Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  “Zoë married her boss. She inherited half his estate.”

  By now I’d nearly forgotten why we were discussing Zoë. Perhaps some of this was relevant to Mercer’s murder, so I decided to let her go on. “Schubert, right?”

  “Oscar was almost thirty years older, with married kids, grandkids even. Erwin and I used to call him three-D—divorced, depressed, and drunk. Nikki hated him.” June scooped the celery into the bowl with the diced potatoes, added a glob of mayonnaise, mixed vigorously. She held out a spoonful. “Taste this, will you? Does it need more salt?”

  “Yummy. I’m glad you didn’t put any pickles in it.”

  “I worry about Nikki. That creep Mercer took advantage of her. Zoë took her to the psychologist, Dr. Soto.” June covered the salad with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge. “Three weeks ago. She was due for another appointment tomorrow. What a terrible thing, that shooting yesterday. You were there, weren’t you? Is Dr. Soto going to be okay?”

  “I hope so,” I said, wondering whether she was accusing me of something or whether my guilty conscience saw blame everywhere.

  June put her finger up to my shoulder and the bird hopped onto it. “Who knows what Nikki told the doctor.”

  Someone knows, I thought, remembering the missing file.

  CHAPTER 18

  Saturday midday

  Richard had asked for a meeting.

  “What for?” I asked. I’d been texting him updates, not that I had much to report.

  “See where we’re at. Clarify the scene. Get on the same sheet of music. You and the lieutenant. Bring your boyfriend the researcher, let’s all get up to date.”

  “Hogan’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Whatever.”

  So there we were—Richard, Anselmo, Hogan, myself—in Richard’s office. Hogan took a look at me and frowned. “Looks like you broke a windshield with your face.”

  “Something like that,” I said, not wanting to explain at the moment. I’d tried to camouflage the bullet graze at my hairline with artful hair design but the dozen-plus glass sliver scratches were now scabby. Not a good look.

  Diplomatically promoting inter-agency harmony, Richard offered Anselmo a cigar. “I’ve played you. Essex team, right?”

  Anselmo turned down the cigar. “Yeah. And you?”

  “Raleigh West Side.”

  “Tough team. You’ve got that pitcher—” Anselmo mimicked a side-arm throw.

  “Amos. The Bulls drop-out.”

  “You nearly shut us out that last game, man.”

  “Nobody gets a hit off Amos.”

  Hogan sat patiently, scrolling through texts from his girlfriend—what was her name, Gardenia? Daphne? some sort of odorous flower. I hoped he would behave himself in case Anselmo found out he was my ex-fiancé. I wanted Anselmo to think I used good sense picking boyfriends. Hogan was prone to spells of bitter jealousy, one of our sore points since I worked with so many men. He had no right or reason to be jealous, but a man like Anselmo—tough, confident—would trigger his insecurities.

  Richard felt secure. He and Anselmo were already arranging a multi-team beer fest for the next time they played. Preliminaries over, Richard asked me to summarize. I handed out a page of notes.

  Saturday 4/7. SBI Agents Lavender and Fredricks, undercover, purchase oxycodone from Kent Mercer, Clemmie’s restaurant manager.

  Monday 4/9. Mercer found dead at his home in Silver Hills, from blood loss; radial and ulnar arteries of both arms were severed by knife. Death occurs within minutes. Head injury thirty minutes prior. Why a thirty-minute interval between the head injury and the injuries that cause his death? Computer, phone, and personal family items missing from the house. Drugs stash not taken. Unidentified bloody fingerprint under deck. Mercer’s 20-month-old daughter, Paige, is missing.

  Tuesday 4/10. Text sent to Agent Lavender says Paige is okay. Hoax? Untraceable.

  Wednesday 4/11. Brake lines of Lincoln Teller’s (owner of Clemmie’s) car are severed, resulting in serious injury to him. Paige Mercer is found in grocery store, unharmed; note pinned to her shirt says to call SBI Agent Lavender.

  Thursday 4/12. Someone enters Teller’s hospital room and injects a near-fatal morphine dose into his IV. Why is he a target? Who is trying to kill him?

