Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  “Will do.”

  Before she has a chance to expound any more, I say, “Thanks. You’re a doll.” And then I disconnect the call.

  “She’s a chatty one,” Hurley says with a smile.

  “That she is. But she’s been a great addition to the staff. She’s smart, she’s a hard worker, and she and Arnie seem to be hitting it off quite well. Now that he’s got a romantic interest in his life, he’s backed off on some of his conspiracy mania. Either that or he’s venting it all on Laura.”

  “We might have a new problem,” Hurley says, “I’ve heard Jonas has taken a liking to Laura, too.”

  “Really? That could get sticky. And speaking of sticky, Arnie said that black hair I found on the feather end of the arrow that killed Lars is a cat hair. He said there isn’t enough to get nuclear DNA but at least it’s something.”

  “I don’t know,” Hurley says, sounding glum. “It could have come from anywhere. It might have been on Lars when he got to the woods.”

  “But he doesn’t have any cats.”

  “He doesn’t need to. All he has to do is know someone who has a cat, or visit a place that has a cat, or sleep with a woman who has a cat,” he says with an arch of his brows. “Cat hair adheres very easily. Heck, you could have brought it to the crime scene. Your cat, Tux, has black fur.”

  “Yes, he does, but this hair was under some dried blood so it didn’t come from me. Though Judy Bennett did mention having some cats.”

  “Point is, it’s of minimal evidentiary value.”

  “Okay, but if we come across a potential suspect who has a cat with black fur, it might give us a reason to probe a little deeper.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We arrive at the address Judy gave us for Reece’s place of business. It’s also his home. Apparently he doesn’t feel the need to have an “official” office the way Lars did. The house is in a ritzier section of town, one with pricey residences that serve as homes to doctors, lawyers, dentists, and the like. David and I almost bought a house in the neighborhood back when we first got married, but we opted instead for a more spacious and secluded property on the edge of town. The homes here are palatial, but they are also crammed surprisingly close together because they are situated on long, narrow lots that back onto a wetland area.

  Hurley pulls into the circular driveway and parks in front of the house. It’s a two-story brick building, with big arched windows in front and a wide, stone staircase leading up to the front door. Apparently Reece isn’t afraid to impress his clients. Understandable, since he no doubt considered himself part of the Good Old Boy network prior to Lars coming to town.

  The sun is out and the sky is a brilliant blue that mirrors Hurley’s eyes, but it’s a deceptive setting because the temperature has dropped since this morning. Our breath as we climb the front steps creates clouds of mist. Hurley makes use of a heavy iron door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. There’s a doorbell, too, and for good measure I push it. Hurley shoots me an annoyed look, as if he is taking my use of the doorbell as a personal affront.

  A minute or so passes, and I’m beginning to think no one is going to answer when the door is yanked open. The man on the other side is short—barely five-five if that—and balding, though he has stubbornly hung on to a friar’s ring of hair. He looks to be in his mid- to late-fifties.

  “I don’t want whatever crap you’re selling,” he says with obvious irritation. Before we can say a word he adds, “And a bit of advice. Knock or ring the doorbell, but don’t do both. All it does is piss people off.” He starts to shut the door in our faces but Hurley throws a hand out and stops him, pushing the door back open while he fishes out his badge.

  “Reece Morton, I’m Detective Hurley with the Sorenson PD and this is Mattie Winston with the ME’s office. We need to speak with you.”

  “About what?” Morton is clearly not intimidated by our credentials. Both his frown and the irritation in his voice have deepened, and he takes a harried glance at his watch, letting us know that we are impinging on his time.

  Hurley gets straight to the point. “About the murder of Lars Sanderson.”

  “Somebody killed Lars?” Morton doesn’t look surprised.

  “Yes, this morning,” Hurley says.

  “Well, boo-hoo and all that, but what the hell do you think I would know about it?”

  “Clearly there is no love lost between the two of you,” I say.

