by P. J. Tracy
“Yeah, and the Riskins filed a civil suit against the Norwoods because of it.”
Gino was quiet for a long time. “That makes Gus Riskin look even better as Norwood’s killer.”
“Gus Riskin was a ten-year-old kid when his sister was killed. I can’t see a ten-year-old forming opinions on a murder, then fomenting a years-long grudge that ends in homicide.”
“It could be simpler than that. Maybe he just plain hated the Norwoods because his sister was killed on their property, so his little-kid mind blamed them. And their perfect life just kept going along like nothing had happened while he went to Hell. I could see a grudge forming over the years if you had the right psychological make-up.”
“That would be ironic, considering the Riskins were the ones who hired her killer on the cheap and brought him onto the property in the first place.”
“Yeah, and then they take their daughter’s murder and try to turn it into a lottery ticket. That’s pretty slimy.”
“That’s essentially what the sheriff said. Apparently, Norwood was furious when he found out they’d hired the guy to work for him, but by then it was too late. He found out about it when everybody else did, during the investigation. But what’s he going to do? Fire the family whose daughter was just murdered?”
“Bad optics,” Gino agreed. “Still, it must have stung to get slapped with a lawsuit. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. So what happened with the civil case?”
“It was settled out of court and they were paid through an umbrella insurance policy, which explains the very nice Montana ranch the Riskins bought for cash after they left Aspen. Sorry recompense for a lost child, but Norwood’s insurance company gave them a nice payday.”
“Huh. So he didn’t really pay for their relocation, his insurance company did after he got sued.”
Magozzi shrugged. “That’s why rich people carry umbrella policies.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Man, they really had Norwood between a rock and a hard place. Norwood couldn’t fire them and he couldn’t fight the civil suit without looking like Satan incarnate.”
“That’s probably why it was settled out of court. There was already enough ugliness in everybody’s world, and I’m sure Norwood was anxious to close the lid on the whole thing.”
Gino dug into the Kwik Mart bag and started pulling out his cache of junk food. “What else do you know about the Montana ranch?”
“When old man Riskin died, Gus sold it for five and some change.”
Gino peeled the foil away from his hotdog and started eating while he drove. “Damn nice nest egg, plenty to start a new life in California or anywhere else. He could have done a hell of a lot better than hooking up with the Hessians.”
“He’s damaged goods. They don’t always make the best decisions.”
“So we follow the money trail.”
“There isn’t one. August Riskin paid the taxes and took the rest in cash. And then he disappeared.”
CHAPTER
38
TOMMY ESPINOZA DIDN’T even notice Gino and Magozzi as they wended their way through a maze of document boxes stacked up in his office. He was entranced with his computer, clattering away at his keyboard while robotically shoving mini pretzels into his mouth. Magozzi had always thought he and Roadrunner were kindred spirits, except for the stark difference in diet: Tommy lived and died by junk food and soda and Roadrunner was a gluten-free health fanatic, who drank Kombucha and biked about a thousand miles a day.
Gino nudged a box with his toe. “Did you get fired or something?”
Tommy jerked his head up, dislodging a hank of black hair from his forehead. He had his Mexican father’s coloring, his Swedish mom’s blue eyes, and a build on the chubby side of stout that publicized his nutritional preferences. “Hi, guys. I didn’t even hear you come in.” He smiled apologetically. “Sorry about the mess. I’m just clearing out some paper. Nobody needs it anymore and I can save some trees.”
“What happens when your precious cloud crashes for all eternity?”
“You are such a Luddite, Rolseth. Come on in, make yourselves at home. Sorry there’s no place to sit, but I can grab you some chairs.”
“No need,” Gino said, inspecting the wreck of Tommy’s desk for snack food, even though he had a big Kwik Mart bag of his own. He was like a Serengeti predator, ready to gorge on whatever was available in preparation for the seasonal famine. “Pretzels, that’s all you got? That’s damn near diet food. Where are the Cheezy Puffs?”
