Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  She gave him a sidelong glance, tossed the bottle in the wastebasket and headed for the stairs. “I’ll shower real quick.” She sniffed and pointed to the toaster. “Toast is burning.”

  She ran upstairs, yanked off her damp clothes, turned on the water and stepped into the shower. Tried to process what Erik had suggested. He said it so casually. Was he kidding? He had to be. In the span of a few days, she couldn’t split from her husband and allow another guy to move in. She needed more time. No, she thought. He had to be kidding. She pushed her worries aside. Squirted some shampoo in her hair and scrubbed. The shower was lukewarm; she feared her hot water heater was quitting on her for good. She stayed under long enough to rinse the soap out of her hair and by the time she was finished, the spray was cold. While she was toweling off, her cell phone rang. She dropped the towel, took her bathrobe off the door hook, pulled it on and went into the bedroom. The ringing stopped. “You suck,” she said to the phone. She turned to go back to the bathroom and it started up again. She ran to the nightstand and picked it up.

  Duncan: “So what should I wear to this deal?”

  “What? What deal?”

  “This reunion deal. I’m going through my closet here and I don’t know if I have anything. Been a long time since I been out anywhere fancy.”

  Murphy sat on the edge of her bed and checked the clock on her nightstand. Still early. “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  She switched the phone to her left hand and with her right ran her fingers through her damp hair to work out the biggest knots. Stood up, walked across the bedroom, took a comb off the dresser and started dragging it through her hair. “Can we talk about it when I get to the shop?” She heard Erik coming up the stairs. “I just got out of the shower.”

  Erik reached the top of the bedroom stairs and yelled, “Come on! Omelet’s getting cold, lover.”

  Murphy set down the comb and covered her face with her right hand. Waited. Knew it was coming.

  Duncan: “That sure as shit ain’t Jack.”

  “No,” said Murphy. “It sure as shit ain’t.” Erik walked over to Murphy. Raised his brows and pointed at the phone. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and said in a low voice, “Work.” He nodded, turned, trotted back downstairs.

  Duncan was speechless on the other end and Murphy didn’t want to help him out. Wished she could see him squirming. Finally he blurted, “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t know. Since when?”

  She was going to rip into him for being nosy, then decided he’d find out eventually. “We’ll talk about it when I get in.”

  “I’m here for you, Paris.”

  “Appreciate it.” She couldn’t imagine leaning on Duncan, but knew he meant well.

  “If you need some time off or something…”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Really. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

  “I like Jack. Really do. Hope it wasn’t the job. Can be hell on a marriage. Ruined mine.”

  She opened her mouth to say it wasn’t the job, but stopped herself. The job was part of the problem, and she had to give Duncan points for recognizing it. Every cop knew their work strained their marriage, but few admitted it out loud. “It was a lot of things,” she said.

  Erik poked his head upstairs again. Murphy nodded. “I gotta go,” she said. “We’ll discuss your wardrobe for the reunion when I get there.”

  “Do I need a tux? Should I rent a tux?”

  “God no. Don’t rent or buy anything. Wait till we talk.”

  “When?”

  “An hour. Give me an hour.” She threw the phone on the end of the bed, tightened the belt around her bathrobe.

  Erik was standing at the top of the stairs with his arms folded across his chest and a spatula in one hand. “Who the fuck was that?”

  “Duncan.” She walked past him and headed down to the galley.

  He followed her. “Why in the hell is he calling so early? What’s this reunion thing?”

  The kitchen table was set. The flowers he’d given her earlier in the week were sitting in the middle. The flowers that had helped end her marriage. She picked up the vase, set it on the counter, pulled out the flowers, tossed them in the trash. She turned and saw Erik watching her. He looked hurt. “They were dying,” she mumbled, and took a seat at the table. She lowered her eyes, put a forkful of egg into her mouth. Chewed and swallowed. “Really good. Is that mint?”

  “Mint and cumin.” He took off the apron, threw it on the counter, sat down. Didn’t touch his omelet. “The reunion?”

