I said, “That’s why Matt was so angry when Jacob showed up at the party.”
Lori nodded.
“So why did he?” I asked, the obvious suddenly occurring to me. “Why did Jacob show up that night?”
“I don’t know,” Lori said.
“Really?”
“I have no idea. None of us did.”
“Jacob came to Matt’s party, knowing full well he probably wasn’t welcome there,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lori said.
Jacob had to have been there for some reason, especially if he wasn’t dealing that night. The only thing connecting him to the party was Matt, and the only thing connecting them was Gridley. Had Gridley sent Jacob? If so, why?
Only one thing was certain. Jacob’s presence at the party had apparently attracted the attention of the Fourth Street Posse. Of “Ryan.” Maybe not happy he was on their turf. Been keeping their eye out for him. Word gets around. But had the warning they’d given him, that Ryan had given him, ended with whatever confrontation Helen had heard about? Or had the threat to Jacob gone farther? Had it somehow included the arson fire?
“One other question,” I said.
“OK,” Lori said.
“You had some papers of Matt’s.”
She nodded.
“Helen told you she shared them with me? After you gave them to her?”
“Yes.”
“There was a document in there, related to Matt’s research with Professor Gridley.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
I took the log out and slid it across the table. Crenshaw snatched it up, examined it, then placed it front of Lori. Helen leaned over, took a look.
“Any idea where Matt got that from?” I said.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Although her eyes said differently.
“You’re sure about that.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Crenshaw. She looked at me. I looked at Lori, then back to Crenshaw. And nodded.
“Thank you,” Crenshaw said. “We’re done here.”
34
“She knows something about that document,” I said, when Crenshaw and I were alone.
“I don’t disagree,” she said. “But what’s its relevance?”
“What I was hoping Lori could tell me.”
“Her right not to,” she said. “She gave you plenty about Dunning and this professor.”
“Yes, she did.”
“So was there anything else?”
“Any chance I could talk to her alone? Without her mom there?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I bent the rules for you far enough and because I said so.”
I thought of some retorts. Reminded myself I’d given up pissing off trial attorneys for Lent.
“Different question, then.”
“Make it quick.”
“Dorothy Custer.”
“What about her?”
“You’ve made two different references to her not being worth it financially to go after.”
“So?”
“So her late husband published a best-selling history book that’s been optioned as a movie. I’m not saying she’s Gloria Vanderbilt. But she ought to be semi-flush. Right?”
Crenshaw didn’t respond. I thought about the bounced check. The apologies. The vague references to automatic payments and the bother of online banking.
I said, “I’m just wondering if you know something you could share with me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you,” she said.
“We’re on the same side. You know that, right?”
“What?”
“We both want justice from this case.”
“Spare me.”
“You’ve got your way, I’ve got mine. Same church, different pews.”
“Not how I see it.”
“Simple question. About Dorothy.”
“Same answer.”
“What if I told you there was another angle?”
“Angle?”
“About the smoke detectors.”
“Like what?”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my e-mail until I found the message Whitestone had sent me that morning. After my question about the smoke detector batteries had gotten the better of him. I tapped “Forward,” entered Crenshaw’s e-mail address, pressed “Send.”
I said, “Like with the smoke detectors.”
“I’d say you were bullshitting me.”
“What if I weren’t?”
“Fat chance of that.”
“Humor me. Check your e-mail.”
“Why?”
“I give you something decent, you trade me for it?”
“Like what?”
“Like whatever it is you seem to know about Dorothy Custer’s bank account.”
She stared at me. “Are you saying you really have something?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“All right,” she said. “I’d consider it. Satisfied?”
“There now. Wasn’t that easy?”
“Nothing’s easy with you.”
“You still haven’t checked your e-mail.”
She dug out her phone, scrolled through messages. Looked at the information from Whitestone. About the batteries.
She placed both hands on the table and let out a breath.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go back to my office.”
35
Pete Henderson was adamant when he reached me three minutes later as I walked down Third toward home, thinking about what Crenshaw had just told me.
“What’s so important we have to meet in person?” I said, nearly to St. Mary’s Catholic Church.
“The NSA might be listening in.”
“That’s you guys.”
“I wish. Same place as before?”
“You aren’t worried the trees are bugged?”
“Twenty minutes?”
I agreed and picked up my pace.
