The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  Each question fueled his ire more than the last, until he heard Amanda White’s unmistakable shrill voice rising above them all: “Do you believe there’s a connection between Gregory Norwood’s death and the death of a photo-journalist assigned to his home this morning?”

  He couldn’t ignore that. Such an irresponsible, outrageous statement was exactly the type that fueled salacious gossip and detracted from the tragedy. “Speculation is pointless at this time, and almost always harmful, Ms. White. Let us not lose sight of the fact that a great man has been taken from us, and many are deeply devastated. I will say that the police are conducting a thorough, highly competent investigation, and a statement will be forthcoming when it is appropriate. Now, I implore you all to respect my privacy and, more importantly, the privacy of the Norwood family during this terrible time. I have no further comment. Good night.”

  He escaped into his building under the protective shadow of Conrad, shaken by the encounter. “There is no shame and not a single shred of human decency between the entire lot of them,” he hissed.

  “I agree, sir, but you handled it well.”

  “Thank you, Conrad. Now you understand why I asked you to deliver me to the front door instead of using the garage. There is great value in being present and showing strength during difficult times. That’s leadership, and I don’t think it will go unnoticed.”

  “That was very clever, sir, and it won’t go unnoticed. Even Amanda White didn’t have a follow-up.”

  “Oh, she always has a follow-up, but she’s a chess player, always thinking several moves ahead. She’ll wait for another opportunity somewhere down the line. She’s one to watch, Conrad. A true snake in the grass.”

  The lobby was empty, save for the guard at the front desk. Normally Robert relished the solitude of the building after hours, but tonight the absence of human bustle felt lonely and surreal, even with Conrad at his side. He walked up to the counter and greeted a man he’d known for years. “Good evening, Kramer.”

  “Good evening, sir, although it’s not a very good one, is it? I’m so sorry about Mr. Norwood. I met him a few times when he came to visit you at your office and he was a kind man. A good man. He had time for everybody, even somebody like me, just a guard at the desk.”

  “Thank you for your condolences.”

  He scowled at the doors. “The minute I saw the media show up, I tried to chase them away, but they kept coming back. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

  “It’s a public sidewalk so there’s nothing you could have done, Kramer, but your consideration is always appreciated. You’re here late, aren’t you? You don’t usually work the night shift.”

  “I’m pulling a double tonight. Bought myself a fishing boat this spring and I’m trying to keep up with the payments. It was probably a stupid thing to do, but I sure enjoy my weekends on the water.”

  Robert signed in, then passed the clipboard to Conrad. “That’s what counts. Happiness is always worth sacrifice. That’s why I’m working a double tonight, too.”

  Kramer grinned. “It’s probably why your poll numbers are so high. Congratulations, sir, you’ll make a fine governor.”

  “Thank you, Kramer, but we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. November is a long way off, especially in the political arena. Anything could happen.”

  “Well, you have my vote. Have a good night, sir, and if you need anything, I’m here until eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. And, actually, I do need something.”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “As you saw for yourself, the media is getting aggressive. They’re relentless, following us everywhere, and won’t give us a moment’s peace. I promised the Norwoods I’d be available to attend to them at any time, and I can’t have the media tailing my every move and causing even more distress to the family than they’re already enduring. Protecting their privacy is paramount.”

  “I can see the problem. It’s terrible, sir. What can I do to help?”

  “I was wondering if we might be able to use one of the back service entrances, just for this evening, so Conrad and I are free to come and go if necessary without alerting the media.”

  Kramer hesitated, then started squirming in his chair. Robert knew he was thinking about his job, his boat payments, the possibility of his instant termination if anybody found out. “No one is supposed to access the service doors after five p.m., sir. It’s against building policy. I could lose my job.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen, I can promise you. Given the extenuating circumstances behind my request, any actions on your part would be entirely defensible and I would vigorously litigate on your behalf.”

  Kramer was far from happy, but he seemed to relax a little. “Well … under the circumstances, I guess I could do that for you. If it’s only for tonight.”

  “Only tonight.”

  “Okay. Consider it done.”

  Robert gave him a grateful smile. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. How much the Norwoods appreciate it.” He tipped his head, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Let me know if you’re ever considering a job change. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to find competent, loyal people in the security industry, so we’re always looking for new team members. You would be a welcome addition, and the compensation would be such that you wouldn’t have to worry about making your boat payments anymore.”

  “I … I’ll do that, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Once they got up to the office, Robert withdrew a key and a slip of paper from his jacket pocket and handed them to Conrad. “You know what to do.”

  Conrad took the key and put it on the Town Car’s fob, then read the numbers on the paper. “Yes, sir. Are you sure this is the current security code?”

  “Positive. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  ROSALIE WAS SITTING in front of her home computer, drinking a second glass of wine, which made her feel only slightly less furious about hiding in her house like a criminal. But the media had been skulking around earlier, so she’d parked a block away and snuck in through the back. The only light on in the house was the small desk lamp in her interior office, invisible from the street. The media had eventually left, but she was still locked away behind the closed door, agonizing over the confounding pieces of puzzle surrounding her father’s murder and how they might fit together, if they did at all. She hoped Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth were as clever and competent as the reputations that had preceded them.