  She took a sip of juice, wiped her mouth with the napkin. “My high school is having an all-class reunion Saturday night.”

  “Why are you taking Yo-Yo? What the hell is that about? Thought about taking me?”

  He was jealous of Duncan, and that made her smile. “I don’t know if you’d be much use to me. How good of a shot are you?”

  “What?”

  She picked up a triangle of toast and set it down again. Cold. “This is a work-related outing. Justice Trip is going to be there.”

  “Oh.” He started cutting into his omelet with his fork. “Sorry I lost it. What’s the plan?” He lifted a forkful of food into his mouth and chewed.

  “Duncan and I are going to mingle. Maybe Sweet will take me for a turn around the dance floor.”

  “Be careful.” He picked up a piece of toast, bit off a corner.

  “I dropped in on him yesterday, at the trailer park.”

  “You went by yourself?”

  “Me and my Glock,” she said. “His father was there, too. He lives with his father.”

  “His pop as creepy as he is?”

  “No, but he thinks he’s hot shit. Kept getting touchy-feely with me.”

  He threw his toast down on his plate. “Great. That’s great. You’re by yourself in this trailer park with these two creeps and one of them is a killer and the other is trying to cop a feel.”

  “Don’t pull a Jack on me, okay?”

  His eyes narrowed; he didn’t like the sound of that. “What is that? ‘Pull a Jack’?”

  “That’s where you freak out whenever I tell you about my day. Don’t do that to me. I’ll stop telling you stuff, and I don’t want to do that. I like that we talk. Jack and I couldn’t talk.”

  He picked up his fork. “Then you promise me you won’t compare me to Jack every time you turn around. I am not Jack. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she said. She took another sip of juice. Decided after his reaction to hold off on telling him about the Flintstones coffee mug. “What’s the latest on the dead folks?”

  “So far looks like the ranger got his head bashed in. My guess is the weapon of choice was a BFS.”

  “Come again?”

  “Big fucking shovel.”

  Murphy nodded, picked up her fork. “He buries Pederson. Comes across the ranger. Kills him with the same shovel he used to dig the hole.”

  “Yup.”

  “Cause of death on Pederson?”

  Erik took another bite of omelet, chewed, swallowed. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say BFT.”

  “Big fucking something.”

  “Truck. Big fucking truck. You pick up on that medical terminology real fast, woman. Want a job at the ME’s office?” He pointed his fork at her. “I got a pair of gloves with your name on them.”

  “She was run over? That’s it? Sexually assaulted first? Beaten? Any physical indications she’d done something to really piss someone off before she got nailed?”

  “Nope. In fact, I’m thinking she was passed out on the road when she was run over.”

  “Tire marks on her? Any good?”

  “Not as good as the cast from the park—and that was a partial.”

  She set her fork down and frowned. Killing four boys in high school out of anger and then running a woman over years later for no apparent reason. No pattern there. Was she wrong about Trip? Maybe he had nothing to do with the earlier crash and maybe he hit Bunny Pederson by
accident, and then took advantage of the situation to play hero. The ranger got in the way. Could it be there were no others? No. Her gut told her there was more to it.

  Erik studied her face. “Disappointed?”

  She picked up her fork. “I was hoping for an MO that might point to other murders. Signs of pent-up anger let loose. A simple hit-and-run, though. I don’t know. Wish there’d been more out of the autopsy.”

  “If Justice Trip did it, and then hid her body and planted her finger. Well. Shit. I’d hardly call that simple.” He rifled the rest of his toast in his mouth.

  “What else?” She took another bite of egg.

  He chewed, swallowed, took a sip of juice. “They found a knife near the grave.”

  “Prints?”

  “On the handle.”

  “Match the one off the shoe?”

  He nodded.

  “What kind of knife? Hunting?”

  “No. Not what you’d expect. Stiletto. Odd.”

  “I’ll show you odd.” She got up from the table and ran upstairs. She came back down with a slender volume in her hands. She sat down at the table, opened it and slid it over to Erik. “Check this out,” she said, pointing to a photo.

