Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  “Where did the other cases happen?”

  “Ames, Iowa, and Madison, Wisconsin.”

  “Both victims young women?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about crime anymore. I just want to concentrate on you.”

  So he did. And ten minutes later the bed was a mess and we lay breathless in each other’s arms.

  I teased him. “Not bad for an old guy like you.”

  “It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage.”

  “Harrison Ford, Raiders of the Lost Ark, 1981.” The film opened the same day Major League Baseball went on strike. I remembered having tickets to the Minnesota Twins and having to settle for a movie instead.

  I drifted off to sleep—no nightmares—reminded of the advantages of not being a thousand miles apart from a man who loves you.

  CHAPTER 31

  The next morning, I cracked a couple of eggs to make an omelet for Garnett. The yolks stared at me from the bottom of the bowl like a pair of jaundiced eyes, and I thought back to my pelting in front of the station and the man who rescued me while the crowd gawked.

  A mysterious stranger, coming to my aid, then vanishing. His face suddenly became clearer to me. Could he have been my guardian angel?

  While Garnett and I shared breakfast, I broached the subject.

  “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

  “In what? Where’s this coming from?”

  I told him about my encounter with the egg man and he couldn’t believe I hadn’t filed assault charges.

  “I didn’t feel like being ridiculed by every radio talk-show host every time I go on the air. It’s like I attract crazies. It seemed best to just forget the blitz.”

  “But you haven’t forgotten it, have you, Riley? I bet you’re looking over your shoulder all day.”

  He had a point, but he switched direction. “So you think this other man was your guardian angel?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Nick, but something about him felt different from regular guys.”

  “Well, my philosophy concerning protection is a little more straightforward than yours. You want to meet my guardian angel?” He opened his jacket and slammed a handgun on the table. He pushed the weapon toward me. “Meet Saint Glock.”

  Rush hour was especially heavy while I drove Garnett to the airport for his flight back to our nation’s capital. All the stop-and-go traffic gave us additional time to talk that I hadn’t counted on. To avoid intimate dialogue, I complained about gridlock, the news biz, and how best to nail the supposed serial killer.

  “Think how more relaxed things would be if we were married,” Garnett said.

  “For me or you, Nick?” I decided his comment wasn’t specific enough to count as a proposal, mere discussion.

  “With me, you could live the life of Riley.” He said the words teasingly.

  “What do you mean? Aren’t I already doing that?”

  He explained that “living the life of Riley” was an idiom meaning living an easy and pleasant life. “You don’t seem to have either. I’d like to change that.”

  I hadn’t heard the expression before, even though I wore the name. Easy and pleasant had a tempting ring, but I told him that goal might be something I had to learn to do for myself and not depend on others to deliver.

  Because of the road delay, all we had time for at the airport was a quick kiss and promise to talk later.

  Noreen seemed irritated that I was late, and waved me into her office, pointing to her computer. “You remember Fitz Opheim?”

  The station consultant—my recent nemesis—stared at me from the screen in that computer application that allowed people in two locations to watch each other as they spoke. Cyber meetings at the click of a mouse.

  “Certainly, I remember you, Fitz.” Knowing he was watching, I kept my face and voice neutral. An easy task for a television reporter.

  Consultants make their living telling TV newsrooms what they’re doing wrong. The last time I’d seen him face to face, Fitz read a long list of Channel 3’s flaws. Immediately, Noreen had implemented his changes: from painting the green room to symbolize a fresh start to commanding the staff to join social networks such as Facebook and Twitter.

  I hadn’t noticed any long-term shift in the ratings, but since our general manager had signed a two-year contract with Fitz, those of us in the news trenches were stuck with his advice.

  One of the producers had mentioned recently that Fitz was proposing “modernizing” our newscasts by having our anchor team read the news standing up instead of sitting behind a traditional desk. No more talent wearing jeans on the job.

  The hope was that change might bring in younger viewers—those twenty-five to fifty-four years old—coveted by advertisers. Channel 3 had a loyal but older audience. We liked bragging that we don’t lose our viewers to the competition, we lose them to death or dementia. Deafness also used to take some until close-captioned television came along.

  Budget cuts had slashed the number of times the station could fly Fitz in from California to lecture us in person. That was one of the few good situations to come out of the media meltdown, so the last thing I wanted to do was talk one-on-one with him through cyberspace.

  “Fitz has some interesting observations on the Buddy story,” Noreen said. “He’d like to discuss them with you.”

  She motioned me to sit in her chair so Fitz could see me better. Uncomfortable. Her watching him watching me.

  I knew why I was in the hot seat. By now the YouTube video of me crying over a dead dog had more than 750,000 hits. I braced myself to be labeled an idiot in front of my boss.

  Instead, Fitz was calling me a genius.

  “I don’t know what instinct kicked in and made you tear up on camera like that, Riley,” he said, “but we need to see more of the same.”

  “More?” I said. “You got to be kidding, I’m a laughingstock around town and in newsrooms across the country.”

  “They’re all jealous. We tested you in front of focus groups and we’re getting a very positive reaction.”

