Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  I headed upstairs to the bedrooms and snapped the two boys’ rooms first, poking around as I went. From there I moved into the master bedroom and took some more shots, including one of the phone charger. In the closet I found two items of women’s clothing hanging along with all the men’s stuff: one white blouse and a pair of gray dress slacks. I didn’t know how Derrick’s wife was built, so I couldn’t be sure these weren’t left over from her, but the tiny size of the clothing made me think they might be Mandy’s.

  Richmond came up a few minutes later and found me peeking into Derrick’s dirty clothes hamper. With a gloved hand I reached in and snagged the black lacy thong that was lying on top and showed it to Richmond. “Either Derrick had a secret fetish, or Mandy was here recently.”

  “I’m going to hope for the latter,” Richmond said. He peered closer at the undies and said, “How does someone wear those things?”

  “It’s a thong.” I held them up by the waist and showed him the back part. “This part goes up your butt crack.”

  Richmond made a face. “I know what it is. I just don’t get how anyone could wear it. It looks like it would be really uncomfortable.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I told him, tossing the thong back in the hamper. “I’ve never been much into butt floss, and to be honest, most of the panties in my size are boring old granny panties. Apparently the lingerie makers figure that if you aren’t a size zero or two, you wouldn’t want to strut around in sexy undies.”

  Richmond was staring at his feet and shifting uncomfortably from one to the other.

  “Sorry,” I said, giving him an apologetic look. “Was that too much information?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just a topic I don’t know much about. I don’t have any sisters, I’ve never been married, and I never dated much. Most of the girls I knew weren’t too keen on going out with someone who looked like Jabba the Hutt.”

  My heart ached for the guy. I realized then what a lonely existence he must have had prior to his weight loss. “You don’t look like Jabba the Hutt anymore,” I said. “In fact, you’re looking pretty darned good these days, Richmond.”

  “Too bad I didn’t lose the weight when I was younger. Things might have been a whole lot different.”

  “It’s never too late to start.”

  “I’m going to be fifty in June, Mattie.”

  “So?”

  He sighed and shook his head. Then he switched topics on me. “Our dispatcher just called and said the officers are bringing Ames’s wife and kids down to the station at ten, which gives us about twenty minutes.”

  “Is Arnie here yet?”

  “He is. In fact, he’s in the kitchen as we speak trying to convince Jonas that Elvis Presley isn’t dead, but rather that he faked his death and had a wax body buried in his coffin so he could escape from the music business and go off somewhere private and live in peace.”

  “Poor Jonas,” I said, shaking my head and smiling. “I just hope all those steroids he’s been taking don’t trigger any ’roid rage in him or we may end up with a double homicide to investigate.”

  “Junior might have saved the day. He loaned Jonas his iPod and some earbuds so Jonas can tune Arnie out.”

  “Ooh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said with a grimace. “Just the other day Arnie was telling me about the latest conspiracy theory circulating on the Internet regarding iPods.”

  Richmond gave me a puzzled look, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then snapped it shut again, shaking his head. “I don’t want to know,” he grumbled under his breath.

  “Wise choice. Is it okay if I meet you at the station? I want to stop by my office and download these pictures first.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you there.”

  I exited the house and headed for my hearse, which I had been forced to park a few houses away because of all the other official vehicles on-site. It was dark outside, but the weather was warm, the sky was clear, and there were so many lights on in the neighborhood that it looked like daylight. The neighbors were still out in force, talking among themselves about what had happened. They all stared at me with wistful expressions, no doubt hoping I would share a juicy tidbit or two with them. From the corner of my eye I saw one woman separate herself from a group and head my way at a fast clip. It was Alison Miller, Sorenson’s ace reporter and photographer. I ramped up my pace, hoping to outrun her, but she was too close and too fast for me.

  “You know I can’t tell you anything, Alison,” I said as she caught up to me.

  “Oh, come on, Mattie. Give me something. Anything. Any kind of quote will do.”

  I kept going and said nothing, but if Alison is anything, she is persistent.

  “Please, Mattie?” she said, a bit breathless as she kept pace at my side. “Just a little something for old time’s sake?”

  I stopped then and whirled on her. “For old time’s sake? Seriously?” I said, looking askance. “You’ve done everything you can to embarrass me in that stupid rag you work for, publishing pictures of me half naked, and writing stories about how my divorce left me, and I quote, ‘unable to face the living so I decided to go work with the dead.’ And don’t even get me started on that whole business with Hurley a while back. How can you possibly think I’d want to help you after all that?” I turned away from her to continue my march to my car, but her next words stopped me short.

  “My mother’s dying,” she said.

  “What?” I turned back to her, unsure if I’d heard her right. The sad, overwrought expression on her face suggested I had.

  “You almost got rid of me,” she said with a painful smile. “Do you remember that fiasco with the Heinrich family?”