  She returned her attention to her computer. She had hundreds of saved emails from Trey and she’d been studying them for almost two hours, looking for something, anything. After the first fifty, she knew they probably wouldn’t reveal anything significant, but reading them was a reconnection to him and gave her some sense of purpose, of movement at a time when her world had simply stopped.

  Some of Trey’s emails were beautifully written—he had been the artist in the family, equally adept at writing, art and music ‒ and some made no sense at all, obviously composed when he was deep in the throes of his addiction.

  She’d spent years agonizing over why her little brother had succumbed to drugs. They were privileged rich kids, there was no question about it, with unlimited access to ridiculously large, irrevocable trust funds when they each turned twenty-one. But Trey’s darkness had started long before he’d had unfettered access to the money, around the time he was sixteen. That was when some awful switch went off in his mind. At first he was just moody and angry, but then he’d withdrawn from the family and life in general. The medications hadn’t helped, the psychiatrists hadn’t helped, and the family couldn’t help, though the Lord knew they’d all tried in a million different ways.

  Her mind drifted back to her sophomore year in college. She was walking to class on a beautiful autumn afternoon, listening to the crunch of leaves beneath her feet, when Father had called with the news that Trey was in the hospital. That was
the first any of them knew of how Trey had been coping with his silent suffering; and after that, their formerly idyllic family life became a low-level hell.

  She pulled up an email from last year, just days before his overdose.

  Hey, Rosie girl,

  Start treatment again next week. I’m nervous because I know I can’t live this way anymore. I can die this way, but I can’t live. I just want these demons to go away and I’m afraid they never will. I see bad things all the time, Rosie. People doing horrible things, unimaginable things. They seem so real sometimes. I think they are real sometimes.

  I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you. I understand now that my pain is your pain and always has been. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself or if I even should. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I’m okay with that. Know I love you.

  Your little brother,

  Trey

  Rosalie grabbed a tissue and blotted her eyes, but the tears kept coming as she tried to comprehend what kind of psychic pain had driven him to such despair. “I wish you’d talk to me, Trey, goddamnit.”

  And then she heard the faint tinkle of bells, which launched her out of her chair. She didn’t believe for one second that Trey would ever talk to her through those bells, as fanciful and attractive as the notion was. She also knew a breeze couldn’t have disturbed them because the central air was on and the house was shut up tight. Those simple realities led to one stark, terrifying conclusion: somebody was in her house.

  She reached for the Walther she kept under her desk and checked it to make sure there was a loaded clip, listening carefully as she disengaged the safety and took a few steps toward the office door.

  Nothing. The house was silent.

  You’re losing your mind …

  And then she heard the front door slam and Trey’s bells clanging a sharp warning.

  She had never felt anything like it before: her heart thrashed, the blood in her veins turned to ice, yet every pore in her body seemed to open all at once and gout sweat. The fight-or-flight response. She had nowhere to run, so flight was out.

  It seemed like an impossible task, but she held on tight to her weapon and started walking to the office door on rubber legs. The gun wobbled in her shaking hands, but it was still a gun with bullets, and she hoped she still had the presence of mind to pull the trigger if she had to.

  Or else you’ll get somebody else’s bullet to your brain before you even know what hit you, just like Father, and maybe you’re a target, too …

  Time lost all meaning, seeming to fold and warp, like melting plastic, but somehow she made it through the adrenaline psychedelia to the door and the security pad next to it. Her finger seemed strange and disembodied as it pressed the button with the police shield on it ‒ and Father’s voice suddenly came back to her, loud and clear, admonishing her for her lax security practices.

  I don’t care what time of day it is, Rosalie, I don’t care if every door and window is locked, when you’re in your house, engage the security system. That’s why it’s there.

  She cringed when the siren started wailing, then crept slowly toward the front door, gun waving in front of her, which was a brave and stupid thing to do. An extended weapon could easily be knocked out of your hand, and what happened after that wouldn’t be good.

  She was panting with fear when she reached the foyer, elated that she hadn’t been killed yet. The door was unlocked, which was wrong, so wrong.

  The bells were silent. But they were still swaying gently on the frayed pink cord as the motion from their disturbance slowly wound down.

  CHAPTER

  36

  THE HUMIDITY-HAZY MINNEAPOLIS skyline was just coming into view as the sun sank behind the buildings, a giant orange ball that left a riot of bold, streaky colors that could only work on Nature’s palette.

  Gino tapped the windshield. “Check that out. Have you ever seen a sunset like this, Leo? It’s like the city’s on fire.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Pretty spectacular is what it is. They say that molecules and small particles in the atmosphere, like pollution or smoke or humidity, scatter the light rays and make all the colors.”

  “Then you shouldn’t complain about the humidity.”