“I ate them all. Pretzels are the only thing left, unless you want to make a run to the vending machine.”
“I checked it on the way in and you cleaned it out. What do you know?”
Tommy pushed back from his desk and rubbed his eyes as he yawned. “Those numbers you asked about, the ones that called Norwood, all belonged to burner phones, for sure, but I managed to track down local points-of-sale on two of them. Whoever was calling him bought them at a Best Buy in Roseville. Surprise, surprise, they were both cash sales made in April and May of this year.”
“Good work, Tommy. What about Norwood’s computer?”
“From what I’ve gone through so far, it’s definitely a window on how the other half lives. Norwood has more money in more accounts than the International Monetary Fund. I’m staying away from the business stuff—if you’re looking for any monkey business there, you’ll have to hire a platoon of forensic accountants.”
“What about personal financials?”
“Almost as Byzantine, unless you can give me something specific to look for.”
“Large cash withdrawals or transfers. Norwood was being fleeced and we need to find the guy who was doing it.”
“I hate to tell you, but that’s not very specific in Norwood’s case. Just eyeballing the ledgers, he moved a lot of big money around all the time.”
“Look at the past year and see if you can find any anomalies, especially around the time Norwood got the calls from the burner phones.”
“Got it.” Tommy scratched down a few notes on a pad.
“What about emails, correspondence?”
“That’s a bust. His personal stuff isn’t all that personal. Email and written correspondence about business travel, his charities, meetings, dinners, parties, things like that. No family stuff, nothing that hinted at a mistress, no lockbox on his hard drive where he hid a journal filled with deep, dark secrets.”
“That’s weird.”
“Not really. I think Norwood was smart and kept his personal stuff on a different device, not on his home-office computer. This one is linked to the business ‒ any IT tech at his company would have access if they wanted it. I’d start looking for a laptop.”
CHAPTER
39
MAGOZZI AND GINO were pleasantly surprised to see Eaton Freedman at his desk when they entered the Homicide cube farm. The only downer was that he wouldn’t have been there unless a dead body was somewhere else.
His pay grade didn’t synch with the nicely tailored tan suit he was wearing, but when you were built like Freedman, you couldn’t just grab and go off the rack. The original Incredible Hulk didn’t have that problem—he just busted out of his suit until he was half naked and turned green.
“Looking sharp, Freedman.” Gino high-fived him as they walked to their desks. “What brings your pretty face here at this hour?”
“Some poor sucker bought it in a delivery truck on the north side. It was stripped right down to the tires, but they left the body. Mighty considerate.”
“What was it carrying? Gold?”
“Construction equipment ‒ HVAC equipment, to be more specific. Doesn’t have to be gold on the north side.”
“Construction equipment’s worth something, too.”
“Sure it is, but robbery wasn’t the motive. The driver had a gunshot to the head, but there was no evidence of the crime in the truck. The perp killed him somewhere else, then dumped the body and the truck where he knew it would get stripped
. The driver worked for Lloyd’s HVAC. You know it?”
Gino and Magozzi nodded. Almost everybody on the force knew about Lloyd because he was one of the few employers who gave cons a second chance with responsibility and decent pay. MPD had sent plenty of candidates his way.
Freedman took a noisy sip from the bottle of water on his desk. “So this ex-con driver—his name was Jim Beam, if you can believe that ‒ is the one who ends up getting rolled and killed, working an honest job for the first time in his life. Had five years in, clean as a whistle. It’s a damn mean twist of Fate, this. It just doesn’t seem fair.”
“Life has a different definition of fair,” Gino observed sagely, as if reciting from the I Ching. “So what are you thinking? Past came back to bite him?”
“Not from his sheet. He was just a punk, as far as crime’s concerned.”
“What does Lloyd have to say about it?”
“I’m trying to track him down, get a bead on Beam’s schedule for the day, see where his travels took him. His killer’s in that timeline somewhere. The thing is, he was on somebody’s radar—MPD got an anonymous tip that he was missing around five thirty tonight.”