  I remembered it all right. A car accident had led to the death of multimillionaire Dietmar Heinrich and his second wife, Bitsy, who had been an exotic dancer prior to marrying Dietmar. Determining which of them had died first dictated who inherited the money—Bitsy’s kids or Dietmar’s—and the two families had engaged in some very public and ugly warfare. Because Dietmar Heinrich was a well-known public figure, news agencies from all over the country had descended on Sorenson to cover the case and the subsequent fallout. Alison found herself front and center, with a starring role in it all, and it had given her the kind of exposure most small-town reporters can only dream of.

  “Of course I remember it, Alison. That picture you took of me in my underwear at the Heinrich’s crash scene not only made it into the local paper, but into some national tabloids as well.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a wince. “Sorry about that, though technically it wasn’t my fault that the pictures got published.”

  She was right about that. It was a freakish sequence of events that led to the pictures getting out, but that didn’t mean Alison was off the hook. “If you hadn’t taken them in the first place, they never would have been published anywhere,” I said.

  “Yeah, like I said, I’m sorry about that,” she repeated, sounding genuinely sincere. “Anyway, after all the coverage from the various news outlets, the Chicago Tribune offered me a job. I was all set to accept it when my mother had what we thought at first was a stroke. Two days later she was diagnosed with ALS.”

  Now it was my turn to wince. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I told her, and I meant it. ALS is not a kind disease, slowly robbing its victims of every last bit of dignity before it kills them. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

  “Anyway, my parents split up eight years ago, and my dad moved out to California and married some hottie who’s younger than I am. I’m the only family my mother has left, and I didn’t feel I could leave her here alone, so I had to pass on the job offer.” She sighed. “For now I’m stuck here with this job, and I’m just trying to do the best with it that I can. So give me a break, okay?”

  She stared at me with pleading eyes that tore down any remaining defenses I might have had. “I’m truly sorry about your mom and your job, Alison. But I have to be careful. Bes
ides, the police are the gatekeepers for releasing facts when they feel it’s appropriate and won’t compromise the investigation. You really should be after them, not me.”

  “But they never tell me anything. I thought it might get easier when Steve Hurley left town, but Bob Richmond isn’t any better. In fact, if anything, he’s even more tight-lipped than Steve was. If I have to rely solely on them for information, I might as well quit my job. I need someone who will open up to me more. I was hoping that would be you, Mattie.”

  I saw Bob Richmond exit the Ames house and glanced at my watch. “I have to go, Alison. I’ll do what I can for you, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “Thanks, Mattie. I knew I could count on you.”

  I turned away from Alison and walked the rest of the way to my car, feeling like a heel. I was truly sympathetic to her plight and felt bad for her and her mother, knowing what lay ahead for them. I would do what I could for Alison, but I feared she might be expecting more than I was willing or able to give. I wasn’t going to do anything that would compromise my job or any of our cases.

  Normally the drive to my office would have taken five to seven minutes, depending on whether the two stoplights on Main were red or green. But on this particular night it took me a little longer because I noticed a car that fell in behind me as soon as I turned off Truman Street.

  As a test, to see if the car really was following me, I detoured from my usual route and drove up and down some residential streets, turning aimlessly, with no set destination in mind. Sure enough, the car behind me followed me turn for turn, though it did fall back some.

  After a half dozen random turns, I tired of the little cat-and-mouse game and headed instead for a nearby strip mall that had a small, well-lit parking lot. At least that way, if my pursuer continued to follow, I’d get a good look at the car and maybe even the driver.

  I headed down River Street—aptly named since it runs along the river that cuts through town—and approached the strip-mall parking lot. The car behind me continued to follow, closer now, and I flipped on my indicator and turned, only to watch with disappointment as the car revved up and passed me by.

  I caught a brief glimpse of the vehicle, but it was of little help. All I could tell was that it was a dark-colored sedan. I wasn’t even sure if it was the same car I’d seen earlier. That the car had been tailing me, I had no doubt. There was no other rational explanation for why it had followed the same zigzag route I’d driven. And after that pointless meandering through the neighborhood, I figured whoever was behind the wheel—and by now I was convinced that it had to be my father—had probably figured out I was on to him. Clearly he didn’t want to reveal himself yet for reasons only he knew, but I figured that eventually he’d make face-to-face contact and offer an explanation.

  Some other niggling part of my mind suggested that maybe the person making the calls and tailing me in the car wasn’t my father at all, but I rejected the thought almost immediately. At the time it was the only answer that made sense.

  As it turned out, I was wrong, and it was a mistake that nearly cost me my life.

  Chapter 7

  Idrove to my office, parked in the attached underground garage, and headed for the library, which did double duty as my office. It took me a few minutes to launch the appropriate software and hook the camera up to the computer to start the download. I glanced at my watch and saw it was only a few minutes before ten, and even though I knew it meant I might end up running late, I went looking for Izzy.

  He wasn’t in his office, so I made my way to the autopsy suite and peeked in through the window in the door. Izzy was there, his back to me, working alone on Derrick Ames’s autopsy. He was doing something down by Derrick’s legs, and I could see that he hadn’t cut the man open yet, but the barbecue fork had been removed from his chest and was sitting on a nearby stainless-steel table.