  “Maybe not.” Gino pulled off the freeway and into the parking lot of a Kwik Mart. “We need to fill the car’s tank and I need to fill mine. Do you want anything?”

  “Get me one of those shriveled hotdogs that’s been rolling under a heat lamp all day. Mustard, no ketchup.”

  “Coming right up.”

  While Gino was inside, Magozzi decided to call Grace. He knew Monkeewrench was inundated, and so were their computers, but things were at a relative standstill while they waited for callbacks, and those callbacks might not yield anything.

  “Hi, Magozzi. Where are you? I hear traffic noise.”

  “We’re on our way back from Rush City. What’s the news on your end? Is City Hall going to be there in all its dark, forbidding, Gothic glory when we get back?”

  “It’s not Gothic, Magozzi, it’s Richardsonian Romanesque.”

  “I don’t even know what you just said. That’s too many syllables for my brain right now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just remind me to take you on an architectural tour of the city one day.”

  Magozzi thought he heard a chiding lilt in Grace’s voice, and suddenly meth trailers and dead bodies transformed into rainbows and sunshine. Not really, but he felt a little better about himself and the world at large. “I can’t wait. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because I don’t have an answer yet, but we finally had a break-through. Roadrunner thinks we’ll have some solid information to give to Dahl soon. After that, it’s in the feds’ hands.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “It is, and we’re happy, but there’s still a lot of work to do. What about you? You and Gino didn’t drive all the way up to Rush City for the scenery.”

  “We were chasing a lead.”

  “Did it pan out?”

  “It’s hard to say. It didn’t answer any questions, but it brought up more. Grace, I know you’re slammed …”

  “What do you need, Magozzi?”

  “We’re trying to track down a guy named August Riskin, formerly of Aspen, Colorado, Kalispell, Montana, and California. We’re waiting on callbacks and Tommy Espinoza’s working it, too, but we could really use an extra hand with this.”

  “I take it August Riskin doesn’t want to be found?”

  “No. He’s kind of a cipher, went off the grid two years ago and nobody can pick up his trail.”

  “Send us everything you have on him and we’ll get to work.”

  Magozzi hesitated. “I don’t want to reroute any computing power that might be saving that not-Gothic monstrosity I work in.”

  Grace made a soft sound that could very well have been a chuckle, a foreign sound coming from her and one he’d heard her utter only a few times before. “The new program has its own dedicated equipment and server, so we’ve got some computing power to spare.”

  “Thanks, Grace.” His phone beeped an incoming call alert and he looked at the display. It was a Colorado area code.

  “Take your call, Magozzi. See you later?”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  * * *

  Grace hung up and looked at Harley, who had come into the sitting room next to the office while she’d been on the phone. He was stretched out on a chaise across from her, reading a worn book of poetry and drinking a beer; Charlie was curled up next to him, his hind leg twitching occasionally. He was probably dreaming about the unattainable squirrels at Magozzi’s lake house. “You’re taking a breather, good for you.”

  Harley closed the book and set it on the side table. “Actually, Roadrunner kicked me out of the office. You know how Boy Wonder can get sometimes when he’s cracking something.” He reached to pat Charlie’s head. “Besides, our buddy here needed a l
ittle mano-a-mano couch-potato time. What did Leo have to say?”

  “They want us to help them find someone.”

  Harley sat up and cracked his knuckles, careful not to jostle Charlie. “Fantastic. I’m getting bored already.”

  “I don’t have much information yet, just a name and a few locations. Magozzi will send us more when they get back to the office.”

  “Better yet, a challenge. Of course, anything after today is going to seem like a cakewalk.”

  She gestured to the book. “I didn’t know you were a poetry buff.”

  “I ran across an old box of stuff from when I was a kid. I forgot I even had this. Brings back good memories.” He smoothed his hand on the cover.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From Miss Lizzy. Elizabeth Daltry.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Was. She was a very special old woman, who taught me to love poetry and probably saved my life.”

  Grace cycled through her mental index and couldn’t recall an Elizabeth Daltry or a Miss Lizzy. “You never told us about her.”

  “I will one day.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  GINO CAME OUT of the Kwik Mart fifteen minutes after he’d gone in, carrying a frighteningly large bag.

  “Should I even ask?”

  “Hot dogs, assorted chips, some pizza slices, and a six-pack of Coke. Candy bars for dessert. That should keep us fueled for the night.”

  “While you were inside hunting and gathering, you missed a callback.”

  Gino buckled in and gave Magozzi a disappointed look. “Who?”

  “Aspen. The Pitkin County sheriff himself.”

  “So what did he have to say?”

  “He doesn’t know anything about what happened to the Riskin family after they left Aspen, but he was sitting when Clara Riskin was murdered, and he confirmed what Dubnik said. The evidence against Kip Kuehn was a slam-dunk. The bastard was stalking her ‒ the cops found a hidden encampment on the Norwood property near the caretaker’s house where she lived.”

  “So she was killed on Norwood property?”