by Terry Odell
Solomon peeked in the folder, as if it held a transcription of Kathy’s testimony. “And the eggs were scrambled, right?”
This time, Bart hesitated for a second or two. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“And the sausage? How many patties did you eat?”
“Three pieces, as I recall. But I call them links, not patties.”
“Links. Right.” Solomon clicked away. “I’m no gourmet. I call everything sausage.”
The easygoing expression on Solomon’s face morphed into a stern frown. “Enough of the small talk, Mr. Bergsstrom. You’ve got one chance to tell me the truth, and I’ll see what I can do to make things go easy for you.”
Bart blinked, curled his hands around the edge of the table. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Get real, Mr. Bergsstrom.” Gordon leaned halfway across the table. “You think because Mapleton is a small town, nothing like your big city with all its crime, that we cops don’t know how to do anything but help little old ladies across the street? We’re trained professionals. And you know what else? We communicate with each other. Like the state patrol officer who gave you a ticket going to Evergreen. In a car all by yourself. Where was Kathy then? Care to explain?”
Bart seemed to collapse, like an ice cream cone dropped on the sidewalk on a hot August afternoon. “Um …”
“No, don’t bother thinking up an explanation.” Gordon was done playing nice cop. “Little piece of advice here. Telling the truth means you don’t have to remember all the lies you make up.”
“Okay, fine. I got up early to talk to a guy in Denver. A major opportunity. Could mean a huge boost to my career. Only I didn’t want Kathy to know about it, because she might have wanted in, and—” he lowered his voice, as if he thought she might overhear— “she doesn’t have the chops, and I didn’t want her feelings to get hurt. I hung around, waited, but the guy never showed. By the time I gave up—and found my way to the right road, no thanks to the crappy GPS in the rental—I had to haul ass. And, just my luck, a cop tags me for speeding.”
“Can you verify you had an appointment with this mysterious person in Denver?” Solomon asked.
Bart lifted his chin. “I didn’t have an appointment. The guy had been ducking my calls, so I figured if I showed up, he’d have to see me.”
“Unknown appointment with an unknown person,” Solomon muttered as he made more notes. “Fast forward to the accident. Why did you lie about who was driving?”
“What do you mean?” Bart said. “You guys—officers—keep putting words into my mouth.”
“As an actor, you should be used to that,” Gordon said, only half to himself.
Louder, clearly directed at Bart, he tapped the folder on the table and went on. “We’ve seen the accident report. What you conveniently neglected to tell us was your rental car sustained most of the damage in that accident. The driver of the other car was long gone when the troopers got there. You, however, weren’t so lucky, because the damage to your car made it undriveable. Then, while you were waiting, you concocted your little story about it being much earlier, and that Kathy was driving. How did you get her to go along?”
Bart bowed his head, dragged his fingers through his hair. “I told her I had too many tickets against me already, and she said her driving record was clean and agreed to say she was driving.”
“On it,” Solomon said. Another trip through the database, and he reported Bart was telling the truth about the surplus of citations.
Bart snapped to attention. “How did you know I was driving?”
“You know, sometimes watching television can be a good thing,” Solomon said. “They get most of the legal stuff totally wrong, but they have shown that when the cops reconstruct an accident, they check where the seat is positioned. Guess you missed those shows. Kathy is five-seven. You’re six-one. No way you’d be driving with the seat adjusted for her.”
“One thing I’ll give you,” Gordon said. “You have the makings of a decent actor. Assuming there are acting jobs in prison.”
“What?” Bart bolted upright. “You can’t send me to prison for lying about who was driving in an accident report.”
“But we can for murder,” Gordon said.
Chapter 32
Gordon watched Bart’s reaction. Flushed face, clenched fists, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“Murder?” the actor said. “Where do you get murder? Okay, so I was driving the car, but I know I didn’t hit anyone.”