  He looked at where she was pointing. A yearbook picture of a kid with black hair and dark eyes. Under the mug shot: Justice Franklin Trip. “Sweet.” “Trippy.” Ambition: to move back to Memphis. Likes heavy metal… working on trucks… collecting knives. Remembered for blushing a lot, being the tallest kid in school.

  “Collects knives,” said Erik. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I got a gander at that knife collection yesterday. His bedroom is a sword museum or something. And the way he behaved. His dad gave me a tour of their trailer and Sweet was on edge the whole time. He’s hiding something in that mobile home. I’m sure of it.” She closed the yearbook. “That tire tread from the park and the fingerprints. Can you get me copies real quick?”

  Erik cut off another wedge of omelet and jabbed it with his fork. “On the sly maybe. Winter is being a prick about releasing info, even to other agencies. Yo-Yo really pissed him off.” He popped the egg into his mouth, chewed.

  “Yeah. Duncan.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin, stood up and took her plate over to the sink. “I better get to the cop shop before he does something goofy, like buys a tux for this reunion thing.”

  Erik stood up with his plate. “I’ll say it again. Be careful.”

  She scraped the scraps into the trash. “I can handle Sweet.”

  Erik opened the dishwasher. “I’m talking about Yo-Yo.”

  She stopped scraping. Set the plate on the counter. “Give me a break.”

  “You think I’m kidding?” Erik started loading the dishwasher.

  She walked to the table to retrieve the dirty glasses and silverware. “Duncan’s goofy; I’ll give you that. But he’s got an honest heart. I really believe that.”

  Erik pulled the box of soap from under the sink and filled the dispenser in the dishwasher. “The guy’s legendary. He lived on the street for years. The junkies were afraid of him. He’s a fucking wild man.”

  She stopped in the middle of the kitchen with a fistful of silverware. “Then why did they put him in charge of Homicide? Why’s he a commander?”

  Erik pulled the silverware out of her hands and dropped them in the dishwasher basket. “You got me. Maybe Christianson doesn’t give a shit anymore because he’s on his way out. Maybe he needed to rein in the wacko before he turned into a real PR nightmare. I hear by the time they took him off the streets, he was shooting up. Mainlining serious shit.”

  Murphy handed him a couple of dirty glasses. Recalled Duncan pulling off his shirt. She would have noticed needle tracks. All she saw was an athletic body. No. She didn’t believe it. “You’re full of shit,” she said.

  Erik set the glasses in the dishwasher, shut the door, and glared at her. “I don’t like how you’re Yo-Yo’s big defender all of a sudden. What’s up with that? You don’t even call him Yo-Yo anymore. It’s ‘Duncan this’ and ‘Duncan that,’ and frankly I don’t like it.”

  She smiled wickedly. “He is hot. I especially like the way he dresses. That ‘slept-in’ look really turns my crank.”

  “Fine. Make fun. Don’t blame me when Yo-Yo gets the both of you tangled in some big fucking mess.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  NO WAY. CAN’T be true, she thought. While driving to work later that morning, she mulled over what Erik had said and wanted to dismiss it as jealousy. Duncan was odd, but he was also a good cop. She’d worked with him a couple of times back when she was in Vice. He’d received more medals and commendations than anyone else on the force. Taken more dealers off the street than anyone else. She turned into the cop shop parking lot, shut off the Jeep and dropped the keys in her purse. Glanced at the Glock in her bag. Thought about Saturday night. Duncan also had more kills than anyone else on the force, but not all of them were clean. A few years back, Duncan had had a midnight meeting with a dealer in a downtown apartment. The guy smelled a bust and fled the building before Duncan came up. Duncan saw him running down the sidewalk and shot him. He said the dealer had pulled a gun on him. No weapon was found. Only a lighter, and it was still in the guy’s pocket. Duncan concocted some bullshit story that the piece had tumbled down the sewer. Internal affairs and the police-civilian review panel bought it and nobody questioned their findings. Nobody cared. The lone ranger had blown away another bad guy. Murphy closed her purse, stepped out of the Jeep, slammed the door and walked to the shop. Decided she’d have to go over Saturday night’s plan in detail with Duncan. She was worried about more than his wardrobe.

