EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You did threaten to tear Mr. Bannan's head off in front of witnesses—"

  "Maybe I would have, if I'd run into him in a bar after I'd had a few. But I didn't. And if I wanted him dead, I wouldn't need a car to do it. It's bad enough I had to take crap from that punk while he was alive, I'll be damned if I'll take any more now that he's toast. Especially from some backwoods taco bender. Get the hell out of my office."

  "Actually, I'm not Latin, sir, I'm Native American,” Zina said, rising. “Anishnabeg. And you're not required to answer questions without an attorney. No problem. I'll be happy to clear your name another way. How many red Cadillacs do you have in stock?"

  "Red? What are you talking about?"

  "The vehicle that struck Mr. Bannan's car left red paint scrapes on his door. I can just scrape paint samples from every red vehicle on your lots, then ship ‘em to Lansing to see if any of them match. I'm sure your body shop can touch them up, good as new."

  "Touch ‘em up?” Butch echoed, standing up, towering over her. “Look, you little beaner—” He broke off, staring at the gleaming blade of the boot knife Zina slid out of her ankle sheath.

  "I see two red Caddies out on your showroom floor,” she continued calmly. “I'll just scrape some paint samples on my way out. Unless you'd like to be the sweet guy I know you really are and tell me where the hell you were last night, Mr. Lockhart. Sir."

  * * * *

  "He was banging his new girlfriend,” Zina sighed, dropping into the chair at her desk. “A high-school cheerleader, no less.” They were in the Mackie Law Enforcement Center, a brown brick blockhouse just outside Valhalla, named for a trooper killed by a psycho survivalist during a routine traffic stop.

  Covering a five-county area, “the House” is shared by Valhalla P.D., the Sheriff's Department, and the Joint Investigative Unit. Amicably, for the most part.

  "How old is the girl?"

  "Eighteen. Street legal, but just barely. She confirmed Lockhart's story. I politely suggested she might want to try dating guys her own age. She told me to stick my advice in the trunk of her brand new Escalade. Paid-up lease, thirty-six months."

  "She's eighteen and he's what? Forty?"

  "Men are pond scum. I may have to switch to girls. What'd you get from Lockhart's ex?"

  "Bannan was with her last night. They ate a late dinner, then thoroughly enjoyed each other's company. She fell asleep afterward. Her best guess is, he bailed out sometime after eleven. She has no alibi, but no motive, either. He made her rich and she was in love with the guy."

  "Or in heat,” Zee said. “Scratch both Lockharts then, who does that leave?"

  "Old Man Ferguson can't be too happy about being declared incompetent. And the Reisers, who have some kind of a beef over their scheduling. Plus pretty much everybody Jared Bannan ever met. The guy loved ticking people off."

  "You're forgetting the widow. Five mil's a helluva motive, Doyle, and she definitely ducked some of our questions."

  "Lehman said their relationship was pretty chilly. What did you make of her?"

  "Same as you. She's smart, has great legs, and she's about to have five mil in the bank. Hey, maybe I will switch to girls. You want me to re-interview her while you run down Ferguson?"

  "No, let's try the Reisers first. The boat works will close in an hour."

  * * * *

  The Lone Pine boatyard was on the tip of Point Lucien, an isolated peninsula jutting into Grand Traverse Bay. A narrow, two-lane blacktop was the only access.

  "Not much development out here,” Zina noted. “Can't be many private shoreline sites left."

  "Which should make the Reisers a bundle when they sell,” Doyle said, wheeling the cruiser into the small parking lot. Switching off the engine, they sat a moment, listening to the lonely lapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls.

  The yard wasn't much to look at. The only buildings were a cabin, a curing shed stacked with drying lumber, and the boat works itself, a long warehouse surrounded by a deck that extended out over the water, built of rough-hewn timbers culled from the surrounding forest.

  A young girl was huddled in a lawn chair at the end of the dock, fishing with a cane pole, an ancient Labrador Retriever at her feet. The dog raised its head, growling a warning as the two officers approached.

  "Shush, Smokey,” the girl said. “Daaa-ad! The police are here. Have you been bad again?” Her impish grin faded into a spate of coughing. She was muffled in a heavy parka, though the temperature on the point was a full ten degrees warmer than the inland hills. Lake effect. Her head was swathed in a turban against the cold, and to cover her baldness.