Damn, he was either innocent or very, very good. Gordon went with the latter. Time for a bluff. Unlike civilians, cops could lie. He pointed to the file folder. “What would you say if I told you we found your fingerprints on a prescription bottle that belonged to Cassidy Clarke’s mother? One he admitted to having in his possession, but never gave to you?”
Although his expression didn’t change, Bart paled. Sweat broke out above his upper lip. Still, he met Gordon’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cassidy Clarke’s mother is dead.”
“Why did you drug Marianna Spellman?” Solomon asked, his tone gentle. Switching to good cop. “You didn’t mean to kill her, did you? But the drug was unpredictable. Come clean. It could be easier on you in the long run. Accidental death versus deliberate homicide?”
Of course, the cops weren’t the ones to decide what to charge him with—that was up to the court system, but Bart probably didn’t know that.
Bart hung his head. “I wanted to talk to her. About her list.”
“List? What list?” Gordon asked.
“The one she keeps for the studio. And her new project.”
The one her assistant hadn’t been willing to divulge. “What new project?”
Bart drained the bottle of water. “She’s planning a new production company. It’s supposed to be modeled after the old time movie studios, where she’d have a stable of actors, give them steady work. Still in the rumor phase, but I wanted in.”
“What about your meeting in Denver?” Solomon said.
Bart’s brows winged upward. He tapped his temple. “Hello? Eggs in one basket? Not smart.”
Solomon let the dig pass. “Okay, so you’re keeping your options open. Understandable. You want to get more work, advance your career, and Marianna Spellman and or this Denver guy might be able to help. Since you didn’t see the guy in Denver, tell us what Marianna’s list meant.”
“If I tell you, you said things will go easy, right?”
“I said they could go easier. Cooperation and honesty are always smart moves.” Gordon’s cell interrupted with an incoming text. He glanced at the display. Xander had sent the personnel files. He passed the phone to Solomon so he could read the text, then headed toward the door. “Hang tight, Mr. Bergsstrom. Something’s come up. We’ll be right back.”
Solomon closed his laptop and tucked it under his arm. He picked up Bart’s empty water bottle. “You want another one?”
“Definitely not. A restroom break would be helpful.”
“In a bit. Sorry,” Gordon said.
The two men headed down the hall. “While I download the reports, you want to print the bottle?” Gordon asked. “That way, we might get exemplars.”
“Will do. If you’re done first, I’ll be in the briefing room. But if things take too long, you get to deal with cleaning up after Bergsstrom should he have a little accident.” Solomon turned and took off.
Gordon went to his office, woke up his computer and accessed his email. Skimming through accumulated messages, he passed over one from Colfax and went straight to Xander’s.
Interesting stuff. I can see motive here. There are more. FYI, if there was an X on the front, there was nothing on the back. Still working on prints from pill vial.
Gordon sent Xander a quick text.
Text me as soon as you have print results.
He went to the email, clicked open the attachments. Sixteen of them. Fronts and backs of eight people. Without bothering to read them on screen, he
sent them to his printer. While he waited, he opened the email from Colfax.
Don’t tell Solomon yet, because it’ll go to his head, but his cockeyed theory might have legs. I’m digging.
Gordon’s eyes widened as he read on. The county computer forensics team had been able to trace the questionable comments Solomon was basing his theory on, and almost all of them did come from public venues. Gordon had to agree, that didn’t sound like a coincidence. Much as he’d have liked to give Solomon the news, he’d respect Colfax’s request—for now. Keep everything focused on Bart Bergsstrom.
The printer gave its final whirr. Gordon grabbed the stack and went to see how Solomon was doing with fingerprinting the water bottle. Gordon watched over the man’s shoulder as his officer applied lifting tape to several distinct prints.
Solomon affixed the prints to cards. “Don’t suppose you want to include an AFIS terminal in your next budget request. Or at least a Live Scan machine.”