  And the ratings had spiked . . . it could be curiosity over me, but it could also have been our insider-trading strategy with Chuck Heyden’s people meter. I glanced at Noreen, but she volunteered nothing. Because Fitz couldn’t see her, she put a finger to her lips to signal me to hush.

  “So we need to figure out what other stories might best lend themselves to this type of coverage,” Fitz continued. “And then assign them to you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I didn’t mean to fall apart that day on camera, and I sure don’t want to ever have it happen again.”

  “Sure, Riley, I understand how thinking about it might make you uncomfortable. That’s why I’m here to practice with you, until an emotional outburst seems natural. I’ll count to three, then you start crying. One . . . Two . . .”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I’m not going to stage crying on the air.”

  “I’m not asking you to pinch your wrist or poke your thigh with a pin.” He sounded like I was being unreasonable. “Simply try mustering the saddest thought you can, and let nature take over.”

  My life was full of enough misery, I didn’t need Fitz Opheim coaching me into tears. So I reached over to press the Escape button on the computer.

  “Riley!” Noreen perceived my intent too late. By then the screen was dark, with nary a good-bye on either end. “You can’t believe that was the best way to handle this. He’ll be livid.”

  “Why did you just sit there all quiet?” I asked. “He works for you.”

  “Actually, he works for the GM. And so do we. You could have handled that a bit more diplomatically.”

  “There are lines I believe can’t or at least shouldn’t be crossed, Noreen. Almost everything out of that man’s mouth falls into that category.”

  I understood the importance of branding in this business. Some reporters de
velop a reputation for humor. Others for landing exclusive interviews. I couldn’t be the Twin Cities’ star investigative reporter if I was also the crybaby reporter.

  “What am I supposed to tell Fitz when he calls back?” she asked.

  “Tell him I’m in the field, covering news. That’s my job. Tell him there’s been a school bus crash.”

  “It would have much easier if you’d pretended you were trying to cry, but were unable.”

  “Easier for who? I’m the one the viewers see.”

  “For both of us,” she insisted. “I’m the one who answers to the man upstairs.”

  She wasn’t talking about God either. The general manager had the top-floor corner office, and because Channel 3’s ratings were shaky, a consultant like Fitz probably had more job security than a news director like Noreen—sort of like a coach for the Minnesota Vikings. Whether talking fans or viewers, it’s all about winning.

  “We need to finish sweeps higher or he’ll bring in staff he thinks can move the ratings needle. It’s not about the news, it’s all about the numbers.”

  “Well, I am partial to being first,” I said.

  “Not first with the story, Riley, first in the overnights.”

  She and I hadn’t had such an animated conversation in some time. If she had a sense of humor, we could have laughed together about Fitz. But I doubted she’d smiled much since her recent divorce from Toby Elness, her fellow animal lover and my animal activist source. I wondered whether to tell her I’d visited her ex in prison, but decided better to wait.

  “Fitz now has input in all personal services contracts.” Noreen looked unhappy about sacrificing some of her clout. “Including yours.”

  “Then it’s a good thing my contract isn’t up for another year.” I grinned like I was joking, but down inside I knew that growing shift in news priorities could spell trouble for me at renegotiation time.

  Before my boss could admonish me further, my phone buzzed with a text from attorney Benny Walsh telling me the jail was kicking loose his client, Chuck Heyden.

  I showed Noreen the text just as her phone rang with a number from California. Suspecting Fitz on the other end, I hurried to slide out from behind her desk and give her chair back.

  “Tell him news called, and I answered.”

  She waved me back from her door, so to prove I was serious, I called out a lead for her to take to the news huddle.

  ((ANCHOR CU))

  MINNEAPOLIS POLICE TODAY

  RELEASED A MAN THEY’D BEEN

  HOLDING AS A SUSPECT IN THE

  MURDER OF A BESTSELLING

  AUTHOR OF EROTICA.

  Then I left to go after the story.

  CHAPTER 32

  The jail was less than a mile from the station, downtown parking was always a chore, and no photographer was immediately available . . . so I ran.

  The assignment desk was trying to muster a camera for video of the release, but jail processing was unpredictable and I had no guarantee a photographer would make it in time or might not have to leave for another shoot before Chuck was freed.

  I took the skyway to avoid the rain now falling and having to wait for traffic lights. As I cut through the crowd, I thought I passed the man who saved me from the egg attack. I turned around, but he was lost in the horde of people. Nothing unusual, I told myself. Less likely that he’s my guardian angel than he simply works downtown.

  Benny was shutting the door to a cab when I arrived outside the jail. Chuck sat in the backseat. I grabbed the door handle on the street side and climbed in next to him. Benny opened his door again and scrambled in too. Harder for him because he held an umbrella.

  So him, Chuck, and me. All scrunched in a row.

  “Where you want to go?” the cabbie asked.

  “Hey, Riley,” Benny said. “No media interviews. Get out.”

  “One quick question, Chuck,” I said. “Don’t even need it on camera. When you discovered Kate’s body, was there a chalk outline around it?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Benny asked.