  "Something I can do for you folks?” Emil Reiser asked, stepping out to meet them. He was a bear of a man, dressed for blue-collar work, red-and-black checked flannel shirt, jeans, and cork boots. He needed a shave and his wild salt-and-pepper mane hung loosely to his shoulders. Two fingertips on his left hand were missing.

  "Don't mind the dog, he's harmless, mostly. Is this business or pleasure?"

  "It's business, Mr. Reiser."

  "Yeah? Buying a boat, are you? ‘Cause that's the only business I'm in."

  "Actually, it's about your wife's attorney, Jared Bannan."

  "Hell, what does that bastard—” Reiser broke off, glancing at his daughter, who was watching them intently. He flashed her a quick command in sign language and the girl turned away.

  "She's hearing-impaired?” Doyle asked.

  "Among other things.” Reiser sighed. “We'd better talk inside. That kid can eavesdrop at fifty yards."

  Reiser's workshop was like stepping back in time. The long room had four wooden hulls on trestles, in various states of completion. The air was redolent of sawdust, wood shavings, and shellac. Not a power tool in sight. But for the bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling beams, the works could have time-traveled from the last century. Or the one before that.

  Zina wandered between the boats, running her hand over the hulls.

  "Beautiful,” she murmured. She paused in front of a rifle rack against the wall that held a dozen long guns, scoped Springfields and Remingtons, plus a pair of ‘94 Winchester lever-action carbines. “Expecting a war, Mr. Reiser?"

  "They're hunting guns, miss."

  "What do you hunt?"

  "I don't, anymore. I build boats. And don't be wanderin’ around back there. Workshops can be dangerous."

  "Is that how you lost your fingertips?” Zina asked, rejoining them.

  "My fingers?” Reiser glanced at them, as if he was surprised they were missing. “Yeah. Bandsaw, couple of years ago."

  "Looks like it hurt,” Doyle said.

  "Compared to what?” Reiser snapped. “Your eye don't look so hot either, sport. Can we get on with this? I got work to do."

  "I understand you had a beef with Jared Bannan?” Doyle said.

  "My wife and I are breaking up. God knows, we've had enough trouble the past few years to wreck anybody. I got no beef with Rosie taking half of everything, though she's been doing more drinkin’ than workin’ lately. When this is over, I'll probably get drunk for a month myself."

  "When what's over?"

  "Our daughter is dying,” Reiser said bluntly. “Cancer. You'd think being born deaf would be enough grief for any child, but...” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

  "I'm sorry,” Doyle said. “Truly."

  "It can't be helped,” Reiser said grimly. “All I asked from Bannan was a few extra months, so Jeanie could be at home until ... her time. Rosie was okay with it, but Bannan said he had a big-bucks buyer lined up who wouldn't wait. Then Rosie's drunk-ass boyfriend put in his two cents. If Marty Lehman hadn't broken things up I swear I would've pounded ‘em both to dog meat. But I never laid a hand on either of ‘em. If Bannan claims I did, he's lying."

  "Mr. Bannan isn't claiming anything,” Doyle said mildly, watching Reiser's face. “He's dead. His car was run off the road last night."

  "Jesus,” Reiser said, combing his thick mane back
out of his face with his shortened fingertips. “Look, I had no use for the guy, but I had no cause to harm him."

  "Not even to get the extra time you wanted?” Zina asked.

  "We already worked that out. My wife'll tell you."

  "Where is she?"

  "Stayin’ at the Lakefront Inn, in town. On my dime. With her speed-freak boyfriend, Mal La Roche."

  "We know Mal.” Doyle nodded. “Would you mind telling us where you were last night?"

  "Here with Jeanie, where else? You can ask her if you want, just don't upset her, okay? She's got enough to deal with."

  "We'll take your word for it, Mr. Reiser. No need to bother the girl. Thanks for your time. And we're very sorry for your trouble."

  Zina craned around to take a long look back as they pulled out of the boatyard. Reiser was at the water's edge, standing beside his daughter, his hand on her shoulder. Talking intently on a cell phone.

  "We'll take your word for it?” she echoed, swiveling in her seat to face Doyle.

  "As sick as that kid is, she probably goes to bed early, and she's hearing-impaired. How would she know whether Reiser went out? What did you make of him?"

