Stalked

by Brian Freeman

  “What a dog. His wife dies, and he winds up with a hottie all the way from Vegas.”

  “Fuck you,” Serena said and stood up to leave.

  Nicole stood up, too. Her hostile façade crumbled. “Hey, take it easy. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t go.”

  Serena sat down. She barely recognized Nicole from the photographs she had seen on the Web. Prison had aged her. Her wild hair was cropped and graying. She was thinner. Serena knew she was in her early forties, but her mottled face looked ten years older.

  Nicole noticed her appraisal. “It’s not exactly a spa in here.”

  “I know.”

  “I meant what I said. I’m happy for you and Stride. It must have killed him when Cindy died. Those two were the real deal.”

  “Yes, they were.” Serena didn’t add that it made her feel a little jealous sometimes.

  “I made a play for him once. Did he tell you that? It was right after I joined the force. He shut me down cold.”

  “He was married.”

  “Oh, and he wasn’t married when you met him? Come on, girl.” She added quickly, “Not that I’m judging. Look, people do what they do, and what do I care? I haven’t had good luck with men. I envy you.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Nicole. Maybe you should just tell me what you wanted to tell me.”

  Nicole shrugged. “It’s easy to tell that you used to be a cop. All business. Let me ask you this, did you get shit in Vegas because of the way you looked? I mean, did people think you couldn’t do the job because you look like some kind of showgirl?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, now imagine being a black detective in white bread Duluth. That was me.”

  “You’re not in here because you’re black,” Serena told her.

  “No? Slap some shoe polish on that pretty face of yours, and live like me for a year, and then tell me that. The fact is, I was always treated differently. People were just waiting for me to fuck up. When I did, they were right there to jump on me. If it were a white cop, you don’t think they would have worked harder to find out what really happened? Hell, no. I was black. I was presumed guilty.”

  “I know Jonny. He’s not like that.”

  “Yeah, the lieutenant tried, but racism in a place like Duluth is like drinking water. It’s as natural as breathing, girl. They’re doing it when they don’t even know they’re doing it. Stride included. He was always busting my ass over things that white cops did all the time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sometimes I missed shifts. My boy was sick. For white folks, that’s called a child care issue. For me, it’s being a lazy-ass black cop.”

  “That doesn’t explain your hair being found in the apartment where your husband and his lover were killed.”

  “No, I’m just saying you got to understand the context.”

  Serena leaned forward. The plastic chair was uncomfortable. “Look, I’ve read the newspapers. I talked to Abel. I talked to Jonny. What I understand is that you had six months of hell. You had a good shooting on the bridge, and then you had everyone on your back over it. You were questioning yourself every damn day, reliving that moment when you pulled the trigger. Believe me, I know what that’s like. I’ve been there. Then your husband started an affair with a teenage whore, and there you are, stuck on leave and feeling guilty and ashamed, trying to raise a boy, and feeling like the whole world is against you. Do I understand the context?”

  Nicole was silent. She chewed her lip and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah, okay. That was me.”

  “You were fragile.”

  “Yeah, but I was dealing with it. I was getting help. I was happy to be back on the job. Stride had me pull cold cases, because he didn’t think I was ready to be back on the street, but that was okay. I liked it. I was on the phone and the Web ten hours a day, and I made some breaks in cases that had been stone-cold for years. It gave me my confidence back, you know?”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He was a prick. No other way around it. I was going to dump him.”

  “You didn’t stalk him and his little girlfriend?”

  “Okay, yeah, I did that a few times. I was wallowing in it, you know what that’s like? Feeling sorry for myself. But I was done with that. I did not go over there that night. I did not kill them.”

  “Then who did?” Serena asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. The girl was a junkie. Probably a dealer. But no one checked the drug angle.”

  “You said you were never in her apartment.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How did your hair get there?”

  Nicole jabbed a finger at Serena. “’Cause it was planted, that’s how.”

  “Who do you think did that?”

  “I know exactly who. Abel fucking Teitscher, that’s who. He framed me.”

  “Why would Abel do that?”

  “He never wanted me as a partner, and he thought I was guilty, and this was the only way he could make the case. You know as well as I do that cops aren’t angels. You’ve never helped a case along when you knew you had the perp and the evidence was weak?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s real high-and-mighty, but here in the real world, it happens.”

  Serena sighed. “So what does this have to do with Maggie?”

  “Are you kidding me? Two detectives from the same bureau wind up on the hook for murdering their husbands? That doesn’t smell like rotten fish to you?”

  “Your case was six years ago. That’s a long time.”

  “And I’m telling you, there’s got to be a connection somewhere. You’ve got Abel on the case again, don’t you? He had it in for me then, now he’s got it in for Maggie.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Abel,” Serena told her. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s a straight shooter.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of my hair wound up in Abel’s car, girl, but the only way it got into that apartment is because someone carried it.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Abel killed your husband and his girlfriend. Or Maggie’s husband. Are you?”

