Black Friday

by Judy M. Kerr

  They followed her into a room nearly as big as a football field with bright lights and whitewashed concrete walls and floors.

  “Impressive,” Cam said.

  “Over this way.” Wilcox led them down a wide aisle and stopped at an alcove tucked next to the first of two rolling garage doors. She provided them with all the coverings to keep from contaminating evidence, and they all suited up.

  Wilcox rolled up the garage door, and they followed her into the bay where the ravaged remains of Arty’s car sat. The doors were laid out on plastic tarps on the floor.

  “We removed them so we can go over them more easily. We checked for hidden compartments, if anything had been stashed behind the panels, and dusted for prints. So far nothing. We pulled all the floor mats and sent them to the lab. The driver’s side mat had specks of what appeared to be blood and some other unidentified matter.”

  MC said, “Blood, huh? Doesn’t bode well.”

  Cam had his gloved hands propped on the roof over the passenger-side front seat. “The glove compartment is empty.” He scrunched down and felt under the passenger seat. “Nothing.” He checked in the backseat. “More nothing.”

  MC mirrored his moves on the driver’s side. “You haven’t found anything of interest? What about the keys?”

  “Nothing interesting about the keys.” Wilcox stood aside and watched them go over the car without changing her placid expression. She was either a very good sport or had a great poker face. It was never easy when an agency questioned the capability of another agency. MC gave her mental props for her professionalism.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Wilcox said. “Dealership sticker and handbook, probably been in the glove compartment since he bought the car. Two maps, Minnesota and Wisconsin. In the center console we found a car charger for an iPhone along with an open bag of cough drops and a receipt from a Holiday gas station in Wayzata. The keys were in the ignition and have been sent to the lab for DNA and fingerprint analysis. We have photos of everything.”

  “No USB drive?” MC gingerly pushed her hand into the shredded mess of the rear seat.

  “No USB. We also vacuumed the carpet. Obviously, someone did a number on the seats. Papers tossed everywhere and empty briefcase on the floor. We’ve got those in the lab, testing them for prints.”

  MC frowned in frustration. She jammed her arm under the driver’s seat, feeling along into the sides where the seat was bolted to the floorboards. “Nothing. Damn. Can we see the photos you took? Maybe get electronic copies?”

  Wilcox said, “I’ll get the digital camera I used, and we can view the pics. I can email whatever you need.”

  MC and Cam stood behind Wilcox as she brought up the photographs of the BMW. Nothing jumped out at MC until Wilcox scrolled to the pictures of the keys in the ignition. MC focused on the plain silver ring that held several keys. One of them caught her eye. MC opened her mouth to say something, but Wilcox’s cell phone rang.

  She answered and swung away from MC and Cam. “I’m down in the garage with the inspectors.” She slowly turned back. “Uh-huh. Yep. Got it. No, I’ll take care of it.” She ended the call.

  “What’s up?” Cam asked.

  “Trouble?” MC asked Wilcox.

  “Not to sound like a sad cliché, but I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news is they’ve found your guy, Arty Musselman. The bad news is—he’s dead.”

  “Shit,” Cam said.

  “Is Minneapolis the lead on the homicide?” MC stripped the gloves from her hands.

  “Don’t know who’s got lead at this point. Goldstein—one of our homicide guys—called me, told me the deceased was found in Spring Park. Over near Wayzata. So Spring Park PD, or maybe BCA or Hennepin County.”

  MC turned to Wilcox. “Thanks for your help. Here’s my card. If you could email the photos ASAP, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  Wilcox ushered them out of the garage, closed the overhead door, and stood waiting while MC and Cam removed their contamination gear.

  MC deposited her gloves in a container marked for disposal. “Maybe the FBI will take over the case because of the crossover with the ongoing investigation.” She leaned back against a counter. “Either way, partner, we need to give Oldfield a call.”

  Cam retrieved their coats, and they followed Wilcox to the elevator. “Like I kept sayin’, I knew Arty wouldn’t freak on us. This is bad.”