  “Brilliant deduction,” Morton says with obvious arrogance. The man’s rude behavior is grating and it’s all I can do to keep myself from biting his head off. I mean that metaphorically, but a vision pops into my mind of me snapping forth like some human-snake mutation freak and literally biting his head off. It’s a vivid image that makes me shudder.

  I realize then that Morton is ogling my chest, which is right at eye level for him. Hurley sees it too, and snaps his fingers in front of the guy’s face and says, “Hey, eyes over here.”

  Morton slowly shifts his gaze with a lecherous little grin. “You got a stake in this one?” he says, nodding his head toward me.

  Hurley’s face is turning beet red and I sense he is about to explode. Reece Morton knows how to push buttons and obviously isn’t afraid to do so. Short man syndrome, I figure. Why else would a man his size intentionally try to tick off two people who could sit on him and squash him like the little bug he is?

  “Perhaps you’d prefer to come down to the station to chat,” Hurley says, his ire barely contained. He glares at Morton who glares back for several seconds. Then Morton’s common sense—or perhaps some survival instinct—kicks in. He steps aside and waves a hand by his side. “Come on in,” he says. “Though I have to tell you it’s a big waste of time.”

  We follow him inside and into a great room that makes me feel like I’ve entered a big city’s men’s club from the fifties. The walls are paneled in a faux mahogany color and the furnishings are leather and walnut, which would give the room a gloomy feel if not for the many colorful, bright, stained-glass lamps. There is wall-to-wall carpeting in a standard beige tone, and it looks well trampled as if it’s been there for years. A heavy scent of stale cigar smoke hangs in the air.

  “Sit,” Morton says, like he’s commanding a dog. He doesn’t indicate where, or look to see if we follow his directions, which we don’t. Hurley stops in the middle of the room and just stands there. I, the ever dutiful woman, stand by his side. Morton heads for a wet bar in the corner and after scooping some ice into a glass, he proceeds to pour himself a hefty three or four fingers of scotch. When he finally turns around, he shows no surprise at our stance. With a polite smile—the first sign of civility he’s displayed—he asks if we would like a drink.

  Hurley doesn’t answer. He is glaring, shooting death rays at the man. I shake my head.

  “I understand that you and Lars were business competitors,” Hurley says.

  Morton snorts a laugh. “I suppose you could say that, though Lars isn’t much competition. He’s a fly-by-night, hit-and-run type of developer. Those types never last long. The man was on the way down. He just didn’t know it yet.”

  Morton’s obvious disdain for Lars seems like a stupid thing to display, even if he’s telling us the truth when he says he knows nothing about the man’s murder.

  “Are you a hunter?” Hurley asks.

  “Of course,” Morton says. “It’s a rite of passage here in Wisconsin.”

  “Have you been out this season?”

  “Sure. I was out yesterday, in fact.”

  “How about today?” Hurley asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you ever hunt with a bow and arrow?”

  “You mean like Cupid?” Morton says with a greasy smile. He looks over at me and winks before turning back to Hurley. “Are you two an item?” he asks, nodding in my direction. “Because if your partner here is available I’d love to show her a good time.”

  I can’t hold back my laugh. It rolls out of me before I realize wh
at’s happening. Apparently, it’s a reaction Reece has received one too many times. His expression shifts with the suddenness of a thrown light switch. The smile is gone and he’s no longer eyeing me with desire. Now it’s something more akin to hate, and at the moment it’s not hard to imagine Reece Morton as a killer. The ice in his glass tinkles and I see that his hand is shaking slightly. Anger, nerves, or something else?

  “Mr. Morton,” Hurley says in a stern voice, “can you please answer my question? Do you ever hunt with a bow and arrow?”

  “I’ve tried it a time or two,” he says with a shrug. “These days I prefer a rifle.”

  “Can you account for your whereabouts this morning between the hours of five and eight?”

  “I was here.”

  “Can anyone verify that?” I ask. “Like a girlfriend perhaps?” I add in a slightly taunting tone.

