Dead Poor

by M. K. Coker

Well. Karen didn’t have to wonder who was top dog in their relationship.

  Digges tugged on his tie. “I just... Bunting was the law. Or about to be. I asked him, purely in a professional capacity, if the will was valid. Bunting took the will, looked at it, and said it wasn’t, because that required two witnesses.” Digges pointed to the will. “Just look. No witnesses.”

  Marek asked him, “Was Bunting holding that over your head, to keep from being evicted? Is that why you killed him at the trailer park?”

  Rather than end the interview right there, as Karen had half expected, Michelle Bayton leaned back in her chair, her gaze hooded, her fingernails tapping.

  Apparently taking that as support, Digges sneered again, a full, ripe one this time. “Read my lips, idiot. The. Will. Was. Not. Valid.”

  Karen snagged the heavy volume on the filing cabinet and dropped it onto the table in front of Digges, making him jump. His wife, on the other hand, just raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  “That, Mr. Digges, is a copy of the revised statutes of South Dakota.”

  “I can read. Unlike some. So what?”

  “So, Mr. Digges, that will? This one here? The one you admit you found, admit you did not hand over to the proper official? The one that does not, in fact, mention you at all?” Karen noted the fingernails stopped, at the high point, in a deadly claw. “That will is valid.”

  “Bull. That’s just bull. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me. I watch cop shows. You’re not going to trick me into saying something I didn’t do, like some retard, like your so-called detective. You’re just trying to pin Bunting on me because you’re too incompetent to find the real killer.”

  Karen just shook her head. “It is a holographic will. In Ted’s own handwriting. All it requires is a date. As you can see, it has one. No witnesses required.” She pushed the book toward him. “Read it and weep, Mr. Digges. Judge Rudibaugh says the will is perfectly legal. He will be reversing his grant of letters of administration immediately. He will stand in as administrator of Ted’s estate until the legatee or legatees can be found.” Karen allowed herself a small, tight smile. “Yeah. Don’t like being evicted, do you? Churn, baby, churn.”

  “No. No. No! That cannot be true.” Digges turned in his chair, his hands out, pleading. “Right, honey? They’re just jerking my chain. Right?”

  Unfortunately for the investigation, his shock was far too real to be feigned. Karen shared a disappointed look with Marek. Digges hadn’t known the will was valid. Hence, it wasn’t a motive for murder. Maybe they could get him on an obstruction charge, but his wife would probably spin that as simply trusting the word of a man who’d been elected to office in a county he wasn’t familiar with.

  Michelle Bayton tugged on the law book, turning it so she could read, which she did easily and quickly, and without a single demur. “We could sue on grounds of unsound mind...” she started to say, more for form, Karen thought, than anything. An automatic, lawyerly sort of answer.

  Karen countered just as automatically, just as easily. “The judge saw Ted the day after he wrote that will and said he was fine. Ted died of a massive stroke, not dementia.”

  A faint smile curved her lips. “Very good, Sheriff. Detective. You played that just right. Alan is many things, but he is no actor. Nor, I will add, a killer, much as that might satisfy you and, I’ll admit, me.”

  That came out of left field, shocking Karen and, if she read her detective right, Marek.

  “Michelle...” Digges got out.

  Recovering first, Marek asked Michelle Bayton, “You can vouch for your husband’s whereabouts from about one to two in the morning last Friday night?”

  “Normally, no. We have separate rooms. He tends to come in late, drunk and disorderly. I found that endearing. For about two weeks. Unfortunately, last Friday night, I was up drafting a deal for new construction near the Falls, and he did, in fact, come in at one-twenty-three by my phone clock. I reamed him out for it, as he was supposed to be home much earlier, for a charity gig at the Pavilion.” She gave Karen a bright smile, more than a hint of shark in her gleaming white teeth. “That was, in fact, when I decided to file for divorce.”

  Every last drop of color drained out of Alan Digges’s face. “Michelle...”

  She turned on him. “You always were full of it. You just dressed it up so well, I missed it. But I wasn’t stupid enough to take you on without a prenup. And that will stand.” She stripped off her impressive diamond and plunked it on the open book before him. “I bought that. You can take it as the last thing you’ll ever have from me.”

