by Judy M. Kerr
“I wonder what that was about? Sounds like he was planning a trip.”
“The last known address the nursing home had for Quentin was a friend’s house. An officer spoke with the friend who said Quentin had been couch surfing, but after Thanksgiving he left. The guy assumed Quentin was staying with a different friend because his belongings were gone and he’d not heard from him. We have no phone number for him either.”
“No phone number isn’t surprising. These guys probably use burners. But leaving a friend’s place, I’m not up on proper etiquette, but wouldn’t you at least say good-bye and thanks for the hospitality?”
“I know, right?”
“What about the other guy? Wooler?”
“We actually found an address for Nick Wooler via DVS—Driver and Vehicle Services. He has a valid driver’s license, according to DVS, and the address was a dumpy apartment in South Minneapolis. His roommate said he hadn’t seen Wooler since around Thanksgiving, and most of his stuff was gone. He was ticked off because he’d been calling Wooler, but the phone number wasn’t working. The friend is putting a notice on Craigslist for a new roommate if he doesn’t hear from Nick by January first.”
MC scrawled the info on her notepad, including Wooler’s last known phone number. “Sounds like both these guys are a dead end, for now.” She blew out a frustrated sigh.
Ferndale said, “We were hoping for some connection to Arty, but it doesn’t sound like they even knew him. Klein said he’d tried calling Nick a few times after the last big party. The first couple tries he got voicemail, then the number became a dead end. No service. Probably dumped. Needless to say, we had to cut Klein loose.”
“Thanks for sharing,” she said. “We’ll be in touch after the holiday or if we get anything new on our end.”
“Sounds good. Enjoy the holiday.”
MC hung up. While her gut told her Klein wasn’t their guy, she’d been hopeful he’d point them to a possible suspect.
Her personal cell vibrated. She glanced at the screen, saw it was Dara, and let the call go to voicemail. She wasn’t in a mood to fend off Dara’s insistence they have dinner or whatever else she had up her sleeve. MC had agreed to do Christmas Day dinner with them, which was the extent of her commitment capabilities.
The dark voice inside her head urged her to finish up and head to the liquor store. The bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer was almost empty.
MC trudged up the stairs to her apartment, arms full of Thai takeout, a 1.75-liter bottle of Grey Goose, and her messenger bag. Inside, she kicked off her boots and dumped the food and vodka on the kitchen table. She hung up her coat and changed into her flannel pants and sweatshirt, along with a thick pair of hiking socks to ward off the chill from the hardwood floors.
MC picked up her phone and sent Dara a text. Sorry I missed your call. Work is super busy. Just got home. More work to do tonight. I’ll see you and Meg on Xmas Day.
Her phone buzzed with a response. No prob. We’ll be around if you change your mind. Meg sends a hug. Stay away from the devil juice.
MC took the new bottle of Grey Goose from its bag and stuck it into the freezer after removing the current almost empty occupant. She pulled a glass from the cupboard and dropped a couple ice cubes into it, and found herself mesmerized by the clear liquid cascading over the ice. “Devil juice. More like liquid courage. Courage to live another day without my heart and soul.”
The slow burn spread outward. She finished the drink while leaning against the refrigerator. Ice clinked as she tasted the last of drops on her tongue, sounding like the glass was begging for a refill. MC complied.
Drink replenished, she grabbed a fork and dove into the white container of Thai fried rice with shrimp. She ate a few bites, washing it down with more vodka. She opened the green notebook and tucked the folded turkey drawing into the pocket located inside the notebook’s back cover.
For the hundredth time she read through her notes. She continued to eat, read, and drink until her glass was once again empty. She rubbed her hands over her face, glanced at her phone and saw it was almost nine. Outside the windows, white flakes drifted erratically from the glowering sky.