  The glare returns and after several seconds of silence, he says, “No. I was alone.” Then with a slight sneer he adds, “By choice.” He takes a big gulp of his drink and then sets the glass aside with a trembling hand.

  “Rumor has it that you and Mr. Sanderson didn’t get along,” Hurley says.

  Morton’s glare lingers on me for a few more seconds before he slowly shifts his gaze back to Hurley. “We have a healthy competition between us.”

  “I’ve heard it hasn’t been so healthy for you,” Hurley says. “I’ve heard that Lars has been moving in on your old connections and schmoozing with a lot of the power people. Rumor has it he’s managed to take away a lot of your business.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Morton grumbles. “Yes, Sanderson managed to secure a couple of projects that I bid on as well, but his utter disregard for the culture and atmosphere of our city, as well as his lack of empathy for our ailing farm community has garnered him a bunch of unhappy patrons and opinions. Like I said before, his days are numbered.” A pregnant pause follows and Morton seems to realize what he’s just said, and the context in which he said it. “I meant business-wise, of course,” he adds by way of explanation.

  “It sounds like you had something more serious in mind,” Hurley says. “We heard you and Sanderson had a bit of a tiff at the Nowhere Bar recently and you made some comments to him about how you were going to stop him, whatever it took.”

  Morton frowns, and then he stalls by picking up his scotch again and taking a long slow drink. His hand is shaking and it makes me wonder why he’s so nervous. “It’s true,” he says finally, again setting the glass down. “We did exchange a few heated words at the bar, but it was nothing more than verbal sparring. I admit I was annoyed that he and the mayor seemed to be dealing with one another on a new project that’s in the plans, but I’ve since learned that Lars has been blacklisted by the farmer who sold the land. Apparently when he sold it, he did so with the caveat that he would have a say in what sort of development would go in there and who would design it and do the work. And Lars hasn’t earned himself any friends in the farming community around here.”

  My phone vibrates while Morton is talking and I take it out of my purse and glance at it. It’s a text message from Laura, giving me a link to a recent lawsuit between Morton and Lars. “Mr. Morton, what is the basis of the lawsuit you filed against Lars Sanderson earlier this year?” I ask.

  Morton’s smug expression falters for a second or two, but he recovers quickly. “It was a countersuit for a nuisance suit he brought against me claiming unfair business practices. He’s burned too many bridges in these parts and now he’s desperate and grasping at any straw he can to try to steal some work. There was no basis to the suit and the court dismissed it.”

  Based on Laura’s message, what Reece just said is true; the case was dismissed. I make a mental note to read the details of the case later as my phone buzzes again with another text message from Laura. The link she includes this time takes me to a Web site that makes Reece Morton look a whole lot more interesting as a suspect.

  Chapter 9

  I nudge Hurley and show him the Web page. He arches one eyebrow as Morton watches us, his hands trembling. He grabs his glass and takes another gulp, then sets it aside and clasps his hands in his lap, I assume in an effort to make them quit shaking.

  Hurley’s next comments come with a steely edge in his voice. “Mr. Morton, you own a bow. I need to see it and any arrows you have please.”

  “Why?”

  “Can you please get the bow?” Hurley says, ignoring Morton’s counter-question.

  Morton puffs himself up to his max height, which is still only about shoulder height on Hurley. He takes a step back, too, distancing himself and lowering the incline of his neck as he looks Hurley in the eye. “It’s not here. I told you, I prefer to use a rifle these days.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I keep my archery equipment in a storage unit over on Palmer.”

  “Then it looks like we’re going for a ride.”

  Morton is clearly not happy about this development. “Why are you interested in my bow? I haven’t used it in months.”

  “You participate in competitions with it, don’t you?” Hurley asks. “We found some online articles about tournaments you’ve been in, several of which you won.”

  “I used to compete but I haven’t for at least a year now. And I still don’t see what it has to do with anything.”

  “Humor me,” Hurley says with a decided lack of humor.

  Morton stands there a moment, weighing his options.