  While he stared at it, she turned back to Karen. “Sheriff, I’d appreciate it if you kept my name out of this, just as I kept mine out of his. We Baytons may play hard, but we play within the rules.” She gave Karen a genuine smile. “I was, by the way, at USD the same time you were. I was a fan girl. Sobbed my eyes out when you got fouled on that last shot and the idiot refs didn’t call it. And I’ve followed you in the news ever since you took over here, against a lot of opposition. I admire grit—and smarts.”

  She turned her high wattage smile next on Marek. “Detective, I believe you have more than enough evidence to lay obstruction charges on my soon-to-be ex. And if the other allegations hold—and they likely will without me and my legal team’s help—he may well be facing jail time. Alan, if you play nice, I’ll keep you out. But I don’t want to hear so much as a peep out of you over the divorce.”

  When Digges raised his head, eyes watering, Karen actually felt sorry for the man, until he said, “Go to hell, Michelle. That prenup won’t stand. And you’re not going to get anyone better than me at your age. Live with me, or fork it over, babe.”

  His wife’s smile just got wider. “You always did underestimate me. And you know what?” She reached over and fingered the lapel of his silk shirt. “I think you would look wonderful in Day-Glo orange. I look forward to making sure that happens. See you in court.”

  She swept out, leaving Digges with a diamond, and Karen and Marek with coal.

  A win on minor charges... but a loss on the major. No killer, just a loser.

  CHAPTER 32

  Karen nudged the remains of the egg-salad sandwich she’d picked up at the gas station and regretted as soon as she took a bite. “Do you think we laid an egg on this one?”

  Marek looked up from perusing the drone footage of Grove Park again. He’d been trying, without success, to narrow their search area. “An egg?”

  “A big fat zero. Our batting average on homicides has been perfect so far. And while Bunting may have been a zero, we need to clear this one, for obvious reasons.”

  Marek rolled back from his computer to look at her. “Because people might still suspect you were involved, just because of the history between you?”

  The two of them were alone in the office. Josephine had typed up all of Marek’s oral reports in record time and flown off to her grandson’s debut on the rodeo circuit.

  Karen nodded. “Conspiracy theorists are thriving these days. And Bunting played a pivotal role in two of my biggest losses: Eyre and the election.”

  Marek played with a paperweight on his desk, one of those snow globes that made her want to tell him not to tempt the weather gods. “You got both back.”

  “Did I?” Karen sighed as he looked up with what she thought of as his Byzantine look—long-faced, cheekbones straining. “No, nothing’s happened with Eyre. I’m just... disoriented. Not sure where I stand anymore, what I want, where I’m going. Beware of getting what you ask for, I guess. We haven’t had time to really let everything sink in, now that I’m back in town, that I’m the elected sheriff. But... you have. It didn’t matter so much to you, did it, where you ended up? If Becca had chosen Albuquerque instead of Reunion, you’d have accepted that.”

  He shrugged. “Easier to accept with you poised to take the job there and Nikki willing to make the jump once she finished out her contract. Even...”

  “Even my dad,
Clara, and Joey. Wholesale Okerlund going-out-of-business sale. Or as Digges would say, ‘Churn, baby, churn.’ We just needed to get Eyre on board.”

  He quirked his brow. “And Larson?”

  The door opened on cue. “Speaking of the devil.”

  Dirk Larson would never win Mr. Personality awards. He walked right up to her desk, stole what was left of her sandwich, and chomped down. “Disgusting.”

  “Succinct. True. Gas station fodder.”

  Like Marek, this Chicago-bred cop wasn’t easy to read, unless you knew the signs, and a tic at the side of his mouth told her he was amused. “Fuel.”

  Karen gave up the exchange of bullets. “You’ll need fuel to get all those big words out in a coherent fashion. Where is your sidekick and interpreter, by the way? Out to lunch? Or out to get lunch?”

  “Still in Aberdeen. Let her fly solo.”

  Good for Jessica.

  “Need coffee,” Larson told her.

  When Karen brought out the mugs, Larson had pulled up to Marek’s monitor. The drone footage ended, and he pushed back, cupped the mug, and sipped. “Thanks. Cooling fast.”