  MC pulled her coat on. “I have a hunch it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

  MC and Cam sat in front of ASAC Oldfield’s desk, backs straight, eyes focused on the blank white sheetrocked wall behind the empty office chair on the other side of the desk.

  Oldfield paced back and forth behind said desk, hands in pockets.

  Cam said, “Arty’s murder has to be directly related to the Stennard investigation.”

  Oldfield. “Yes. But we’ve got us quite a clusterfuck, don’t we? More hands in the cookie jar. Because Arty was key to the fraud case, his homicide is considered extenuating circumstances. The investigation jumps up to high profile status, so the FBI—this task force—will be taking on Musselman’s homicide. I’ve requested more agents to help out, and we need to move fast.”

  MC stood. “What can we do? Request a search warrant? We should keep pounding the pavement until someone throws a roadblock at us.”

  “My partner,” Cam smiled. “Relentless.”

  Oldfield smacked both hands on his desk, head down. “You two ought to be FBI agents. You’d fit right in. I’m submitting the request for the search warrant on Stennard’s business based on the recording we have from the meeting. We don’t have enough, I don’t think, to go after his private properties yet, but this should be enough to get us inside the offices. The USB drive with the other private conversations between Arty and Mike and Gavin would give us the boost we need to search their residences. But until we have that device, we’re stuck with what we have.”

  MC said, “Assign us to the house cleaning team.”

  Oldfield locked gazes with MC. “Yes, you two can assist. Now get out of here for the day. We won’t see a warrant until tomorrow or Thursday.”

  MC jotted a few notes in her notebook before tucking it away. She then surveyed the late afternoon traffic on eastbound I-494. “I swear driving on the freeway is like playing a video game.”

  Cam grinned. “I was pretty good at Frogger back in the day.”

  “Of course you were. No wonder you always want to drive.”

  He whipped the wheel to the right and tucked in behind a semi. “Gotta keep those mad skills alive somehow.”

  “So you can pass them along to Ben.”

  “Unfortunately, Jane won’t allow me to even talk about video games in front of our young lad. She thinks five-year-olds should be using their brain cells on more productive endeavors, like reading and math.”

  “Smart woman, your wife.” MC checked the time on her phone and noticed an email from Roland Chrapkowski. “Ugh.”

  “What?”

  “Email from He Who Shall Remain Nameless.” MC tapped the email icon and scanned the message. “He’s asking for an update on two of my cases. The newest ones, of course. He knows how busy we’ve been with Stennard, but he hounds me on new stuff. I can’t win.”

  “He is the denizen of doom. Jamie approved my request to cut out early this afternoon, depending on whether or not Oldfield needed us.”

  “I’d like, just once, for him not to ride my ass.” MC blew out a breath. “So, you’re leaving early, huh?”

  “I told Jane I’d meet her to take the kids shopping for clothes.”

  “Sounds like good times.”

  “Believe me, it’s more like a tag-team sport.”

  “I’m so beyond glad I never had any rugrats. I wouldn’t have the patience to deal with half of what you and Jane have on your plate. Have you thought of bribery? They’re never too young, right?”

  “Bribery is one of the first parenting tech
niques I learned. A cookie goes a long way sometimes.”

  MC grinned. “Blasphemy! You’ll go straight to hell for not following the almighty Doctor Spock’s playbook.”

  “You do know that most of that Spock child-raising stuff is outdated now?”

  MC didn’t respond. As far as she was concerned, Mister Spock was a much more interesting character.

  Cam navigated the lanes leading to the one-story office and quickly parked. “I’ll go in with you.”

  “You don’t need to run interference for me, Cam. Give me the keys. I’ll check us back in, and you can be on your way.”

  Cam handed over the car keys. “You sure?”

  “Yep. I’m a big girl. And Jane’s probably tearing her hair out waiting for you.”

  “Thanks. Have a good night. Catch ya tomorrow.”

  MC adjusted the messenger bag on her shoulder and headed into the building.

  A bullet-resistant glass enclosure housed their receptionist, Chelsea. All visitors had to sign-in and have a good reason to get past Chelsea. Usually no appointment with an inspector or investigator meant no admittance.

  MC waved at Chelsea, swiped her badge, and stepped inside. The heavy metal door thunked closed behind her.