Unlike my recent drive to campus, it really was a direct route to maneuver over to Front Street from my house to Marconi Boulevard and the little park outside the courthouse. As a result I didn’t feel too bad as I passed the Neil House Inn, slowed to almost a stop, looked into the parking garage and then the drop-off area, before continuing on. Nothing. The realist in me had started to wonder if maybe I was imagining things. That there was another explanation. The skeptic in me knew that if I were Murphy and I had even the slightest inkling I’d been seen, I’d be extra careful.
There was something different about Henderson’s expression when he walked up to me a few minutes later.
“I heard you had an interesting Sunday morning.”
“Fancy that.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Speaking of the NSA, mind if I ask how you heard about it? Wasn’t exactly broadcast widely.”
“Little bird,” he said. “You know how it is.”
“I know little birds used to die in caves from breathing carbon monoxide.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I need anthracite,” Henderson said. “In the meantime, any connection to what we were talking about the other day?”
“What do you mean?”
“Fourth Street Posse. Orton Avenue is right on the edge of their territory.”
“You’re the one who told me not to get hung up on their name.”
“Work with me for a minute.”
“You asking if I think a gang banger torched my van?”
“Something like that.”
I thought of Peirce, watching my house. About Dickinson’s text that morning.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I have an alternate suspect in mind.”
“Who?”
“Someone not related to a violent drug gang.”
“Why would they torch your van?”
; “To make a point.”
“About what?”
“Has to do with a job offer.”
“Interesting recruiting technique.”
“I’ve seen worse,” I said. “Why am I talking to you again?”
“Ever hear of a guy named Richard Ronnell?”
“No.”
“Dealer with the posse. And part-time enforcer. Father was in the gang in the nineties. Uncle too.”
“All in the family?”
“Ronnell was around for a while. Back at the time of the fire. Then he disappeared. We think he was in Detroit. Now he’s back.”
“OK.”
“He’s got a nickname.”
“Which is?”
“Run-Run.”
“Run-Run?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“He ran fast as a kid. Back then he was good at running away from his grandmother. Now he runs fast from street corners where someone’s got a bullet in his head.”
“Not seeing your point.”
“We’re picking up chatter about things happening in neighborhoods controlled by the Fourth Street Posse. And Run-Run’s name keeps coming up.”
“OK.”
“Run-Run. Similar to Ryan, don’t you think? If you heard it at a crowded party. And maybe you’d had too much to drink or smoke?”
“Ryan,” I said.
“Ryan. Run-Run.”
I thought about my meeting with Lori Hume that morning. About Jacob Dunning and Gridley. Gridley’s wife and medical marijuana.
I decided to tell him what I knew.
“Ronnell threatens Jacob Dunning at the party,” Henderson said when I finished. “Maybe comes back later to drive home the point?”
“Maybe. But like you said, what would he care about a kid selling pot?”
“Unless Dunning had upped his game.”
“Any evidence of that?”
“No. But worth thinking about.”
Henderson reached into a briefcase, pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Run-Run,” he said, handing it to me.
I stared at the face. Cold, hard eyes, hint of a smirk. Scar on his right cheek like a thin band of badly folded clay. Not someone you’d take lightly. Something in his expression reminded me of Peirce.
“When was this taken?”
“Couple years ago.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Familiarize yourself with his face so you can avoid him at all costs.”
36
The information Crenshaw passed on to me about Dorothy Custer inspired a call to Karen Feinberg, who was more than happy to talk to me as long as it wasn’t about Aaron Custer or Buddy “Killer” Keeler or any of the other sick motherfuckers (her word) she numbered among her clientele. She gave me Gabby’s number, whose office I called in due course, asking for some help. She agreed to look into the matter I brought to her.
On a lark, I texted D. B. Chambers to see if he’d been heading to work Sunday morning and noticed anything unusual in the neighborhood. Silence ensued. I was circling back home when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, nor the woman’s voice on the other end, quiet and maybe a little scared.
“Are you the guy who was at Pendergrass the other day? Asking about Kim McDowell?”
“That’s right. Can you speak up a little?”
“Sorry,” she said. A little louder: “I’m the receptionist. Out front.”
“Orange glasses,” I said. “I remember.”
“I was wondering if we could meet. If I could talk to you.”
“I suppose. You didn’t seem thrilled to see me the other day.”
“It won’t take long.”
“Did you want me to come over there?”
“No. Not at Pendergrass.”
“Drink? After work?”
“Tonight’s not great. Maybe before work? Do you eat breakfast?”
“As often as possible.”
After we made the arrangements, I said, “Mind if I ask what you want to talk about?”