“Let’s get computers in our vehicles first. Besides, I doubt very much this guy’s going to show up in AFIS anyway.” Gordon thought about a Live Scan machine, but if they had cause to arrest anyone in Mapleton, they’d be taken to the county facility for processing and be printed there. He figured the mayor would reject it anyway, as needing it meant there was too much crime in Mapleton. “Maybe decent video equipment. Cameras in cars, or even body cams might be a better use of our money. Prove to the mayor—and everyone else—we’re doing our jobs correctly.”
“You’re the chief.” Solomon gathered the cards. “I’ll scan these and send them to the geeks.”
While he waited, Gordon laid out the pages he’d printed, matching fronts and backs, which Xander had thoughtfully labeled. The back contained only notations, and although Gordon couldn’t swear to it, the writing seemed to match that on the front. More codes, but also some plain English. Considering what Bart had said about Marianna wanting to create her own company, the notes made sense. From the files Xander had sent over, three had positive comments with things like definite hire, or follow up with offer, two had strongly worded negatives, and the other three indicated Marianna was still considering them.
And Bart Bergsstrom’s paperwork had been among the missing. The other four missing files were for two cast members—Lily Beckett and Cassidy Clarke—and two crew members.
Solomon returned, and Gordon laid out his interpretation. Solomon picked up the papers, pursed his lips, nodded. “Yep. Sounds like she was making a list. Probably checking it more than twice.”
Gordon pulled the rest of the personnel sheets. “You think Bart found his file had negative remarks on it, figured he’d take it away?”
“Dumb move, but so far, the man hasn’t impressed me with a high level of intellect.”
“You got the prints off to Xander?” Gordon asked.
“You do have a way of asking the obvious. Yes, and I called him, spoke to him personally and he’s going to put a rush on it. Said something about upping the stakes, that you’d owe their print analyst something extra, too. You wheeling and dealing, Chief? Nothing illegal, I’m sure.”
“An occasional incentive—or thank you—can work wonders, especially when you’re under time constraints. Let’s go check on Bart and see if he has an explanation for these missing personnel files.”
“You want to get a mop?” Solomon said.
“I think we’d have heard him shouting or pounding if it came to that. But I’m pulling rank and you can escort him to the john.”
Any traces of helpful cooperation in Bart’s demeanor had been replaced by a scowl. “Took you long enough,” he said.
“You still need a potty break?” Solomon asked.
For a moment, it seemed as if Bart were going to say no, just for spite, but sensibility took over. “Yes, please,” he muttered.
“Sorry about that,” Gordon said. “We discovered some interesting information. We’ll talk when you get back.”
Solomon set his laptop on the table and shot Gordon a dirty look, which he ignored. Gordon went through the printouts of the forms Xander had sent, as well as the rest. According to Xander, the ones with Xs on the front were blank on the back. Either Marianna had dismissed them from her list, or they were automatically added without need for explanation.
Solomon and Bart returned, the actor still scowling. Gordon assumed the man had had plenty of time to devise stories, explanations, and rationalizations, so he plunged right in. Placing one of the personnel sheets on the table, he asked, “You recognize this?”
Bart picked it up, licked his lips. “Yeah. It’s one of the forms Marianna Spellman had us all fill out for this shoot.” He dropped it onto the tabletop.
“Do you know what these marks mean?” Gordon pointed to the M with the 2 under it.
“No. Should I? Somebody wrote on the form would be my guess. For all I know, assuming Marianna wrote it, she was taking notes during a phone call and it was the closest piece of paper.”
“Quite possible,” Gordon said, “but I doubt it explains why there were others with identical markings. What was on your page, Mr. Bergsstrom? Because, for some strange reason, it’s missing. Along with those of Cassidy Clarke, Lily Beckett, a cameraman, and a grip—whatever that is.”
“Someone who helps out with cameras or lights,” Bart said, almost automatically.
“Thanks for the lesson,” Solomon said. “But you haven’t answered the question. Why did you take those files?”
Bart’s eyes popped. “You can’t know that.”
“Of course we can,” Solomon said. “Fingerprints don’t lie.”