Bone-weary, MC refilled her glass. A soft voice, reminiscent of Barb’s, warned she didn’t need any more. But her entire body ached, pitchforks of pain digging to the very marrow of her bones. She gulped for air, her chest heaving. Her hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips, the liquid rolling like a wave on a lake. A long swallow washed a trail of numbness down her throat and brought a waterfall of tears from her eyes. Sobs followed, her body a limp lifeless mass puddled on the chair.
Buck up, she thought and reached for the glass. About halfway through her third drink she threw caution to the wind and called Detective Sharpe. The line rang a few times, then voicemail kicked in. She swallowed and croakily identified herself. She asked if he’d checked out a lead on a white SUV spotted by one of the neighbors the morning Barb had been shot. She also asked him to please call her the next day.
Damn Sharpe.
Why hadn’t he made any progress?
And why had she been so polite? She was angry. Fucking pissed off.
Alone.
Thirsty.
Food no longer appealed to her, she closed up the carton and tossed it in the almost empty fridge. She placed the fork and glass in the sink. Stared at them for a few seconds. Washed the fork and picked up the glass. One more drink wouldn’t hurt. The inner voice chimed in again, admonishing her that she’d had more than enough already.
Fuck the voice.
She dumped out the half-melted ice and ignoring the words of reason poured in about an inch of liquid, and then seeing not much was left, she went whole hog and drained the remaining liquor into her glass and tossed the dead soldier into the recycling bin. She felt ghostlike as she floated to the table and retrieved the green notebook and her phone, leaving her bag and work stuff. MC flicked the light off and fumbled through the darkened apartment to her bedroom.
She set her alarm and plugged her phone into the charger on the nightstand before she crawled into bed and propped herself up against the headboard. Thoughts swirled, a cyclone inside her mind. Her head began to ache. Pain, like a vise, squeezed her temples. She took another swallow in what was proving to be a vain attempt at silencing the demons.
Eventually, the notebook slipped from numb fingers. She sucked down the remainder of her drink, wishing she didn’t have to deal with any holiday ever again.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday, December 24
By nine, MC was half-assed together and in her car driving to Flannel. She ran in for a coffee. Twinkling strands of holiday lights hanging over the counter burned MC’s retinas. Thankfully Dara was nowhere to be seen. Meg was behind the counter and handed her a steaming coffee. MC promised to call later, then realized this promise had gone unfulfilled several times now. She couldn’t find it in herself to care.
Before MC could make her escape, Dara came around a corner. She hollered a happy greeting and made a point to look at a non-existent watch on her wrist.
“Looks like someone overslept,” Dara said. “Too much of the liquid Goose last night? You know—”
“Dara. Jesus!” MC checked her temper with effort.
“Just sayin’. It might be time for—”
“Stop. I don’t have time for a lecture about AA.” Dara’s chipper voice assaulted MC’s eardrums and set a drumbeat thumping in her skull. A cranial orchestra warming up.
“But, wait a minute. You should—”
“Please, please stop!” MC glanced toward the counter where Meg stood silent and anguished. MC took a gulp of air. “Look, I’m sorry. Both of you—I’m sorry, but I just can’t…”
She fled.
“Merry Christmas!” Meg’s voice followed MC back out into the arctic air.
Oh, my God, she thought. Exactly what I didn’t need to begin the day. Why does Dara have to do that? Why?
She s
at for a couple of minutes in the car, her forehead against the steering wheel. After a few sips of hot coffee, the banging in her head subsided, and she felt ready to drive.
The late morning traffic was light and she was relieved to make good time to work. Chelsea had the day off as did almost everyone on staff. Lights glowed in two other offices, Jamie’s and a newer inspector at the opposite end of the hall from her. She hoped Jamie hadn’t noticed she was late. A knock on her door quashed those hopes.
Jamie stuck his head in. “Morning.”
MC felt her face flush and busied herself booting up her computer. “Hi. Sorry I was late.” Bite the bullet, she thought.
“I got a call about forty-five minutes ago from Oldfield. He said he tried your number first and left a voicemail. They picked up Gavin Thomson and brought back him and his wife.”