Magozzi frowned. “I wonder why anonymous.”
“Don’t have an answer for that yet.”
“You will.”
Gino pulled Cokes out of the Kwik Mart bag and tossed him one. “Have a Coke and a smile.”
Freedman showed them two even rows of nice white teeth. “Thanks.”
“Sounds like you’re doing okay on your first solo flight.”
“It’s a good thing for a man to test his wings without his patron leprechaun. What’s up with your case?”
“Don’t ask.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. We’ve got two connected homicides and we’re pushing the crime lab to their limit. And now you had to bust in with another case. McLaren is the only guy who’s going to be getting any sleep for the next week.”
“Luck of the Irish. Let’s hope it rubs off on all of us.”
“Amen.” Gino settled into his chair and cleared off his desk, which meant throwing stuff he didn’t need on the floor. “Where do you want to start, Leo?”
“I’m going to send Monkeewrench everything we’ve got on Riskin. They said they’d take a look for us. Then let’s go back to the Norwood hacienda and look for a laptop.”
Magozzi had just pressed “send” when his phone started jingling a tinny, sacrilegious rendition of “The Girl From Ipanema,” a ring tone he most certainly had not selected, and wouldn’t ever, even under threat of death. No great music should ever be debased in such a way. “Did you screw with my phone, Gino?”
“No, and FYI, mine does the same thing. There’s some flaw in the software. You bump the phone the wrong way or whatever and suddenly your ring tone changes to something really stupid. Or maybe we’re being hacked.”
It was Rosalie Norwood, and Magozzi didn’t like the news she passed on. Apparently it showed on his face, because Gino was suddenly hovering over him with an anxious expression when he hung up.
“What?”
“Somebody broke into Rosalie Norwood’s house while she was home.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah. Rattled, obviously.”
Gino rolled his head back and Magozzi heard his neck crack. “Oh, shit. Remember when I said why take the risk that Gregory Norwood was the only Norwood on the hit list?”
“I do, and I’m hoping you weren’t right.”
CHAPTER
40
ROSALIE NORWOOD’S HOUSE was surprisingly modest, just off Minnehaha Parkway. This particular thoroughfare had a network of excellent recreational trails that followed the Minnehaha Creek, and plenty of bikers and dog-walkers were enjoying a hot summer night, along with some free auxiliary entertainment they hadn’t bargained for. They slowed as they passed to gawk at the four lit-up patrol cars parked outside and the cops coursing the lawn, but they didn’t stop. Minnesotans were too polite to stare too long at anything out of the ordinary.
Magozzi and Gino were about to intercept one of the officers when they heard a familiar voice behind him. “Hey, guys, hold up.”
He and Gino turned around and saw McLaren jogging toward them on the sidewalk. He was still wearing the bad Bermuda shorts he’d had on earlier but had changed his shirt for something slightly more complementary with them.
“What the hell are you doing here? Sick of golf already?” Gino gave him a soft slug on the shoulder.
“No way, but I was listening to the scanner on my way home from the course—three below par today, my personal best, in case you’re interested ‒ and I heard the call-out. I know who lives here, so I stopped by to see what’s up, figured I’d run into you two. This case is getting curiouser and curiouser, huh?”
“What have you heard? We just got here and all we know is breaking and entering.”
McLaren scrubbed his spiky red hair thoughtfully. “Suspected B and E, but no sign of it according to the guys I talked to. No sign of an intruder at all. They’ve got a full-on canvass going but, so far, nobody saw anything.”
Magozzi looked at the substantial foot traffic on the trails. “Lots of potential witnesses. Something might turn up.”
McLaren followed his gaze. “You know what people do when they’re supposedly out enjoying nature? They don’t pay attention to anything except their heart rate or how their quads look when they’re pushing their bike or running, or their dog’s stopping by a shrub to eat rabbit shit. If they get bored with that, they’re on their Twitter accounts. You’re looking at a pack of self-centered urban zombies who’d probably trip over a dead body and keep going.”