  Chrapkowski’s was the corner office at the far end of the hall. MC’s own office was half the distance, and she was grateful she didn’t have to pass him to access her own space. She quickly ducked inside and closed her door.

  She’d barely hung her coat on the wobbly wooden coatrack before someone thumped on her door. Goddamn. Not one second to breathe. She called out, “Come in.”

  The door swung open and Chrapkowski’s bulk filled her doorway. “McCall.”

  Chrapkowski’s crap brown suit and white—edging toward gray— button-down shirt gave him the appearance of someone just this side of homeless.

  “Yes?” She started the computer and thought that his ex-wife had been smart to call it quits with this guy. “What can I do for you?”

  Chrapkowski crossed his lumpy arms. “What you can do for me, Inspector McCall, is get me the two case files that were due on my desk this morning.” He lumbered farther into the office.

  The computer wheezed its way through the startup program in tandem with Chrapkowski’s gasping breaths and she launched Outlook to check her Tasks list. She’d closed both cases and planned to scan all her case notes into the system this afternoon.

  MC said, “The Dillinger Realty mail theft and the parcel sorter unknown powder assignment due dates are close of business tomorrow.”

  “I don’t care about the due dates. I wanted the cases this morning, and I didn’t get them. Maybe this Ponzi gig is too much for you.” He raised his steel-wool eyebrows at her. “If you can’t handle the work I’ll gladly pull you off the Stennard assignment. I’m sure ASAC Oldfield won’t mind.”

  MC took a deep breath. “I do not purposely avoid my work or push it off on other inspectors, like some do around here. I was given assignment end dates. I always meet my assignment end dates, and I fully intend to meet these.” MC tamped down the fury burning inside. She held out two files to Chrapkowski. “If you’d prefer to inspect the hard copy files, please feel free. I can always scan the documents after you’ve reviewed them.”

  Chrapkowski leveled his dead-fish eyes at her. He snorted air through his bulbous red-veined nose, nostrils flaring, and reached a chunky paw out to snatch the folders from MC’s grasp. “You’re teetering on the edge, McCall. I suggest you tread lightly or you may find yourself going down hard.” He spun on his heel and took a step toward the door.

  MC planted both hands flat on the desk and leaned forward. “Are you threatening me?”

  Chrapkowski halted. He executed an elephantine pirouette to face MC, his face turning the color of eggplant.

  MC refused to back down.

  Chrapkowski stuck a porky pointer toward her. “Do your damn job, McCall. And know I’m watching your every move.” He spun back around and trundled out the door.

  The air had barely settled before Jamie Sanchez poked his blond crewcut head inside her office. “Sorry, MC. I’ll work on him. He’s a royal pain in the ass. Thank God he’s on the home stretch to retirement.” He rolled the sleeves of his typical crisp white dress shirt neatly above his wrists.

  “Still doesn’t give him the right to treat me differently.” She met Jamie’s eyes. He was only a couple inches taller than her. “I’ve been adamant about riding it out, but lately he’s gotten worse.” She sat in her creaky chair and ran a hand through her spiky hair. “Like I don’t have enough on my plate. I don’t need his bullshit.”

  “Hang in there. You’re one of the best inspectors I’ve ever worked with. He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if he tried to discipline you. I’ll speak to him. Hopefully I can put it in simple enough words for him.” Jamie smiled, perfect white teeth glinting against a still slightly tanned face.

  “Thanks, Jamie. I appreciate you having my back. Now, I better get back to it before the wild boar stampedes back down this way.” She felt some catharsis having Jamie’s support, but stopped short of asking about a transfer to his team.

  Jamie did an about face and closed the door behind him.

  She reviewed her calendar and task items. She was on track with everything. And since it was only twenty after three, she had time to get started on a mailbox vandalism case Crapper had assigned her late yesterday.

  After two no answer, no voicemail calls, four no answer, but messages left calls, and one frail-sounding, extremely lonely, very upset postal customer, MC had had enough.

  She glanced at the silver government-issue clock on the wall above her door, ticking the seconds away. Four o’clock. She decided to call it a day and, for once, get home early.