  She didn’t bother tossing her purse and jacket on her desk. She walked through Homicide and into Duncan’s office. He was getting in himself. Draping his suit coat over the back of his chair. Underneath, his usual rumpled shirt and crooked tie. The tie was out of season; it was decorated with Christmas trees and holly leaves. At least he’d stopped throwing his blazer on the floor.

  “Hey, Murphy.” He pulled at the tie like it was choking him, loosened it and then took it off. Curled his upper lip and dropped the tie on top of his desk in disgust, like it was a moldy sandwich. He pointed to the chair across from his desk. “Take a load off.” He noticed her hands were empty. “Coffee?” He jogged out of his office before she could answer and returned with two foam cups. Set one down on his desk and handed her one. “Black okay?”

  She took it. “Thanks.” She set hers down on the edge of his desk. “Let’s talk,” she said. He watched her while she turned and closed his office door. Even though there were no other detectives in yet, they could be walking in any minute and she didn’t want them to overhear her concerns about working with Duncan. He was having enough problems with his credibility in Homicide. She pulled off her jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Set her purse down on the floor and sat down. Picked up the coffee cup and sipped.

  He lowered himself into his chair and clasped his hands together, resting them on top of his desk. His face took on a serious expression. Furrowed brows and down-turned mouth. He spoke in a low voice. A priest offering counseling to a penitent. “I’m glad you feel comfortable coming to me, Paris. Like I said, I know the stress this job can place on a marriage. Have you talked to a shrink? I’m pretty sure our medical covers it. Nothing to be ashamed of. They tried to set me up with one once or twice. I didn’t go, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

  She set the cup down. Held up both palms defensively. “Stop. That is not what this is about. I appreciate it, but I can handle everything on the home front.”

  He smiled grimly and nodded. “That’s what I thought. Then I come home one night and all the furniture is gone and so is the wife.” He picked up his cup and sipped.

  “Saturday night,” she said.

  His eyes lit up. The priest was elbowed aside by the excited boy. “Yeah. Saturday.” He leaned forward. “Sure this Trip is going to be there?”


  “Took an invitation to him yesterday afternoon. Visited him at the family estate. Lives in a trailer park on the north side of town with his dad.”

  “How’d that go? What’d you see? Anything sound an alarm?”

  “Sweet was nervous as hell. All he wanted to do was get me out of there. Meantime, his creepy dad is giving me the grand tour of the place and hitting on me at the same time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Sweet’s bedroom took the prize. Enough knives and daggers and swords to outfit an army.”

  “This dude’s gotta be the killer.”

  “He’s been a killer going back to high school.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She took a breath. She didn’t know it would be so hard to talk about it. “He served me tea from this coffee mug. When I was in high school, I gave the mug to this kid. My boyfriend. Denny.” She took another breath. “Denny and three of his buddies died in a car wreck. Lost control and flew into a lake. The only way Trip could have the mug is if he stole it from the car right before the accident.”

  Duncan’s eyes widened. “Am I understanding you right?”

  “I’m thinking the accident wasn’t an accident. Sweet messed with the car so it would crash. Fucked up the brakes or the steering or something.”

  “Why would Sweetie take the mug? A sick souvenir?”

  “Maybe. More likely he stole the mug because it was filled with change.” She sipped her coffee. “One thing I don’t get. Why was he stupid enough to serve me tea in the mug?”

  “Did he know you gave your boyfriend the mug?”

  “No.”

  “Then he didn’t know it was a big deal. Plus he probably had it sitting around his house so long, he forgot where he got it from.”

  “Sweet remembered Denny liked cartoons. He made a crack about it in Moose Lake.”

  “Just because a guy remembers a goofy fact doesn’t mean he remembers how he acquired that fact in the first place. Hell. I’m a font of useless information. I have no idea why I know certain shit.”