Fractures: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  Ryan rang the bell. A few seconds later, a fifty-year-old Hispanic woman wearing a housekeeper’s uniform opened the door. “Are you detectives?” she said in a thin, reedy voice.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re here to see Ms. Rossman.”

  “Here, please,” she said, inviting us into the foyer. “I get her.” She turned and walked down the hallway, the light streaming in through the glass walls overlooking the reservoir.

  “You ever seen a place like this?” I said as we looked out over the rock face and the gray-green water rippled by the winds.

  Ryan shook his head. “I need to log more overtime.”

  I turned as I heard footsteps approaching from the interior of the house.

  “Detective Seagate?” Florence Rossman said, giving me a wide, friendly smile. Except for the crow’s feet around her wide-set gray eyes, I would have put her at thirty-five. She was my height, about five-ten, with long, fine chestnut hair tied back. She wore a beige linen no-close jacket with turnback cuffs. A white silk V-neck blouse and a string of what looked like real pearls. Pearl earrings. Chocolate linen wide-leg pants and beige suede flats that matched her jacket.

  I wondered if I’d mistakenly told her I was from Vogue and my photographer and I would be stopping by for a shoot. She extended her right hand, a couple of thin gold bracelets jangling lightly.

  “Detective Karen Seagate,” I said as we shook hands. “This is my partner, Detective Ryan Miner.” The two of them shook.

  “Shall we?” she said, turning to head into the main part of the house.

  “That would be lovely,” I said, stupidly. The “shall” threw me off. I was trying to remember when I last heard someone say it. I wasn’t sure, but I think I was looking forward to my first training bra.

  I felt a little wobbly as I followed her along the glass wall. The floor was polished concrete, but being a few hundred feet over the ground, high enough to touch the clouds and the brown hawk gliding past the windows on an updraft, was disconcerting.

  Florence Rossman looked back at me and smiled. “It takes a little getting used to,” she said as we passed the kitchen and dining area and entered the great room. “Follow me.” She slid one of the glass doors open and walked out onto the deck.

  It took me a few seconds to see the clear plastic posts and railings that were the only barrier that would keep you from walking right off the deck. The wind whistled, and the strip of turbulent white water feeding the river from the edge of the reservoir produced a faint hum. The tiny automobiles on the two-lane below were silent.

  “When Lee and I saw this, we knew we had to build here.”

  “It’s really something,” I said.

  She let us stand silently there for a half-minute. “Let’s go back inside,” she said.

  The great room was full of brown leather couches, loveseats, and arm chairs arranged into three sitting areas. The hill side of the wall was filled with built-in red oak bookshelves surrounding an oversized gas fireplace. The ceiling was narrow-planked red oak and massive oak beams that supported the roof, with tiny pendant lights separating the beams. The dark walls, almost charcoal, were weathered, unpainted siding, like you might see on a hundred-year old barn, highlighted by three massive oil paintings: a crow against snow, a hawk in flight, and a bald eagle perched on a tree branch. The grey concrete floor was punctuated by three brightly colored throw rugs in Native American patterns.

  “This is a beautiful house, Ms. Rossman,” Ryan said. He gave her a muted smile.

  “You’re very kind,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “Won’t you both take a seat?” She gestured to a sofa and sat in an armchair facing us. When we were all settled in, she interlaced her fingers in her lap, leaned forward, and put on a serious face, which meant the house tour was over.

  “When did you last see Mr. Rossman?” I said.

  She tilted her head slightly upward, and her eyes half-closed. She paused before answering. “Yesterday morning, at breakfast.” She nodded her head, confirming the accuracy of what she had just said. “May I know why you’re asking that? Did something happen to Lee?”

  “And when did you last speak with him?”

  Her face was cloudy now. She still looked terrific. Worried but still terrific. “He called me yesterday afternoon. Between three and four. He usually calls at that time.” She leaned forward toward me. “Why are you asking me this? You’re scaring me.”

  “He didn’t come home last night?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Florence Rossman shifted in her seat.

  “You didn’t file a missing-person report, is that right?”

  “Lee often stays out overnight.”

  “Where does he stay when he’s out overnight?”

  “He’s got a trailer at the man camp, as well as a bed and a bathroom in his office downtown—in a little storage room near his office.”

  “Wouldn’t it be just as easy for him to come home as stay in his office?”

  “You don’t understand my husband,” Florence Rossman’s features relaxed a bit, as if she had momentarily shaken off the fear that something had happened to him. “He grew up in drilling, and he likes to stay close to the rigs. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten a call during the middle of a fund-raiser—here in our own house—to tell me there’s a problem at the rigs, or he’s meeting with his landmen or the workers. I used to believe him,” she said with an indulgent smile, “but then I just came to accept the fact that he’d rather be out with his men than making small talk with a bunch of rich people.” She paused, worry clouding her expression again. “Now, Detective, I’ve answered your questions patiently, but I have a right to know what this is about. Has something happened to Lee?”

  “Ms. Rossman,” I said, my voice low, “a body of a man was recovered early this morning. We’re going to show you a photograph, and we’d like you to tell us whether you think this might be Mr. Rossman.”