  She frowned at him. “Not that fast. Unless you drink your coffee like a society diva.”

  Lips already on the lip of the mug, he managed, “Outside.”

  With a sinking feeling, Karen walked over to the large picture window. The forecasted day, sunny and warm in the high fifties, had turned nasty. Leaves were jaywalking the street with wild abandon. “Darn it.” She glanced at the clock. “We start the search in an hour. Cough up your report, Larson. I need to get out there to round up the troops.”

  He took another sip. “Going with you.”

  “Why?”

  He jerked his head at the window. “Bad weather. Low turnout.”

  She didn’t think so, but she wouldn’t mind another set of eyes, even though Larson was unused to searching for bad guys in the real wilderness, as opposed to the urban jungle. “Sure. We can use you. But what do you have for us? Anything we can use, now that we’ve lost Digges as a suspect?”

  Larson settled down with his mug in Walrus’s chair. “Bunting’s SUV. Blood, grass, leaves in the back. Blood insufficient to suggest your vic was still alive.”

  No big surprise there. “Consistent with Taylor Peterson’s story, then. Bunting was dead when Peterson transported him to the overlook and dumped the body into the john.” Karen got up and paced from pillar to pillar. She had so many stray details crowded in her head—and traffic jams were rare in this part of the country—that she needed to get moving again. “Good to have confirmation on that point, as Mr. Merciful here gave Peterson a ride on those charges in exchange for testifying against Digges. Much less satisfying when that deal is for probate fraud and eviction irregularities rather than murder, but so be it.”

  Marek shifted in his chair. “What about the rifle?”

  Karen turned to stare at him. “What rifle?”

  Amusement creased Larson’s forehead. “Bunting’s. Scope. In the SUV.”

  “Oh, yeah. The evil eye. Was it infrared?”

  “Only the best.”

  Karen rubbed the back of her neck. “So who was Bunting going to shoot? Peterson? No, wait, we’re back at the encampment now, not the trailer park. I need a drink.” She grabbed her coffee and saw Marek staring off into space. “Okay, what’s going on in that head of yours, Marek?”

  “Was the rifle dirty or clean?” he asked Larson.

  “No dirt. Only his prints.”

  Marek’s gaze focused again. “Not wiped clean, then.”

  Larson tilted his head then swiped a finger in the air. “Point to Okerlund.”

  “When did we start taking points? And just what are you two... oh. I get it. If Bunting was stabbed when holding the rifle, you’d expect the rifle to fall to the ground and pick up grass, soil, whatever. And that you’d get the killer’s prints, too, if it weren’t wiped clean. Maybe he wore gloves?”

  “Stretching it,” Larson told her.

  “Not that much of a stretch. Nights are getting cold. Or... the evil eye thing was just a distraction, the original red herring, or the ravings of an unsound mind. The mentally ill make up some significant fraction of homeless, and Mary Johnson could be just that. We need to get a better handle on her. Marek, can you—”

  “Not done yet,” Larson interrupted. “Bunting’s phone. Last call. One-thirteen. From Alice Dutton. Aleford.”

  “His aunt. We knew about that. Texts?”

  “Plenty of texts to a Kaylee. Some pretty hot. Lots of others to sort through.” He jerked his head to where he’d placed a folder. “But nothing close to TOD.”

  While Marek retrieved the folder, Karen glanced at the clock. They didn’t have much time. “Kaylee Early was his girlfriend—who is pregnant, though she doesn’t realize it yet.” Seeing the brows shoot up, she went back to bullets. “Sweet. Clueless. Brother an opioid dealer. Side hustle with Bunting.”

  “Gotcha.” Larson didn’t even blink. “Shoes. Bits of glass in soles.”

  “From trail monitors that Biester set up that the homeless destroyed.”

  “Heels more productive. Leaves. Pine needles. Mud. Bark.”

  Marek sat straight up.

  “What did you find?” she demanded.

  “Bark on top of the mud?” he asked Larson and got another point.

  “Will you two stop doing that?” She yanked at her hair. “Bark is all over the place. It comes from... logs. You think Bunting was dragged over the creek? That the trailer park wasn’t the kill site, after all?”