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We met at a café on Pennsylvania Street in Harrison West, a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood not far from Pendergrass. Her name was Melissa Kramer. She didn’t look icy, as she had the other day. She looked miserable.
“We’ve been instructed not to talk to anybody about Kim,” she said. “I could be in big trouble just meeting you.”
“Why?”
“Kim’s death is off limits. You stirred up a lot of people the other day.”
“Good to hear. So why’d you call, if this is so hush-hush?”
“Kim was my friend,” she said. “It seemed like you knew something about her. About what happened.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The way Leif reacted to you.”
“Leif?”
She blushed. “Sorry. Erik. Erik Petersson. We call him Leif, like Leif Erikson? The explorer? Please don’t tell him I said that. That could definitely cost me my job.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“They were always super-secretive about what happened to Kim. Like it was this big deal to do with Pendergrass. Like it was about them, not her.”
“There were rumors of corporate espionage,” I said.
She nodded. “There’s always been a suggestion it wasn’t as clear-cut as a burglary.”
“You mean like somebody else killed her? Besides Buddy Keeler?”
“There was talk she was working on something that couldn’t be found after her death. And people thought it was suspicious.”
“Something like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“She never mentioned it?”
“We didn’t talk much about work. We went out a couple of times, had some drinks. She was pretty private. But then, when you were here, I saw you show Petersson something. Something that got a reaction.”
“It’s a log of some kind,” I said. “That’s what he called it.”
“Where did you get it from?”
“I can’t tell you that right now. But it might be part of a case I’m working on.”
“What kind of case?” I told her the basics about Aaron Custer.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What would that fire have to do with Kim?”
“I’m not sure it has anything to do with Kim,” I said. “But that log, or document, or whatever it is, turned up as part of what I’m looking into. That’s why I asked Petersson about it.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
“He didn’t tell you what it was?”
“No. And I didn’t give it to him, either. It meant something to him, though. I’m just not sure what.”
“They’re very guarded.”
“Why?”
“Pendergrass is a private company. We may look like a university to outsiders. But we’re a business.”
“And businesses keep secrets.”
“Everybody keeps secrets,” she said. “Ours just carry a price tag. We have millions of dollars in contracts.”
“Kim’s field,” I said. “Clean coal technology?”
She nodded. “Carbon sequestration. Big deal right now.” She looked at me. “Are you saying it’s related to that?”
“I don’t know. It’s a thought.”
She picked at her breakfast burrito. Ate a bite. Continued to look miserable.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” I said.
She shook her head.
“Was Kim seeing someone? Before she died?”
She didn’t answer right away. Moved some food around her plate.
“I think so.”
“Think?”
“Like I said, she was a private person. She’d listen to me complain about my boyfriend all night. But she didn’t share a lot back.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“Not really. Seemed like something she
wanted kept a secret.”
“Was it possible he was married? Is that why she didn’t talk about it?”
“Do you know something? Know who it was?”
“I have some ideas,” I said.
“Who?”
I told her my suspicions, in confidence. Couldn’t see any reason not to.
“You said they were on that panel together? In Dallas?”
“That’s right.”
“That would make sense.”
“Why?”
“She seemed preoccupied after she came back. Now that I think about it, it’s around the time she started dropping hints.”
“She never used his name?”
She shook her head. “You don’t think he had something to do with, you know, killing her?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t seem the murderous sort.” I thought about Karen Feinberg’s courthouse syllogism. Just because someone’s a screwed-up motherfucker means they probably did do it. “Sometimes that means something, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“What about the guy they arrested for it?”
“Strong possibility, little I know of him. Career criminal. Not a violent past, but burglaries have been known to go bad when someone’s unexpectedly at home. No question he was in the apartment. They matched his prints once they arrested him and he had some of Kim’s things.”
“It’s so horrible.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do? About Kim? And the document?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s even related to Aaron Custer, which is who I really need to focus on.” I had a thought. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance you could show it to someone at Pendergrass?”
“I can’t risk it,” she said. “I’m sorry. Kim was the only researcher I really knew. And if word got back to Leif . . .”
“Understood,” I said. “Vikings—very volatile.”
She smiled at the joke. But it was a sad smile. Definitely sad.
37
The café was around the corner from Pendergrass, and the research institute was not far from the coroner’s office, and that’s where I ended up a few minutes later, thinking about my conversation with Melissa Kramer. George Huntington didn’t seem all that surprised to see me, until he found out I wasn’t there about the fire.
Slow Burn Page 16