MC managed to focus on Jamie, which wasn’t easy with the steady throbbing behind her eyeballs, her pulse a heavy metal bass beat hammering her brain. “That’s great news. I’ll call him and see what the game plan is. Hopefully he’ll allow me to interview Thomson, or at least sit in on the interview.”
She tried to set the coffee cup on her desk and misjudged. The cup fell to the floor, the khaki-colored liquid joining the other stains on the blue gray industrial carpeting.
“Crap!” MC shot up from her chair, sending it flying into the wall behind her.
Jamie stepped farther into the office. “MC? Are you okay? You seem frazzled.”
MC opened a desk drawer and grabbed a wad of stockpiled napkins. She dabbed the wet spot, soaking up what she could. “Got a late start.”
She didn’t add, and I hate the holidays, and someone fucking murdered my partner a month ago, but she wanted to.
“I hate oversleeping. Throws me off my game.” Her hands shook as she tossed the dripping brown mass into the trash can.
Jamie sat in one of the two chairs in front of MC’s desk. “Maybe you should take a few days off. You’ve suffered a traumatic experience, and you’ve worked long hours since you came back. I’ll give you as much time as you need.”
“Thanks, Jamie. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need more time off. I promise I’ll do better at getting here on time. Damn alarm didn’t go off this morning.” She shifted documents and files around on her desk, not meeting his gaze.
“If you change your mind let me know.” He stood. “I’m on call tomorrow, and I’ll be leaving at noon today. If you need anything you can reach me on my cell. Don’t put in a full day today. Go be with family or friends.”
“I’ll see what the plans are regarding Thomson first.”
Jamie placed a hand on the doorjamb. “I’m serious, MC. Cut out early. Don’t make me give you a direct order.” His tone was firm, but he gave her a half smile.
“Got it, boss.”
She called Oldfield, reaching him on his cell. He told her Thomson and his wife had been escorted back from Atlanta by a couple of agents.
They’d been booked on an outgoing flight to the Bahamas, a country with no extradition. Mrs. Thomson was driven home and questioned there. Gavin was being held at the Hennepin County Jail.
Oldfield asked how soon MC could get to the jail. She told him she needed next thirty minutes to complete an Investigative Memo on a mail theft complaint and then she’d be freed up. She was glad Crapper wasn’t around, he’d be dealing her a rash of shit for not handling the theft complaint faster. She wondered about her ex-boss’s circumstances . . . but not enough to go visit. It’s not like she’d heard a peep from him after Barb died.
She decided to take her car rather than sign out an official car and have to come back at the end of the day. She let Jamie know her plans and left.
When MC arrived at the Hennepin County Jail in downtown Minneapolis, Ferndale and Oldfield were waiting for her. In the conference room before the interview, MC flipped open her notebook. “Has Thomson said anything to anyone?”
Ferndale laughed. “Sorry, I’m a bit punchy. Running on fumes. He’s demanding to know why he’s here, why we won’t let him go, the usual. Mostly been pacing or drumming his fingers on the tabletop.”
MC leaned forward. “I’d like to take a crack at him.”
Oldfield pursed his lips.
MC said, “I’m sure I could get him to open up.”
Ferndale said, “I think it would be beneficial to have McCall in there. Thomson doesn’t seem like he’s easily intimidated. I’d like to try a different approach.”
Oldfield said, “What are you thinking?”
Ferndale said, “We set up in a less institutional room. He may feel more at ease, which could lead to him giving us what we’re after.”
“Exactly,” MC said.
“I checked and there is a room that’s quiet and furnished with a sofa and a fairly comfortable chair, plus a homey-looking floor lamp and low table between the sofa and chair. The camera is up in the corner behind the chair, so that’s where you’ll want to sit.”
“Let’s do it,” MC said.
Oldfield held up a hand. “Wait.” He swiped his phone screen. “New info from the search warrant authorizations. One of the techs finally filed his report on the nav system in both the Escalades owned by Stennard Global Enterprises.”