  Parking lot shooting critically injures Dr. Soto, slightly injures Agent Lavender. Who is target & why? Midnight break-in at Soto’s office, more gunplay, files in disarray . . . Leads: Fifty thousand dollars in Mercer’s bank account; relationship of this money to his murder?

  “Stella, these aren’t notes, these are questions,” Richard said.

  “Right.”

  “It doesn’t look good that someone keeps trying to kill Lincoln Teller. I don’t want you in People magazine as the agent who goofed around while North Carolina’s icon of black achievement was in danger.” He gave me a hard look, crossed his arms, and leaned back.

  “Right.”

  “Stop agreeing with me.”

  “Right,” I said. “Er, I mean sorry. We’ve interviewed a number of people with ties to the victim, but no leads developed. Six crimes—Mercer’s murder, the kidnapping of his child, two attempts on Lincoln’s life, shooting of Dr. Soto, and her office break-in with more shooting.”

  “Are the crimes even related?” Hogan asked.

  Richard trimmed the end of his cigar. Good Lord, was he going to smoke it? Our building was a no-smoking facility but more than once I’d caught a whiff of cigar stink in here.

  “I think the child was taken to keep her safe. Possibly by someone who saw the killing,” I said.

  “A witness? Or an accomplice?” Hogan asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe the killer took her. Felt sorry for the little girl alone in the house.”

  “Plenty of people disliked Mercer,” Anselmo said. “But the money’s a factor. Was he paid to do something he failed to do? Or sold something he didn’t deliver?”

  “That kind of money usually means drugs,” Richard said. “Was he dealing at that level?”

  “No,” I said, remembering the baggies of pills with handwritten labels. “His stash was relatively minor, all prescription. But he needed money—his wife says they were about to be evicted.”

  “Talk to me about Lincoln Teller.” Richard stood and straightened the pictures, awards, and mementoes displayed on his wall. They didn’t look crooked to me. I thought he just liked to touch them.

  Anselmo answered first. “That’s a tough one. The restaurant connects him to Mercer, so maybe it’s a disgruntled employee. My team is talking to everyone who works there. They’re also interviewing visitors to the ICU who may have seen something.”

  Richard rolled his cigar between his hands to warm it. “He has security?”

  I nodded. “Moved to a private room, guarded round the clock. When the hospital releases him, he’s leaving town with his family.”

  “Leaving? He can’t split. He’s involved in this case.”

  “They’re going to his wife’s sister’s house in Durham. Now that’s a secret, sir.”

  “Indeed. He’s already used up two lives. I don’t want to hear about strike three.”

  “Why don’t you pull him in for questioning?” Hogan asked.

  “I’d like to have him hypnotized,” I said. “I think the person who killed Mercer is trying to kill Lincoln too. He thinks Lincoln knows something. And Lincoln doesn’t know—or won’t say—what he knows.”

  Anselmo said, “And if he has nothing to hide, he’ll go along with it.”

  “Why are you so sure he’s innocent?” Hogan asked.

  I held up my fingers one at a time. “One, the bloody fingerprint under the deck. It’s not Lincoln’s. Someone else was there. Two, the attempts on his life. Three, no compelling motive. Four, I mean . . . really. You know Lincoln’s no killer.”

  Richard scowled. He hates it when I get intuitive. “Five,” he said, grimacing, “it’s Lincoln Teller and we can’t affor
d to be wrong, for his sake and ours.”

  Hogan handed out a description of Mercer’s assets, debts, and business dealings. “Except for the fifty thousand deposited right before he died, the guy had negative worth. He and his wife owed back rent on their house in Silver Hills. A load of credit card debt. His bank deposits show an income of about a hundred thou a year. He was living way beyond that.”

  I couldn’t sympathize with Mercer’s money woes since my income was a third of his, a trifling amount that kept Merle in dog food and Fern in watercolors. Hogan went on. “As I told Stella, we can’t trace the deposit unless the Feds get involved, and they require proof drug money is being laundered.”

  I thought briefly about mentioning Bryce’s drug dealings, that he’d been supplying Mercer, but knew the muddy morass I’d be diving into if I tried to explain the CDs. Uh, my grandmother found them in the victim’s playroom and I took them . . . So I kept mum.

