murderer."
"You've got the wrong guy."
"Dream on, lady."
"Listen, Flanagan, at the very least Claire Ryerson is Trimble's partner in crime. She's the one who used the Sinclair credit card."
"Ryerson? From the Rivers main office?"
"Yes."
"I've been in bed for two whole hours, Ms. Reese. Can't this wait until my shift starts?"
"She's flying out of the country now. To the Dominican Republic. You need to take her into custody before she gets away forever. Listen to me. Get someone over to the Humphrey International Terminal or we'll never find her again."
/> Thom pulled into the ramp, took a ticket from the dispenser, and inched the van forward as the arm slowly rose. Once through, he raced around the ramp and came to a screeching halt near the elevators.
"Get out, Leo. I'll park and catch up with you."
She didn't argue. Phone to her ear, she took off running as she gave Flanagan the flight information. She hung up and poured on the speed.
The muscles in her legs protested. She felt stiff and sore all over, especially her quadriceps and across her shoulders. That'd teach her to let so much time pass between workouts.
The Humphrey Terminal was much more compact than the Twin Cities' main Lindbergh Terminal. While Lindbergh served nearly every major carrier that flew throughout the world, the Humphrey airport facility was a home to charter airlines and to the much smaller carriers such as AirTran, Icelandair, Midwest, and Sun Country. She'd never flown out of this terminal and hadn't picked anyone up from it in years, not since the new facility was built and expanded, so she didn't know her way around.
She assumed the skyway would lead from the ramp to the check-in area but was surprised when she emerged from the tunnel near the gate security and above the check-in concourse. The ticketing area below was bright, with enormous panels of glass illuminating the counters, X-ray machines, and passengers checking in. She started for the escalator but paused at the rail to make the best of her vantage point, quickly examining each traveler below.
She saw surprisingly few people compared to the usual heavy foot traffic at the main terminal. Everyone seemed to be moving at a leisurely pace. No long lines. No pushy jerks nipping at anyone's heels. Five people, business travelers by the looks of them, stood in line at the check-in area. A young couple dragged a cranky two-year-old onto the escalator as he protested loudly. An elderly man and woman hobbled toward the elevator.
Could the taxi have been that far ahead? Had Bishop already been checked in and gone through security?
Leo honed in on the area around the metal detectors. A bored Transportation Security worker stood waiting at the checkpoint, picking at the latex gloves he wore. Behind him, a wide hallway stretching to the left and right was lined with shops and eateries. Far off to the left, the waiting area for the gates bustled with activity. Was she in there? Leo had no way to enter and check without assistance and permission from the airport police. Though she carried her badge in one pocket and her cell phone in the other, she doubted whether either would get her in quickly enough. Where were Flanagan's forces? Why hadn't any cops made an appearance?