“You couldn’t have my prints. I was—” He stopped abruptly, shifted his gaze to the tabletop. “I was never there.”
Gordon walked to the other side of the table.
Good save, Bergsstrom. You almost said you were wearing gloves, didn’t you?
“Where’s Marianna Spellman’s laptop?” Solomon encroached on Bart’s space again. “Did you throw it away like you did her purse?”
“I never touched her purse.” Bart fisted his hands and pounded the table. “She did it.”
“She?” Gordon said. “Kathy?”
Gordon rested a hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “I think we should talk to Kathy again. There were several things she said that don’t match Mr. Bergsstrom’s statement. Maybe if we tell her what he’s said, it’ll refresh her memory. She seemed willing to cooperate, didn’t she?”
“It was all her idea.” Bart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“What was her idea?” Solomon asked. “Drugging Marianna Spellman? Stealing the personnel files? Stealing Cassidy Clarke’s pills?” He turned to Gordon. “What was the name of the housekeeper at the Richardsons’ again? I’ll give her a call, see if she saw anyone in Cassidy Clarke’s room on Monday.”
“Mrs. Findlay,” Gordon said.
Bart raised his chin. “Go ahead and ask. I don’t know any Mrs. Findlay. I wasn’t there.”
Gordon wasn’t going to postpone any steps this time. He stepped out of the room and went to his office to look up her number and call.
She gladly answered his questions. Yes, she’d cleaned all the guestrooms at the B and B Monday morning. She’d been cleaning her third room when Mr. Clarke returned, saying he’d forgotten his key and needed something in his room. She unlocked it for him, then went on with her cleaning.
“You recognized him?” Gordon said. “Did you ask for his autograph?”
She tutted. “I’m afraid I don’t watch many movies. My daughter was all over me when I mentioned meeting him, but to me, he was just another man.”
“Can you describe him?” Gordon asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not good at things like that. He introduced himself as Cassidy Clarke and said he was part of the movie company. He was tall, and handsome. He had a nice smile. Very gracious.”
“Hair? Eyes?”
A pause before she continued. “Kind of a darki
sh blond. Longer than I prefer. His eyes were light blue, as I recall.”
Not turquoise, although he didn’t know how closely she’d looked, or what blue meant to her. “Mrs. Findlay, do you have a computer? Or a tablet? A smart phone?”
“I do have a computer, yes. I’m there now, checking my email.”
“Would you do me a huge favor. Will you search for images of Cassidy Clarke, please.”
“Certainly.” Keys clicked.
While Gordon waited, he opened the accident report file again. Maybe he’d find more to confront Bart with.
A quiet gasp from the phone interrupted. “That’s not the man I saw. Oh my goodness, I should have asked for his ID, but he … he said he was Cassidy Clarke.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Findlay. Now, would you look up one more name, please.” Gordon gave her Bart’s name, spelling Bergsstrom for her. “Yes, that’s right. Two Ss.” More clicks.
“That’s him,” she said. “That’s the man.” A pause. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not with me, Mrs. Findlay. You made an honest mistake, and I’m sure you’ll be more careful in the future. You’ve been a big help.”
He hung up the phone and was about to close the accident report when an item on the inventory list caught his eye. A plastic bag, assumed to have been used for litter given it held an orange peel, a crumpled empty bag of mixed nuts, and a receipt from a mini-mart, itemizing said orange and bag of nuts. And an abbreviation he couldn’t decipher for one more item. ThCrf2Qt. Twenty-seven bucks.
The hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck prickled to attention. He texted Solomon, telling him to leave Bergsstrom and get to his office. Meanwhile, he clicked over to the photos of the VIP lounge, searching for any images of the beverage counter.
Solomon burst through the doorway and set his laptop on Gordon’s desk. “You have something?”
“I’m not sure. You see anything off here?” He pointed to the screen.
Solomon studied the image. “Standard breakroom coffee setup. Coffee maker with an extra spigot for hot water for tea, hot chocolate, instant almost anything.”