  I pushed the door open and said, “Hey, Izzy.” He startled, nearly falling off the stool he stands on in order to adequately reach the table. He clapped a hand over his chest and looked over his shoulder at me, eyes wide.

  “Oh, geez, sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to spook you. Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” he said, turning back to Derrick’s body, “just as soon as my heart rate slows down. You’d think that after all the years I’ve spent cutting open dead people that I’d be beyond getting the heebie-jeebies, but sometimes when I’m here alone, my imagination gets the better of me.”

  “I’d be more worried if it didn’t bother you,” I told him. “Any building at night when you’re alone can be scary. Throw in a few dead bodies and you’ve got the makings of a Stephen King novel.”

  “I’ve never read any of his stuff,” Izzy said. “All my reading time gets spent on professional journals.”

  “It’s probably just as well. That man cost me a few nights of sleep before I started this job. I don’t know if I’ll ever read him again now. Anyway, I just dropped off the camera and hooked it up to download the pictures. Come up with anything yet?”

  “Nothing surprising. Derrick has a black eye and a broken nose that looks like it bled a lot, so I’m pretty sure he took a hit in the face from something. He also has a number of fresh bruises on his arms and a linear bruise on his back just below his waist that I’m thinking must be from being pushed up hard against the counter. The arm bruises are most likely from the struggle he put up against his killer. Maybe I’ll come up with something more once I open him up.”

  “Need me to help you with anything?”

  “No, I’m okay. Just don’t sneak up on me again.”

  “You got it. I’m heading over to the police station to meet up with Bob Richmond and interview Ames’s family. After that I’ll probably head home. Should I pick you up when I’m done?”

  “No need. I’ll give Dom a call, and he can come and get me.”

  “Okay, but let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I will. Thanks. I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I left through the front door of the building and walked over to the police station, which was only a block away. Both buildings are located on the edge of the downtown area, and the streets are always well lit. Still, I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder a few times. I chalked my nerves up to pregnancy hormones and talk of Stephen King as opposed to any real-life threat, but I was still glad when I reached the police station and was safely inside.

  Stephanie, the evening dispatcher, was behind the desk, talking on the phone. She gave me a little finger wave and buzzed me through to the back.

  I found Richmond in Hurley’s office, sitting at Hurley’s desk. The sight of him there instead of Hurley made my chest ache.

  “Junior found a number for Derrick’s cell phone,” he said when he saw me.

  “And?”

  “And nothing,” he said with frustrated shake of his head. “When he tried to call, it went straight to voice mail. He had the phone company see if they could pick up a signal or activate the GPS on it, but they got nothing. They told Junior that it had to have been deactivated.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that either someone took the battery out of it, or they destroyed the phone.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You can still get his call records, though, right?”

  Richmond nodded. “Junior’s working on getting them now. We’ll have to wait until Monday to get the financials. In the meantime, I suppose we should go talk to the Ames family. You ready?”

  “I am. Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  He took the papers he was working on and tossed them atop a huge pile of folders. “I kept myself busy. That’s one thing about this job that never changes. There’s always paperwork to be done.” He stood, pushed his chair back into place, and said, “And the officers kept the Ames family busy getting fingerprinted. Wendy appare
ntly balked at first, but when the guys explained that we needed the prints for elimination purposes, she relented. They just finished a few minutes ago, and I had them put Ames’s ex-wife in the interview room. The two boys are back in the break room with Brenda Joiner. I’d like to talk to the boys individually, and ideally without their mother present, but I’m not sure Mrs. Ames will be on board with that.”

  “I’m surprised she allowed them to be separated from her at all.”

  “Brenda suggested that some of the things we needed to talk about might not be suitable for her sons to hear. Mrs. Ames made Brenda promise that her boys wouldn’t be questioned about anything without her knowledge and presence. Brenda agreed and then left Mrs. Ames in the interview room making phone calls.”

  “Isn’t that risky, letting her make phone calls before you talk to her? What if she’s working up an alibi or something?”

  “I had Brenda turn on the recording device before she left,” Richmond said with a wink. “So anything Wendy Ames says while talking on her phone will be recorded.”

  “Ah, very clever of you.”

  “I have my moments.”

  I updated Richmond on what Izzy had found so far as we headed for the interview room, which doubled as a conference room. There were no tiny interrogation rooms with small wooden tables and uncomfortable chairs here. The Sorenson PD did all of their interrogations at a large table that had eight plush chairs around it. It was the same table where they held most of their meetings. The room was carpeted and decorated, although the décor was hideous enough to drive the most determined suspects to confess, just so they wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. Despite the quasi-cozy décor, the room did have audio and video recording capabilities, and an observation room. The only other hint that the room served a dual purpose was a ring in the floor by the middle seat on the far side of the table. It was there so the cops could hook ankle cuffs to it in case anyone truly dangerous was brought in, though I’ve heard rumors that a rookie or two has been cuffed to it in the past as part of a hazing ritual.