  Nicole shrugged. “I’m saying anything’s possible. Maybe he’s got it in for chick cops.”

  “Come on, Nicole.”

  “Look, I don’t know. When I was a detective, I didn’t like coincidences. This is a big one. Two cops with dead husbands.”

  Serena got up. “If I find anything that links the two cases, I’ll call you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She extended her hand, and Nicole took it sullenly.

  “That’s all I can do,” Serena said.

  Nicole folded her arms over her chest. “My boy is going to college now, did you know that? A state school near his grandmother in Tennessee. If I’m lucky, I see him a couple of times a year. He’s eighteen now. Almost nineteen. I missed the last six years of him growing up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t do this. He knows that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Say hi to Stride for me.”

  Serena nodded. Nicole shuffled toward the door that led back to the cells. Her head was down. Serena watched her go. She left the prison and was glad to get away from the antiseptic smell and the claustrophobia of the walls. As she got into her car, she realized everyone was right. Nicole was a waste of time.

  Serena hoped she would have better luck at the Ordway.

  She had visited Saint Paul several times in the past year. It was an easy two-and-a-half hour drive down I-35 from Duluth, and many of her investigative jobs had roots in the Twin Cities. Minneapolis was the larger of the siblings, with steel skyscrapers, trendy restaurants, and a fast-paced corporate culture. Saint Paul was slower, quieter, and smaller, boasting only a handful of high-rises that would have been dwarfed in other towns. The dominant look in the downtown architecture was turn-of-the-century stone. The state government took up most of the office space, and life in the city revolved around two
domed buildings on the hill, the cathedral and the capitol. Between the twins, Serena preferred Saint Paul.

  She found a parking place at a meter in Rice Park. The park was no more than a single square city block, with a central fountain and an odd juxtaposition of statues, including F. Scott Fitzgerald and characters from the Peanuts comic strip. St. Paul didn’t forget its favorite sons, whether they were authors or cartoonists. The Ordway Center was only a few steps away, and the other buildings on the square were classical and grave—the mammoth central library, the Landmark Center with its clock tower and green dormers, and the venerable Saint Paul Hotel.

  It was late afternoon and already dark. The streetlights were on. White lights twinkled in the trees in the park, and faery ice sculptures glistened, awaiting the opening of the city’s annual winter carnival. Serena made her way to the Ordway, which was getting ready for a performance of The Producers that night. A doorman in a cape and top hat held the door for her. She was early; the theater staff in the lobby were sweeping the floor, arranging posters and T-shirts for sale, and preparing for the rush of ticket holders.

  She found a security attendant in a white shirt. He was in his fifties, short and round. He remembered talking to Maggie the previous day.

  “I was hoping to get some more information from the ushers,” Serena told him.

  “Suit yourself,” he replied pleasantly. “But you’ve only got half an hour. When the guests start arriving, everyone will be busy around here.”

  “Do you know who would have been working a week ago Saturday?”

  The security guard pointed at a kid in his early twenties, who was perched beside a velvet rope leading into the waiting area outside the orchestra doors. “Start with Dave.”

  Serena thanked him. Dave was a talkative farm boy who was majoring in geology at the University of Minnesota and used his ushering job to watch theater performances for free. He was dressed uncomfortably in a black tuxedo, with a paisley cummerbund and a bow tie that was so twisted it looked more like an hourglass spilling sand. Serena couldn’t resist straightening it for him.

  “Thanks,” Dave replied. He didn’t look unhappy to be in the circle of Serena’s perfume. “I hate wearing the monkey suit, but they insist.”

  “Come on, you know women can’t resist a man in a tuxedo,” she told him, smiling.

  His cheeks turned pink. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, definitely.” She asked Dave if he remembered Eric from the previous weekend, and he nodded vigorously.

  “That dude? Absolutely. He looked like he should be captain of a Viking ship, know what I mean? Like he just stepped off a fjord.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah, he peppered me with questions for ten minutes. It was a little awkward, because I needed to work, you know?”

  “I’m sorry to be doing the same thing.”

  “Oh, hey, you I don’t mind.”

  “What did Eric want to know?”

  Dave had long brown hair, and he pushed it back behind his ears with both hands. “He was talking about this blog he had found on the Web. He was trying to track down the woman who wrote it.”

  “A blog?

  “Yeah, I guess it was one of those MySpace things, like ‘Lady in Red’ or ‘Dark Lady’ or ‘Lady in Waiting.’ It was lady something.”

  “Did you know who the blogger was?”

  “Nope. The Viking dude, he said it was probably a woman in her late thirties, but we’ve got lots of women like that here. So he started talking to them one by one.”

  “Did he say why he was looking for her?”

  “No, he didn’t. After he talked to a couple of the women, people started getting a little freaked-out. You know, like he might be a stalker or something. Security went to him and told him to lay off or they were going to kick him out.”

  “Did that stop him?”

  Dave shook his head. “Not really. I saw him at intermission, and he was still talking up the women ushers. To tell you the truth, most of them didn’t mind. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, you know? There was just one woman who got hot and bothered about it.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Her name’s Helen.”