  “I don’t have all day,” Hurley says.

  “Yeah, okay,” Morton says finally, punctuating it with a resigned sigh. “Let me get my coat.”

  We allow Morton to drive his own car—a Beemer—to the storage site. Once there, we follow him down a row of units, stopping near the far end. He doesn’t get out right away, and I can see him sitting in his car talking. Either he’s on the phone with someone, or he’s having a lively discussion with himself.

  We get out, and Hurley grabs the video camera and turns it on. He was Charlie’s first student when she came here last spring to train everyone on the filming techniques. I haven’t had the chance to be subject to Charlie’s tutoring yet, though the plan is for me to be trained as well. But I’ve been practicing with a video camera that Hurley bought me for my birthday, using Matthew as my main subject. Hurley hands me the camera and says, “Get this, will you?”

  Morton finally gets out of his car without a word or a glance in our direction and I follow him with the camera. He looks perturbed and impatient, and I wonder if his annoyance is with us or whoever he was talking to in his car, assuming he was on the phone. His hands are trembling as he grabs the combination lock and starts turning the dials. It takes him several tries—enough so that I start to wonder if he’s purposely stalling—before he is able to open the lock. His demeanor does a one-eighty once he rolls up the garage-type door.

  Aside from a few stray pieces of hay the unit is empty.

  Morton stands at the entrance staring into the concrete room with a puzzled expression. “What the hell. . . .” he mutters.

  Hurley and I exchange a look, and I know that Morton’s day is about to get a whole lot worse. He looks genuinely shocked by the empty unit, but it could be an act. If he’d known all along that the thing was empty, he had the ride over here to prepare his reaction.

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “I had a bunch of stuff in here . . . my bow, quiver, arrows, targets, some hay bales, my gloves . . . all of my archery equipment.”

  “So where is it?” Hurley asks. It’s obvious his patience is wearing thin.

  “Wish the hell I knew,” Morton says. He turns and stares into the unit again, as if hoping to discover this is a dream, or a magic trick of some sort. Then he shakes his head. When he turns back to us, he looks angry.

  “Who would know the combination on that lock you had on the door?” Hurley asks. I’m not sure if he’s giving Morton the benefit of the doubt, or if he’s merely trying to keep him talking a little longer t
o see if he will eventually say something leading, or even better, incriminating.

  Morton runs a shaky hand over his head and stares at the ground. “I have no idea.”

  “Did you set the combination yourself, or did it come preset?”

  “I set it,” he says. He gives us a sheepish look. “I was born on April ninth, 1962, so I set if for four, nine, six, two.”

  “You used your birthday?” Hurley says in a tone of disbelief. He sighs and shakes his head. “That seems like an amateur move for a savvy business guy like you.”

  Morton scowls and for a second he looks like he’s about to make a snappy comeback, but then his expression morphs into one of embarrassment instead, and he clamps his mouth shut.

  “Mr. Morton, we need to find your archery equipment. Can we go back to your house and look?”

  “It’s not there,” he insists.

  “I’d like to make that determination for myself.”

  Morton frowns and I can tell he doesn’t want us going back to his house.

  “If you don’t want to cooperate I can get a search warrant,” Hurley adds. Morton’s face lights up at this suggestion, I suspect because he thinks it will delay things, but then Hurley adds, “And in the meantime, you can come down to the station so we can talk some more.”

  Morton hesitates, but his indecision is short-lived. He glances at his watch and says, “I have an important meeting at three this afternoon. If I let you go look through my house now, will you leave me be so I can keep my appointment?”

  “Depends on what we find,” Hurley says. “If you’re certain your archery equipment isn’t in the house, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Something about this whole setup is bothering me, and I decide now is the time to bring it up. Still running the camera, I say, “Mr. Morton, I’m curious about something. Your house is quite large and I saw that you have a shed in your backyard. With all that room, why would you rent a storage facility for your archery equipment? Why not just keep it on the premises somewhere? Surely you must have plenty of storage space there.”