  Anselmo said the brake lines of Lincoln Teller’s Jag had been cut with a saw by someone who knew something about cars, but wasn’t an expert—he’d also severed the rear brake-light connection. “Just sort of hacked away. Unfortunately, nothing was damaged that would have warned Lincoln something was wrong.”

  “And the hospital incident?” Richard prompted.

  “It appears someone deliberately added morphine through an injection port,” I said. “Fortunately his depressed breathing was noticed right away.”

  Richard tipped his chair back. “Ideas? Anyone? Time to think out of the box. Find the cheese.” I didn’t get the allusion until he held up his new management self-help book—Who Moved My Cheese?.

  Anselmo said, “What if the crimes were independent? Different killers?”

  “We’re still nowhere,” said Richard.

  The only things I could add—CDs and confidential psychologist’s records—would horrify Richard, repel Anselmo, and fuel Hogan’s belief that he is more competent than I. But I wanted desperately to solve these crimes. I wanted to come back into this room and tell these three men the full particulars—who, how, and why. Lay out the confessions and the timeline, show them the weapons. Wrap it up, so families could move on, away from fear and anger. I wanted Lincoln’s children to wave goodbye to their dad each morning without the shadowy thought that it might be the last time. Kent’s kids, Paige and baby John, should know who killed their daddy. I wanted to give them the peace that had been missing from my life for twenty-two years.

  CHAPTER 19

  Saturday evening

  I don’t cook much but I can make guacamole. Four ripe avocados, the juice of two lemons, a few drops of Tabasco, mash with a fork. I spooned it into a yellow bowl and sprinkled a chopped tomato on top. I gave Merle a dab on a cracker—he liked it, not a surprise.

  Tonight’s dance would raise money for Essex Arts, a nonprofit group that organizes showings for local artists. Fern wanted me to attend, to show support. Perhaps the event would temper my frustration. Or take my mind off my worry about Emilie Soto. These seemed like good reasons to go.

  Fern was still staying at Temple’s house, waiting for her house repairs to be completed, so I drove there to pick up the dress she’d made me. Fern looked fabulous in a dress of shimmery peach fabric threaded with gold. With matching gold heels and eye shadow, she fairly gleamed.

  Paige pushed “play” on her boom box and started bouncing to the beat of a pop tune. “Dance!” she demanded, and Fern obliged, sending her dress twirling.

  Temple and her new baby had come home from the hospital. She held him on her shoulder, patting his back as his head bobbed. A pacifier and stained dish towel lay in her lap. “Your dress is in the coat closet,” she said, her voice quavery.

  Dismayed, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll never go to another dance again.” Her face was puffy and blotchy with fatigue. “Look at me! I’m a mess!” She held out her once-crisp white shirt, now wrinkled and sporting spit-up stains.

  Fern sat beside her, held her shoulders. “You most certainly will go to a dance again. I promise you.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I need a good night’s rest,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s fine in the hospital, everyone visiting and making a fuss. But I can’t sleep there, and then I come home and the baby wants to eat every two hours.”

  Paige pressed her nose against John’s. “Bad baby,” she whispered, and Temple laughed.

  “I don’t have to go,” Fern said. “I’ll watch your children so you can rest.”

  Her face crumpled. “Oh God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Someone says something nice and I fall apart.”

  “You know it’s those awful old hormones,” Fern said. “Up and down like a roller coaster.”

  “It’s Kent’s death, too,” said Temple. “Not that he’d be any help right now like you are. But I look at this little baby and wish he had a daddy, you know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  She looked up, distressed. “Oh, Stella. I didn’t mean . . .”

  I waved my hands. “It’s nothing! It’s completely different, anyway. Your son will have pictures and stories and a name. A grandpa to teach him to throw a football.”

  She made a face. “Or play golf. I’ll teach him to draw. Now go put on your dress. I want to see what it looks like.”

  It looked like tomato soup, a creamy red satiny fabric that Fern had stitched into a simple sheath dress that fit perfectly. A stole of sheer black organza slithered around my shoulders. “Well, they’ll be able to see me anyway,” I said. “No pockets—guess I’ll have to leave my gun in the car.”