“That’s a unique world view. Slightly misanthropic. Gloria would probably appreciate your perspective. You should share.”
Gino snickered. “Hey, Johnny, you want to jump on board with us while we have a chat with Rosalie Norwood just for the hell of it? I know you’re dying to get a piece of this.”
“Fuck, no. You two are on your own.” He gave them a twinkling, elfin smile. “Besides, I’ve got a date tonight.”
“No way. Gloria actually took the bait?”
He rubbed his hands together, inordinately pleased with himself. “Yep. I think I had her at ‘dessert cart.’ ”
“Well, that’s one way to get the girl. Let us know what happens.”
McLaren moved in closer and kept his voice low. “It’s not all play. Willy Staples knew Norwood pretty well. And he’s a big donor for the Zeller campaign. I’m going to massage him for a little info tonight. Who knows? Maybe he’s got an inside angle.”
“You’re the best, Johnny. By the way, Freedman pulled a case. He’s at the office right now.”
McLaren looked distraught. “Does he need my help?”
“He’s doing just fine on his own. Besides, if he found out you cancelled a date with Gloria to go to work on your vacation, he’d pound you into applesauce. Have fun tonight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Well, shit, I guess miracles can happen,” Gino mused, as Johnny hurried away.
“It’s a baseball game, not a trip to the altar.”
“Same thing in my book. I took Angela to a baseball game when we were dating and I proposed two weeks later.”
“Did she accept?”
“No. It took me another year to break her down.”
“I think Johnny’s already proposed to Gloria fifty or sixty times.”
“It wouldn’t be the first marriage by attrition.”
“You’re a full-blown romantic and I never knew it.”
“Come on. Let’s see what Rosalie Norwood has to say about her break-in.”
A uniform escorted them through the front door to the living room, which was a surprise to Magozzi. The exquisite appointments and design in her parents’ home were pure Architectural Digest, no doubt conceived and executed by one of the world’s most venerated designers. Yet the place had seemed odd
ly generic in its subdued splendor.
By comparison, Rosalie’s décor was quirky and charming, and seemed very personal—there were unquestionably some very fine pieces in the room, but there were also items that were clearly of little monetary value, but of great importance in their careful placement as focal points. Not that Magozzi wasted any time thinking about interior design, but he’d made the mistake of hiring a designer a while back in an attempt to woo Grace and had learned a few things during that unfortunate experience.
Rosalie was sitting on a sofa by a fireplace, watching with dull eyes as police came and went out of her front door as if it was an everyday occurrence. Robert Zeller was sitting next to her, a watchful guardian and elder companion; Conrad was standing at attention near the back of the room, keeping his eye on Zeller and making sure none of the police were commandos in disguise, here to whack him before he got elected.
She stood eagerly when she saw them, as if she was anxious to get away from the hovering specters in her life. As a child of privilege, she’d probably had a lot of them growing up, and they were still gnawing around the edges of her life as an adult. Magozzi figured that kind of incessant hand-wringing and helicoptering could be frustrating for an independent young woman anxious to make her own mark and her own decisions.
“Detectives, I’m so glad you came. I was in my office when it happened. Let me take you there and tell you about it.”
Zeller stood too, but Rosalie gave him a fond pat on the arm. “It’s okay, Uncle Robert, I won’t be a minute, and I certainly don’t need a lawyer.”
Zeller smiled uncomfortably and sat down again on the sofa, like a very wise man who understood the prudence of acquiescence when it came to the wishes of the women in his life. “I’d like to have a word with you before you leave, Detectives.”
“We’ll find you.”
Rosalie led them to her office and settled into her desk chair. “I was right here, going through some of Trey’s old emails, when I heard the bells on my front door ring. They’re hung inside, so somebody had to be in here to make them ring that loudly. I think those bells saved me.”