MC asked, “What took so long?”
Oldfield said, “We didn’t have access to this data until this latest round of search warrants.”
Ferndale chimed in, “Should’ve had those on the first warrants, but no sense in rehashing the issue now. What does the report show?”
“Hold on a sec,” Oldfield slid his finger down the phone screen, “here we go. The vehicle Klein used showed his final route on the last night he drove it. His fingerprints are all over every surface in that particular SUV.”
MC said, “Not an unexpected revelation.”
“Right, but the really interesting stats are from the second SUV. The last route shown on that navigation system is from the night of November seventeenth and indicates whoever drove the vehicle initiated a route back to the Stennard building from the boat storage site.”
Ferndale forward in his seat. “Wait. What time?”
Oldfield read from the email. “The time stamp coincides with the time of Arty’s disappearance.”
MC said, “I guess I’m not surprised. Cam and I have always believed someone from Stennard knocked off Arty.”
Oldfield said, “There’s more. A pair of black leather gloves were recovered from the floor on the driver’s side and one clear partial print was found on the nav control.” He looked up at the others in the room.
MC said, “The report pretty much rules out Klein as Arty’s murderer. Right? He couldn’t drive both SUVs on the same night.”
Oldfield said, “Agreed. And we know Thomson and Stennard were also in the building that night.”
MC nodded her head. “My money is on Thomson. Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger, but I think he set the wheels in motion. Do we have a match on the partial print?”
“No match yet,” Oldfield said. “But they’ll run it against Thomson and Stennard. Hopefully we’ll get a hit.”
Ferndale asked, “Has the lab done any testing on the gloves?”
Oldfield said, “In process. But it could take a couple weeks before we get all results back, even though I asked for expedited service.”
MC paged through her notes. “Okay, so we wait on the labs. Let’s go back to Klein. Check this out. He admitted in one of his interviews he’d snuck up to Stennard’s office the night of the meeting. He’d stood outside the door listening and picked up a couple tidbits. Enough to know Gavin was not pleased with Arty about something.”
Ferndale said, “And Klein also said he’d seen Arty talking on his phone after the meeting.”
MC said, “I think Arty was recording on his phone, not on a call.”
Ferndale pulled his chair closer to the conference table. “We need to chat with Klein again. See if we can shake loose anything more.”
MC said, “I agree on taking another crack at the guy. But the gloves in the second SUV bother me. What if whoever owns those gloves didn’t realize they’d dropped or misplaced them?”
Ferndale asked, “What’s that got to do with Klein?”
MC said, “Nothing. Sorry, about the tangent. I’m back to thinking about another person. Someone like, say, Thomson. If we can tie him to the second SUV and the gloves, we’d be a step closer to proving his involvement in the murder.”
Oldfield said, “Even if the shooter wore the gloves, there’s a chance any GSR on the gloves could’ve been washed or wiped off.”
MC stood her ground, her gut telling her she was on the right track. “Only if he realized GSR could be present on the gloves. He’d have to have known, then tried to clean them. I don’t think we’d have found them lying on the floor of the vehicle if he’d thought about cleaning them.”
Agent Ferndale said, “You may be on to something. I liked Klein for the murder, but—”
Oldfield said, “Put a pin in it for now. Let’s see if Mister Thomson can enlighten us.”
In the homey room, MC sat in the square-shaped chair leaving a loveseat-sized couch for her interviewee. A floor lamp stood behind a table, and a box of tissues was centered on the otherwise empty surface.
MC imagined someone seated on the couch hearing the news that a loved one had died. It would be a more civilized experience than she’d had when Barb was killed. Her chest tightened with pain.
She pushed those thoughts away and flipped open her notebook.
The door opened and a deputy escorted Gavin Thomson into the room. She remained seated, pretending to read some notes.
Thomson settled onto the sofa, a look of distaste on his face. “Where do they buy their furniture? Goodwill?” He picked red fuzz from his perfectly creased black wool dress pants and flicked it to the floor.