  “Is she here tonight?”

  “I haven’t seen her for a while. You’d have to talk to the admin guys about her schedule. The thing is, she couldn’t have been too upset, because when I left the theater that night, I saw her talking to the Viking guy in the park across the street.”

  “You saw Helen and Eric together?”

  Dave nodded.

  “You’re a doll,” Serena said.

  Dave blushed again, and Serena retraced her steps to find the security guard hovering near the theater door. She asked him about Helen and discovered that the usher’s full name was Helen Danning, single, late thirties, quiet.

  “When is she next scheduled to work?” Serena asked.

  The guard shook his head. “She’s not.”

  “Why?”

  “She quit last week. Called on Thursday and said she was moving out of town. No warning, no explanations, nothing.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “We don’t even know where to send her last paycheck.”

  Serena frowned. “Do you know where she lived?”

  “I think she had an apartment in Lowertown. Near the farmer’s market. She told me it was nice to walk across the street on Saturday morning and get fresh tomatoes.”

  “And you’re sure it was Thursday she called to give notice?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I remember. They needed to find someone to take her place for the weekend shows.”

  Serena thanked him again. She checked her watch as she left the theater. It was getting late, and she still had to make the long drive back to Duluth that night. Even so, she needed to make a detour to Lowertown. She didn’t like the chain of events. On Saturday, Eric was seen talking in the park with Helen Danning.

  On Wednesday, Eric was murdered.

  On Thursday, Helen fled the city.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  When Katrina Kuli answered the door, Stride remembered that she had covered the bruises on her face with makeup and shrugged off the cut on her neck when he had first met her at the Java Jelly coffee shop. He wished he had put the truth together sooner. She held the door open and waited stiffly while he walked into her apartment.

  “I’m glad you called me back,” he said.

  Katrina closed the door and locked it. “I’m not filing a police report. I don’t want this to become public.”

  She gestured at a yellow futon by the living-room windows, and he sat down. She made sure the blinds were closed and then lowered herself gingerly into an upholstered chair across from him. He saw her wince as she breathed.

  “Are you still in a lot of pain?”

  She shrugged. “A couple of cracked ribs. They don’t do anything for that these days. Just grin and bear it.”

  “What about other injuries?”

  “Bumps, cuts, bruises. I’m healing.”

  “I just want to make sure you’re being treated.”

  “I am.”

  “What about a counselor?”

  “I’ve got some names,” Katrina said. “I haven’t called anyone yet. I figured I’d be hysterical, you know, but I don’t really feel anything. It’s weird.”

  “It happens like that sometimes. I’ve talked to a lot of women who have been through this, Katrina. Some become very emotional, some go numb. It’s normal. Just don’t deal with this alone. Call one of those names, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Katrina was wearing a loose-fitting flannel shirt and gray sweats. Her round face was blank, and her hair lay in clumps on her forehead. Every few seconds, she fingered the cut on her neck tenderly, as if it might have gone away since she last touched it. Her hands trembled, and the barbed wire tattoo quivered.

  “When did it happen?” Stride asked.

  “Last month.”


  “Here?”

  She nodded.

  “How did he get in?”

  “He came up a back stairway.”

  “I’d like to have a forensics team go over the apartment for trace evidence.”

  “There’s no DNA. I cleaned up.”

  “There could still be hair, fingerprints, residue.”

  “Look, he wore gloves and a stocking cap. Trust me, he didn’t leave anything behind. I’d just like to move on.”

  “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know.”

  Stride leaned forward and balanced his arms on his knees. “Why don’t you want to report this?”

  “Are you kidding? If a pretzel stick like Tanjy got raped all over again in the media, imagine what they’d do to a girl like me. I know exactly what kind of jokes people would tell. ‘They’re not sure if they can charge him with rape. Is having sex with a farm animal a crime?’”

  “No one would say that.”

  “Sure they would.”

  “Did you tell anyone after it happened?”

  She nodded. “I told Sonia at the dress shop.”

  “Not Maggie?”

  “Especially not Maggie.”

  “Why? You said the two of you were friends.”

  “She and I haven’t talked in a while,” Katrina said. “Plus, she’s a cop.”

  Stride thought about what Tony Wells had said. This perpetrator picks women who are sexually vulnerable. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this guy doesn’t choose his victims by accident. He picks women who have something to hide.”

  “There are other victims?” Katrina asked.

  “Yes, and they learned their lesson from Tanjy, just like you did. Don’t report this if you want to keep your secret.”

  Katrina shoved herself out of her chair. She peeked through the blinds into the darkness and then turned back and folded her arms. She studied Stride. “If I tell you, the whole world will know.”

  “Not necessarily, but I can’t promise you anything.”

  Katrina’s lip bulged out in defiance. “What I do in my private life is my own damn business.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re right,” she said finally. “I didn’t report the assault, because there were some things about me that would have come out. Embarrassing things.”