  MC pulled into the detached two-car garage off the alley of their Highland Park house right after Barb rolled in.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” MC said.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” Barb beamed as she exited her Outback, a cloth tote bag in one hand and a navy-blue Coach tote in the other.

  MC had given her the Coach bag as a Christmas gift two years earlier. Barb never would’ve spent three hundred dollars on something like that for herself. MC had been harping at her for years to get rid of the worn, ratty bag she used for school practically since she’d begun teaching, so she’d splurged on the Coach. Initially, Barb fussed over the expense, but MC knew that deep down, she loved it.

  MC kissed Barb. “I deserve that. Hand me one of the bags so you can lock up.”

  Barb handed over the cloth carryall. “Thanks, hon.” She secured the car and shut the garage door.

  They entered through the back door and passed through the entry space they called a mudroom and into the kitchen.

  MC set Barb’s bag on the short end of the L-shaped counter. “We’ve got plenty of time before we have to meet Dara and Meg for dinner. How about a pre-dinner cocktail?”

  “Sounds good. The kids ran me ragged today. I’m ready for Thanksgiving break.” She unzipped her puffy jacket.

  MC took her jacket. “You go sit in the living room. Turn on some classical on the iPod. Relax. I’ll get our drinks and join you.”

  MC headed down the hallway toward the front of the house and hung up their coats in the entryway closet and secured her handgun in the shoebox-sized safe on the closet floor.

  Classical music drifted from the speakers in the living room and MC returned to the kitchen. She poured a glass of white wine for Barb and opened a can of Surly Hell craft beer for herself.

  She slid onto the couch next to Barb and handed her the glass of wine. “Cheers.”

  Barb smiled and took a sip. “Ah. Nice.” She rested the glass on her thigh and leaned her head against the back of the couch. “I’m so glad to be off my feet for a few minutes.”

  “You know, we can cancel with Dara and Meg. They’d understand.” MC took a gulp of cold beer and slid her gaze sideways to gauge Barb’s reaction.

&nb
sp; One eyelid snapped open, and Barb fixed her one-eyed gaze on MC. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re always ready to cancel. I know you prefer the solitude of our humble abode, but our friends are counting on dinner. And we’ll be there.” She opened the other eye and took a drink of wine. “But as long as we have some time, maybe we can talk about getting married.” She tucked one leg under her and leaned sideways toward MC.

  Marriage was a recurring discussion MC tried to avoid, and Barb kept bringing up. “Um. Okay.” MC swallowed some more beer and swiped a hand across her suddenly clammy forehead. “Feels warmish in here.”

  “Come on, MC. You avoid this topic every time I bring it up. Don’t you love me?” Barb set her wineglass on the coffee table.

  MC fortified herself with another healthy slug of liquid courage then set the can on the table. “I love you. With all my heart. More than life itself.” She twisted to face Barb. “Loving you is not the issue. You know that.”

  “Then what is? Please clue me in.”

  “I . . . it’s . . . I can’t bear the thought of some Kardashian-esque event. You know how I feel about family gatherings. And I don’t want our getting married to be a disappointment to you by only being the two of us.” MC blurted out, “Yet at the same time I’d rather crawl into a hole and be covered by a million fire ants than have some giant gala.” The beer left a sour taste in the back of her throat and she lowered her head, an internal battle waging over whether to finally share Cindy’s story with Barb.

  Barb grasped MC’s hands in hers. “Take a breath, MC. Tell me what’s up.” Her teacher voice commanded immediate response.

  But MC couldn’t speak Cindy’s name. The words lodged in her throat. Instead she said, “There’s nothing I want more than to spend my life with you. You, Dara and Meg are my family. I do want to marry you. I can’t handle a Lollapalooza-size shindig. Can we keep it just the four of us?” She searched Barb’s face for the signs of disappointment she was certain would appear.

  “You know I’d love to have my family present, except for Jules, to celebrate our commitment. But I understand. We can limit the invitees. We need Dara and Meg, though, to act as our witnesses. It’s the law.” She leaned in close. “I’ve told you this before.”