  "An edgy guy with a world of trouble. Given his state of mind, I wouldn't want to get crossways of him right now. You think his daughter's the kid Dr. Bannan mentioned? The one who wanted an early Christmas?"

  "She's deaf, and the Blair Center is the only school for special-needs students. Check with the school when we get back to the House. Meantime, we'll talk to Reiser's wife, confirm his story."

  "Or not,” Zina said.

  * * * *

  "Rosie don't want to talk to you,” Mal La Roche said, blocking the motel-room doorway, has massive arms folded. Shaggy and unshaven, Mal was a poster boy for the cedar savages, backwoodsmen who still live off the land, though nowadays they're more likely to be growing reefer or cooking crank than running trap lines. Mal has two brothers and a dozen cousins rougher than he is. Every cop north of Midland knows them by their first names.

  "This isn't a roust, Mal, it's a murder case,” Doyle explained. “We need to ask the lady a few questions, then we're gone."

  "Or we can pat you down for speed,” Zina added. “You look jumpy to me, Mal. Been tootin’ your own product again?"

  "I ain't—"

  "It's all right, Mal, I'll talk to them.” Rosie Reiser pushed past Mal. Bottle blond and blowsy, in a faded bathrobe, she looked defeated. And half in the bag. “Out here, though, not inside. Things are a mess in there. Is this about Bannan?"

  "Your husband called you?” Doyle asked.

  She nodded. “He said you might be by."

  "Did he also tell you what to say?"

  "I don't need him for that!” Rosie said resentfully. “I'm here, ain't I?"

  "So you are,” Zina said, glancing pointedly around at the rundown motel cabin, “though I can't imagine why. Your daughter—"

  "Is where she needs to be! With her father, by the damn lake. His little princess. It's always about her! Has been since she was born. Never about me."

  "Okay, what about you?” Zina said coolly. “Is this dump where you should be?"

  "Just ask your questions and git!” Mal put in. We don't need no lectures."

  "What was the beef between your husband and Jared Bannan?” Doyle asked.

  "It's over and done with."

  "I didn't ask if it was settled. I asked what it was about?"

  "It...” Rosie blinked rapidly, trying to focus through a whiskey haze. “I don't know. Something about ... Emil wanted to wait until after Jeanie ... you know."

  "Dies?” Zina prompted coldly. “And Bannan had a problem with that?"

  "He had some big-shot buyer lined up, but they wanted to break ground right away,” Mal put in. “It's taken care of now, though. Jared and Emil worked it out."

  "How?” Doyle asked.

  "I don't know the details."

  "Who was the buyer?"

  "We don't know!” Rosie snapped. “I just know it's settled."

  "Because your husband said so?"

  "Screw this, I don't have to talk to you. You want to arrest me, go ahead."

  "Why would we arrest you?” Doyle asked, puzzled.

  "That's what you do, ain't it? So get to it or take a hike.” She thrust out her wrists, waiting for the cuffs.

  "We're sorry for your trouble, ma'am,” Doyle sighed. “Have a nice day."

  Zina started to follow him to the car, then turned back.

  "Mrs. Reiser? It's none of my business, but losing a child must be incredibly difficult. You might want to wait a bit before you throw away your marriage for the likes of Mal La Roche."

  "Hey,” Mal began, “you can't—"

  "Shut up, Mal, or I'll kick your ass into next week. Mrs. Reiser—"

  "Butt out, Pocahontas,” Rosie said, clutching La Roche's arm protectively. “At least Mal can show me a good time. Just because Emil's got no life don't mean Igotta live like a damn hermit."

  "No, I guess not.” Zee shrugged. “You're right, ma'am. You're exactly where you belong."

  * * * *

  "It's the same kid,” Zina said, hanging up her phone. “Jeanie Reiser is enrolled at Blair Center. Or was. A special-needs student, hearing-impaired. She was taken out of school a few weeks ago, because of health issues."

  They were in their office at the House.

  "Which means Dr. Bannan knows Emil Reiser,” Doyle mused. “Interesting."

  "Interesting how?” Zina snorted. “Like Strangers on a Train? He kills her husband and ... Who does she kill? Mal La Roche? Besides, neither one of ‘em has an alibi."

  "Maybe they aren't as tricky as the guys in the movie."

  "Yep, that sounds like the doc all right. Dumb as a box of rocks."