  “Oh, my God.” Her hands came up and covered her nose and mouth.

  Ryan slid a photograph out of his black leather briefcase and walked over to her. She looked at it for a moment, then let out a long scream. She seemed to sink into the leather of her chair, her head bowed. She began crying loudly.

  I heard footsteps coming toward us rapidly. I turned. It was the housekeeper. I put up my hand and shook my head no to tell her not to come into the room. She stood there, confused. I waved her off, and she turned and walked away, down the long hall.

  After the longest while, Florence Rossman’s crying trailed off. She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and started drying her eyes and dabbing at her nose.

  “A heart attack?” She started crying again. “I knew this was going to happen.”

  “We don’t have all the details yet, Ms. Rossman, but no. It was homicide.”

  She let out another scream and then began to breathe again. “Was it out at the rigs?”

  “We don’t know exactly where it happened, but his body was found here in town. In an alley next to Johnny’s Lounge, on Harrison.”

  “In an alley?” Like that was unbelievable. “What would he be doing in an alley?”

  “We were hoping you could help us with that.” I paused a moment. “Did he go out to bars?”

  She waved her hand and sighed loudly. “He was an oilman. He practically grew up in bars. But now? He never talked about that. I guess it’s possible he was having a drink with a couple of the roughnecks from the rigs.”

  “So when he talked to you yesterday afternoon, he didn’t say anything about how he was going to go meet some guys downtown?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. He said he was going to drive out to the rigs.”

  “And did he say he was going to stay out there overnight or come back to town?”

  “He didn’t really say.”

  A gust of wind shook the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the deck. I jumped a little. “And that was the way you would leave it
?”

  “Yes.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Excuse me.” She paused. “He would go out there—and if he was too tired to drive back, or there was weather, or something he needed to do there the next morning, he’d stay at the man camp. He had a room there, just for that purpose.” She paused. “Do you know what time he was at the bar?”

  “No, ma’am, we don’t even know if he ever went into the bar last night.”

  She put her head into her hands and started to cry again. In a moment she raised her head and said softly, “How did he die?”

  “We know he was stabbed once. But we don’t know whether that wound was fatal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We believe he was in the alley for a number of hours last night. Hypothermia might have played a role.”

  She folded her arms across her stomach and leaned forward. “I can’t believe what you’re telling me.”

  “We understand, Ms. Rossman. It’s a terrible shock to learn something like this.” I waited a few seconds. “Can you help us with anyone who would want to hurt Mr. Rossman? Anyone he was having a feud with? Personal or business?”

  “Personal?” Her brows furrowed. “No, nothing. He never mentioned anything like that.” She swept her arm, taking in the house. “We don’t even have any neighbors. Lee was well-liked. I mean, he donated money to so many causes around town—you must have discovered that already—no, I can’t think of any personal enemies. Business? Obviously, it’s a rough business. There are competitors, and some people don’t like oil drilling, but I can’t imagine anyone would do something … do something like that.”

  “Mr. Rossman never mentioned receiving any threats? Anything from other people in the oil business? From activists?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “And he never said anything about any of his own employees? Anyone who might be having a dispute with him about something on the job?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Ms. Rossman, I need to ask you a difficult question now.”

  She looked up. Her mascara was smudged below her eyes.

  “Could you tell us where you were last night? Yesterday, from around three in the afternoon until this morning.”

  “You don’t think … I might have had something to do with this.” She leaned back in her chair.

  “It’s a question we need to ask, ma’am. We have to ask all his associates.”

  Anger flashed across her face. “I’m not an associate. I’m his wife, and I loved him completely.”

  “I’m not saying you didn’t, Ms. Rossman. It’s just a question I have to ask.”

  She took a deep breath. “I was out shopping. At the mall. I got home around five in the afternoon. I ate dinner here, alone. I was in all night. I didn’t leave the house from five yesterday until now.”

  “Your housekeeper, what is her name?”

  “Imelda. Imelda Hidalgo.”

  “Is she live-in?”

  “No, she comes in the morning. Does some cleaning, some cooking. Sometimes I have her do some errands. Dry cleaning, some shopping, things like that.”

  “Do you know what time she left last night?”

  Florence Rossman titled her head back and looked up. “She cooked last night. I usually eat around six-thirty. So she probably finished cleaning up around seven-thirty, then left for the night.”

  “And you say you were alone in the house after that.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was doing some e-mail. Some other things on the computer for a few of the organizations I work with. Watched a little TV. Went to bed, around eleven-thirty, like I usually do.”

  Ryan said, “Did you make or receive any phone calls after you got home from the mall?”

  “I’m sure I did.” She paused. “I must be on the phone ten times a day.”

  “Someone from the Police Department will get in touch with you soon to arrange for you to come in and identify Mr. Rossman’s body.” She stood. Ryan and I did, too. “I want to tell you how sorry we are to give you this terrible news.”

  “We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Rossman,” Ryan said.

  She nodded her thanks. “I have to notify Bill now.”

  “Bill?”

  “My stepson. Bill. Lee’s son.”

  “Does he live here in town?”