  “You need jewelry,” Temple said. She put the sleeping baby into a bouncy seat and went upstairs, returning with a string of onyx beads.

  “I feel like Cinderella,” I said. “Where’s my pumpkin?”

  The dance was in the old Essex textile mill, a cavernous brick building converted to a business park. Part of the mill was still empty, with exposed beams and dusty floors—the perfect place for a dance. Strands of little white lights had been hung overhead, like tiny stars, and candles flickered on the small tables dotting the edges of the room. A five-piece band was already playing the typical Essex County blend of folk, rock, and bluegrass with a touch of Cajun and a whiff of Celtic to confuse the purist.

  Hogan and his girlfriend were doing a mean jitterbug. She wore a black dress so short her undies flashed as Hogan twirled her around, flinging her toothpick arms and legs this way and that. If I watched long enough he’d hurl her into the air and spin her like a plate. He could never have tried it with me, but Jasmine was little enough to be flingable. I started feeling a bit jealous and strolled away toward the wine table, where Fern and my favorite contractor, Sam Norris, were pouring drinks.

  Sam wore bartender’s garb, a black vest and white shirt. In the shadowy light, he looked better than ever. How easy it would be to revive my puppy love for him. He was waiting on Ursula Budd, Lincoln Teller’s bookkeeper, and a physically powerful man who must have been her husband. Sam mixed red wine with cranberry juice for Ursula. She took her drink and turned around, flinching as she saw me. “What are you doing here?” she said, then caught herself. “I mean, I didn’t know you’d be here. This is my husband, George.”

  George held out his hand. I put my hand into that big mitt with trepidation, but he was gentle as he tipped his head and said, “How do you do?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, smiling at Ursula, wondering why I made her nervous, for she was inching sideways and trying to pull George with her, not an easy task, as he said, “Nice to meet you,” tipping his head again, backing away.

  “Likewise,” I said. It was odd—I knew quite a bit about George from the recorded phone conversations—what he wanted for dinner, how much the new TV cost, his son’s school problems. He seemed like a decent guy, kind to his wife and hardworking. They worried a lot about money.

  Sam poured me a glass of red wine. “Great dress,” he said, and I was glad the lighting was
dim because my blush was no doubt highlighting the nicks on my face.

  “You’ve cleaned up nicely yourself,” I said.

  “Cleaned up is right. I spent all day at Fern’s place.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “We’re making progress, just the usual surprises.”

  “Can we come by tomorrow?” Fern nestled up to Sam.

  “If each of you will dance with me after our shift.”

  Fern winked at me and I sipped my wine. “It’ll be a pleasure,” I said, looking forward to resting my hand on that broad shoulder, feeling his hand on my waist, and following his lead, moving my body with his. To me, slow dancing is like foreplay with rules, though it was dark enough in here that no one would know if we broke a rule or two.

  I sauntered over to the food table, laden with potluck hors d’oeuvres, and found a spot for my guacamole between plates of baked brie and Rice Krispies bars—a three-course meal right there. I was hungry, and it all looked delicious. Wesley Raintree appeared at my side. “I didn’t recognize you at first,” he said to me. “Is your hair different?”

  “Well, I’m wearing it up. Usually it’s freestyle.”

  “Nice dress. I like red. Sunny used to wear a lot of red.”

  “It’s good of you to support this group,” I said.

  “Your grandmother sold me some tickets. I gave a couple to Bryce, too. He knows the band so maybe he’ll even show up. Here, I brought this brie. Baked with raspberry jam. Want some?” He spread a generous blob on a cracker and handed it to me.

  The band started playing a bluegrass-flavored polka and I pointed to the dance floor, my mouth full of cracker. Wesley was a skillful dancer, weaving us past other couples. I asked where he learned to dance.

  “At the Naval Academy, of all places. Mandatory ballroom dancing class. They also taught us etiquette and protocol.”

  “Very useful things to know.”

  “Wish I could teach Bryce some manners.”

  “Guess he’s not interested in the Navy?” I asked, pleased I could simultaneously make conversation and twirl along with Wesley.