  "That's not what I—"

  "Glad I caught you,” Captain Kazmarek interrupted, poking his head in the door. Fifty and fit, “Cash” Kazmarek bossed the Investigations unit. An affable politician, he was also a rock-solid cop, twenty-five years on the Tri County Force. “I got a call from the sheriff's department at Gaylord. They have your truck. Red Ford pickup, passenger's-side front fender damaged, reported stolen yesterday. Found it an hour ago, abandoned in a Wal-Mart parking lot. What the hell happened to your eye?"

  "Hockey game,” Doyle said. “Did the security cameras catch anything?"

  "Nope. The driver dumped it behind a delivery van to avoid the cameras. No prints, either. None. Wiped clean, they said."

  "A professional?” Zina asked.

  "Could be,” Kazmarek said, dropping into the chair beside Doyle's desk. “Or maybe some buzzed-up teenager with more luck than brains. Where are you on this thing?"

  "We've got suspects, but it's a fairly long list,” Doyle said. “Bannan majored in making enemies. Why?"

  "Actually, a matter of overlapping jurisdictions has come up. I want you to drop a name to the bottom of your list."

  "Let me guess,” Zina said. “Dr. Lauren Bannan?"

  "Lauren?” Kazmarek asked, surprised. “Is she a suspect?"

  "The wife's always a suspect. Why, do you know her?"

  "We've met. She's done some counseling for the department."

  "No kidding? Who'd she shrink?” Zee asked.

  "None of your business, Detective. And Lauren's not the name we need to move anyway. According to my sources, Emil Reiser has an ironclad alibi for that night."

  "What alibi?” Doyle asked. “He claimed he was home alone with his sick kid. There's no way to verify that."

  "Consider it verified,” Cash said, rising briskly. “As far as we're concerned, Mr. Reiser was at the policemen's ball, waltzing with J. Edgar Hoover in a red dress."

  "Hoover?” Zina echoed. “Are you saying the Feds want us to lay off Reiser?"

  "I didn't mention the Feds, because a snotty FBI agent in Lansing asked me not to,” Cash said mildly. “That crack about Hoover must have been a Freudian thing. Forget you heard it. Clear?"

&
nbsp; "Crystal. Does this mean Reiser is totally off limits, Captain?"

  "Not at all, this is a murder case, not a traffic stop. Just make sure you exhaust all other avenues of investigation before you look at Reiser again. And if you come up with solid evidence against him, I'll want to see it before you go public. Any questions?"

  "You're the boss,” Doyle said. “What about Mrs. Bannan?"

  "I'd be surprised if Lauren's involved,” Kazmarek said, pausing in the doorway. “But I'm obviously a lousy judge of character. I hired you two, didn't I?"

  Zina and Doyle eyed each other a moment after Cash had gone.

  "Federal,” Doyle said at last.

  "There's no way Reiser can be an informant,” Zina said positively. “That boatyard's in the middle of nowhere and he's been out there for years."

  "Which leaves WITSEC,” Doyle agreed. “Witness protection."

  "So Reiser gets a free pass just because he testified for the Feds once upon a time?"

  "No way, in fact it makes him more interesting. But since he's officially at the bottom of our list now, let's see how fast we can work our way back down to him. Ferguson's the only suspect we haven't interviewed. We might want to look at Mal La Roche, too, just on general principles—"

  "That's the second time you've done that,” Zina said.

  "Done what?"

  "Left the foxy doc off the list. She's got five million reasons to want her husband dead, Doyle. She's connected to Reiser and she definitely ducked some of our questions. Or maybe you didn't notice? Because you're a guy and the doc definitely isn't."

  "That's crap!” Doyle snapped. “I'm not...” He broke off, meeting Zee's level gaze. Realizing there might just be a kernel of truth in what she said. As usual.

  "Okay.” He nodded. “Straight up, do you seriously think she killed her husband? Or had it done?"

  "I don't know. Neither do you. But she was definitely holding something back. Maybe it's connected to her husband's death, maybe not, but if we're crossing names off our list, I think I should question her again. Alone, this time. Girl talk. Unless you've got some objection? Sergeant?"

  Doyle scanned her face for irony. He'd been partnered with Zina Redfern since she transferred north. Nearly four years now. And he still had no idea how her mind worked. Nor any other woman's mind, for that matter.