  Larson gave her half a point. “Didn’t see the scene. Can’t say.”

  “Oh, right. Bunting was found on the grass by the last trailer. Taylor Peterson’s trailer. The grass was tamped down but no footprints.”

  The finger went all the way up.

  “Not the kill site. Wow. Okay. We’re back in the woods.” Karen sank down on her desk, dislodging another eviction notice. At least she could ignore that. “So... we’ve got the encampment, and we’ve got Mountain Man out there somewhere. Maybe he killed Bunting and dragged him over to the trailer park. Dumped him just enough into the grass that we think the killer is from the trailers. Whoever Mountain Man is, he has to have some muscle to drag that load.” She noticed that Marek was looking off into space again. “Think out loud.”

  Marek glanced at Larson. “Bunting’s SUV. Steering wheel?”

  Another point given. “Wiped clean.”

  Karen tried to keep up. “Ah. The SUV wasn’t there when Pastor Tricia went to see Peterson. So either Bunting drove the SUV to the trailer park and went into the woods, where he got killed... or the killer dragged him over then realized the SUV was still in the encampment parking lot, which would lead back to him, so the killer drove it over with the lights off, just like Peterson did later when he went to the overlook. Two dumps.” When she saw the amusement in her companions’ faces, she backed up. She groaned and swiped her jacket and her cap, tugging it on. “Stop it with the sophomoric humor.”

  “Anal,” Larson muttered.

  She ignored that, and him, as she stabbed Marek with her finger. “You’d better hope we can find the pocketknife engraved with I Am the Killer. Taylor Peterson wiped the steering wheel and the door handles. We’re so screwed for evidence. And I want Peterson’s hide, no matter the deal, if that keeps us from nailing our killer. Let’s go find Mountain Man.”

  “Wait.” Larson leapt to his feet. “Crap.”

  “Don’t get started again,” she warned.

  “No, really. Feces.”

  She turned with her hand on the door. “The dental implant?”

  “We’ve got cells. But DNA will take time.”

  That reminded her that they had another suspect to wrangle besides Mountain Man. “Marek, take your pickup and see if you can round up Donahue before the search. He’s not out of the woods yet.”

  Marek went out the back way while Karen followed Larson out the front.
A huge gust blew him back into her. She shoved him back. “Windy City wimp.”

  “That was a move.” Before she could pitch a comeback, he whirled her, dipped her, and kissed her. When he released her, her legs nearly gave out.

  Just where was this going, she wondered. She knew very little, really, about the DCI agent. He had baggage. His childhood, his marriage and divorce, the kids who’d turned on him—or been turned on him. None of which he talked much about. Like Bunting, he’d married a woman who’d made his life a living hell. Like Jim Early, he’d finally moved to get away from her. For a Chicagoan, South Dakota might as well be Mexico. “Larson...?”

  His bullet-gray eyes hooded. “Yes?”

  She wanted to ask, “Where is this going?” But what came out was, “You were poor growing up, right? But not homeless.”

  His eyes widened again, as if that wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. Good. That kept them both off balance. “Might’ve been better if we had been. Projects always were a bad idea. Concentrate poverty, and it just gets worse. You need to sprinkle it around.”

  From a recruiting trip, Karen remembered the towering concrete, the decay of the projects—one of the reasons she’d decided to stay in South Dakota to play hoops. His life and hers were poles apart. “You grew up on the South Side, right? How many got out like you?”

  He leaned into the wind as he walked down the steps toward his car. “Not many. Not always ones you’d expect, the talented ones.”

  “Like you?”

  “Got lucky. Got picked up for purse snatching by a young cop that wasn’t jaded yet—and had a passion for basketball. Worked my ass off on the court. Got me a scholarship to a ritzy Catholic high school. College scholarship from there. Without it? Probably dead, honestly.”

  “What was it like, growing up there?”

  “Terror and boredom—like being a cop.” He opened the door. “Park might be both.”

  After he got in and shut the door, her phone rang. Snatching it up, she groaned. Nails.

  “I saw that kiss,” he told her. She glanced kitty-corner at the top floor of the old library, and he waved at her.