  “Sometimes here, sometimes out at the rigs. He’s a student at the university some semesters. Other times he’s at the rigs. He’s out there now.”

  “He’s going into the oil business?”

  “He’s already in it.” Florence Rossman tried to smile. “It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.”

  “Are you two close?”

  “It’s a work in progress. He’s a very good young man. But, you understand. His father marries a woman who’s a generation younger. That mustn’t have been easy.”

  “I do understand.” We turned to leave. I paused. “Again, Ms. Rossman, our condolences.”

  She nodded. “Let me get Imelda to show you out,” Florence Rossman said.

  “That won’t be nec—” I started to say. Ryan put his hand on my arm.

  “Thank you,” he said to Florence Rossman, giving her an official smile.

  Florence Rossman left the room. A moment later, the housekeeper came in. “This way, please,” she said. Her expression was wary. She knew something bad had happened, but didn’t understand exactly what. She led us out the way we had come in, over the concrete floor, the big wall of windows full of grey sky.

  I’m not sure I could get used to living in a place like this. But I’d like to try.

  Imelda opened the door and gave us a little bow.

  “Actually, Imelda,” Ryan said, “can we talk to you for just a moment before we go?”

  “Yes, of course.” She closed the door. She looked confused, as if none of the Rossman’s guests had ever wanted to talk with her. “There is problem with Ms. Rossman?”

  “We just wanted to check with you on something. Mr. Rossman—sometimes he didn’t come home at night, is that correct?”

  “That’s right. Sometimes he stay in his office or out at oil well. Yes.”

  “Did anything unusual happen yesterday?”

  “Unusual?”

  “Did anyone stop by the house here who you didn’t know? Did Ms. Rossman get any phone calls that upset her? Anything at all unusual?”

  “No, nothing. She get phone calls, but not upset.”

  “And was she home here all day?”

  Imelda took a moment to think. “No, she went out in afternoon. Shopping, I think. Came home for dinner.”

  “Okay, and you cooked dinner for Ms. Rossman, cleaned up, and went home. About what time was that?

  “It was around seven-thirty.”

  “And she didn’t call you after you left?”

  “No, no call.”

  “So the next time you saw her was when you got here this morning, is that right?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “Did anything seem unusual this morning? Was she acting different in any way?”

  “Ms. Rossman always very polite to me. Very nice to work for Ms. Rossman.”

  “Okay, Imelda,” Ryan said, smiling. “Thank you very much.”

  “Something bad happen to Mr. Rossman?”

  “Ms. Rossman will talk to you,” I said. “Thank you, Imelda,” and Ryan and I left. Yes, indeed, something very bad happen to Mr. Rossman.

  Chapter 4

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Vinson,” I said. “This is my partner, Detective Miner.”

  The three of us were sitting in Interview 2, which is the less scary of our two interview rooms. The tiles on the walls are dirty and cracked, and there’s a one-way mirror that even the lamest of the lame-brain criminals know is so the prosecutor and other cops can look in from the outside and figure out how long they can put them away for. The surface of the steel table, scratched and dimpled, is missing quite a bit of its original paint, and the plastic
chairs have got some permanent stains on them, not all of them from spilled soda pop.

  But the one thing makes Interview 2 less scary than Interview 1 is that the handcuffs in 2 are attached under the table and therefore not so obvious, whereas in 1 they’re attached to a rail on top of the table. Staring at the cuffs in 1 makes it harder for most of our suspects to lie to our faces. Not all. Most.

  So we use Interview 1 for interrogations and Interview 2 for interviews. And Philip Vinson, the owner of Johnny’s Lounge, was just an interview. At this point, anyway.

  Mr. Vinson didn’t look at ease. All I told him when I spoke to him a couple hours ago was that I wanted him to bring in a list with contact information of the bartenders, strippers, and bouncers working last night. He had asked why we wanted this—a reasonable enough question. In fact, we could even spin the question positive, like he wanted to know so he could volunteer to bring in any other stuff that would help us with whatever our problem was. I’ve seen it happen, though not that often.

  But I’ve learned that the best answer to that kind of question is the vague kind: We’re hoping you can help us with a case we’re working on. That way, if the guy has damp temples or a shiny forehead or he can’t stop tapping his fingers or toes for even a second, it helps us figure out how hard we ought to look at him. After all, who knows better than he does what kind of shit he’s into?

  It’s true we get a lot of false positives, guys who look super nervous just because police stations creep them out. These are guys who think we’re going to start out by me leaving the room, then Ryan locking the door and beating the crap out of them just because we can. That’s television, not real life. Real life, people usually don’t get beat up inside police stations. Too many closed-circuit cameras.

  Philip Vinson was wearing a black suit. To be more precise, it was a black jacket from one suit, and a black pair of pants from another. He was short and doughy, somewhere between forty-five and sixty years old. There were a couple of food stains running down the front of the jacket. The gray mock turtleneck was a little grayer than it used to be. His hair, thin on top, was dyed an unconvincing auburn. He sported a thin gold loop in his fleshy left earlobe and had a new snow-white goatee, which for some reason he chose not to dye.