  “I have a reason.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I’m not sure I’m going to let my client answer.”

  “It could help your case,” I insisted. If Chuck could definitively say the chalk outline was there when he found the body, that might tie this murder to the others Garnett mentioned, and could clear him. Unless he was the killer.

  Chuck paused like he was thinking. “I can’t remember.”

  “Where do you want to go?” the cabbie asked again.

  “You got your answer,” Benny said. “Now you and I are getting out and he’s going home.”

  “You sure, Chuck?” I asked one more time. “This might be important.”

  “I don’t want to remember her body. It’s something I’d like to forget.”

  “Give address or get out,” the cabbie said.

  I thanked Chuck, climbed out of the cab, and assured him Channel 3 would report the news of his release. The cab pulled away. Benny opened his umbrella and I ducked underneath.

  “So what happened with the cops?” I asked.

  “Their thirty-six hours to make their case came and went,” Benny said. “Clearly they don’t have enough evidence on my guy. I told them to put up or shut up. They declined charges . . . for now.”

  I wondered if this development had anything to do with Garnett talking to the homicide team this weekend about the chalk outline.

  “So Chuck’s back to being a witness, not a suspect?” I asked.

  “Unclear. But I warned him to keep his mouth shut. I hope he understands that means you, too.”

  I explained to Benny that I was trying to connect this murder to others in the Midwest. “It might come down to whether a chalk outline of the body was made by the killer, or an overeager cop.”

  “Good luck getting the police to own up to that one.”

  “Chuck was the first on the scene. He knows.”

  “But you heard him, he can’t remember. So drop it.”

  Then I mentioned a case that happened years ago in Denver in which the witness who found the body couldn’t remember a key fact. The police brought in a hypnotist and all became clear. The cause of death changed from suicide to murder.

  “You’re not suggesting I let the cops hypnotize my client? That’s insane. They’ll just try to trick a confession out of him.”

  I saw Benny’s point. So I dropped the idea.

  Just then a station van pulled up alongside us and honked. I waved the photographer off. “Too late, he’s gone.”

  “What do you mean too late?” Benny said. “You got me, don’t you?”

  So I called the camera back and we taped a sound bite on the street of Benny in his lawyer suit and voice talking about how the police had obviously recognized they had the wrong man.

  No one from the cop shop wanted to be on TV answering questions about whether an innocent man had spent the weekend in jail. Even off-camera they wouldn’t say whether they were spooked by Chuck’s supposed people meter alibi or whether something else—possibly Garnett’s serial killer theory, though I couldn’t bring it up—played into their decision to release their suspect.

  I caught up with homicide detective Delmonico in the basement of city hall, but all he would pony up in regard to Chuck Heyden’s discharge was a statement that the investigation was continuing, and he couldn’t comment further.

  “Have the feds showed any interest in the case?” I followed him as he proceeded down the hall toward the safety of the homicide department—off limits to the media unless invited.

  I could tell that my question surprised him, but he stuck to his single talking point. “I am unable to comment on the investigation.”

  “If the feds had reason to move in, how might that affect your case, Detective?”

  When jurisdiction overlaps, the FBI and local police almost always clash because the feds like to come in and play bigfoot, and the locals fight to protect their tur
f. I knew it; Delmonico knew it. Why I continued down that path of inquiry troubled him. So he ignored me.

  “I’m hoping maybe we can chat off the record.” I winked just to keep the mood casual. “I was talking to the chief the other day about the chalk fairy outline and thought you might have something to add.”

  As part of the homicide team, I knew Delmonico had Garnett’s information. I could also see my use of the term “chalk fairy” disturbed him.

  “Excuse me, but I need to get back to the job.” Delmonico escaped through the homicide door, shutting it in my face.

  “As a matter of fact, so do I.” I pounded my fist, then called after him ominously. “Got to write a story for tonight.”

  CHAPTER 33

  This was his day to visit her.

  Dolezal bought flowers from the farmer’s market during his lunch hour so she could brag to her friends about him being “such a good boy.” Folks living in her senior housing gained standing among their peers if they had regular company. Especially if the visitors remembered the names of other residents like Doris or Otto.

  “Hello, Nanna.” He put the bouquet in a vase she kept on the kitchen counter and held it to her face to smell.

  “My boy, my boy.” She paused to catch her breath, and he wondered if these blooms were too pungent. “You are so good to me.”

  “Nanna, you deserve it.”

  When she battled cancer, he remained at her side, pretending he couldn’t tell she wore wigs or no longer had breasts.

  Now twice each month he held a free genealogy class in the dining hall of her building to teach residents how to track their family trees with birth, death, and marriage records.

  “Leave this be your legacy,” he told them as he checked their progress. “Because when you are gone, so will be the knowledge. Write names on the back of photographs. Record memories of special happenings in your life.”

  None of his students had been able to trace their roots to anything important like the Mayflower, but one insisted at each lesson, with no documentation, that the blood of Charlemagne flowed through his veins.