by Matt Goldman
“You up?”
“I am. Caffeinated and everything.”
“You did it, Shap.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Not uh-oh. This is good. The carpet fibers in the gray dust at Maggie Somerville’s house match the carpet fibers at Andrew Fine’s office park.”
“Really.”
“I’m going to get warrants to search Andrew Fine’s house, the office park, and the call center.”
“Have you told McGinnis?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Let’s meet for breakfast,” he said. “We need to talk this over.”
My phone beeped. I looked at the screen. “Call you right back. I got Robert Somerville on the other line.”
“Make it quick.”
I accepted Somerville’s call. “Hello?”
“Hi, Nils. It’s Robert Somerville. I hope I’m not calling too early.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?”
“The police took Maggie’s computer the day she was killed to look at e-mails and Web history and whatever else they could find. So I don’t know what’s on there, but I was going through Maggie’s personal things for the funeral tomorrow and I found some letters.”
“What kind of letters?”
“Love letters.”
“Did you read them?”
“A couple. Then I stopped because I felt I was violating Maggie’s privacy. I know that sounds ridiculous. She’s dead. But I thought it might be better if you read them.”
“How old are they?”
“Not very,” said Robert. “There are references to things that happened only a few months ago. But they go back awhile. I’m not sure.”
“Have you told the police?”
“No. I thought about what you said. Even if the letters aren’t important, the police might use them to placate the press. And that could embarrass my kids. So I’m calling you instead.”
“How many are there?”
“A couple dozen, at least. You want to come take a look at them?”
“I do, thanks. And don’t touch them anymore. We’ll have to turn them over to the police eventually and they’ll dust them for prints.”
“Got it. The kids are out with their grandparents until this afternoon. Think you can drop by before then?”
“I’ll be there before lunch.”
I clicked back over to Ellegaard. “The Lowry at 8:30?”
“Sounds good.”
“And E, I want to invite Gabriella. We could use her input on this.”
“Can we still trust her?”
“Absolutely.”
We met at the Lowry in Uptown, away from Edina’s pricked-up ears and the red-scarfed Chief McGinnis. Ellegaard sat across from me, and Gabriella to my right, in a booth of tufted black vinyl near a wall made of cherrywood horizontal planks.
Inspector Gabriella Núñez wore black wool pants and a gray herringbone wool blazer over a baby blue crewneck sweater. Her brown face had a soft smile in a hard jaw. You both would and would not want to meet her in a dark alley. Either way you’d lose, but depending on what she thought of you, it might be worth taking a few on the chin.
Gabriella had round black eyes under accent-mark eyebrows. She’d braided her straight black hair and pinned it behind her head. Seventeen years had passed since we’d been cadets together at the Minneapolis Police Academy, and of the three of us, she had, by far, aged the best. Other than a few lines around her eyes and mouth, she could have passed for twenty-five.
She’d also surpassed Ellegaard and me at the job. I’d heard a hundred different people, all of them cops, lawyers, or politicians, say Gabriella would be the Minneapolis Chief of Police before she turned fifty. I believed it would happen if Los Angeles, New York, or Chicago didn’t make her chief first.
Ellegaard fidgeted, drank two cups of tea, and told the waitress he’d have the same eggs and toast I ordered even though he’d already eaten breakfast at home. A tall blonde with a soft, round face and muffin top spilling over her jeans said our food would be up in a few and left us to it.
“Two breakfasts,” I said to Ellegaard. “You’re a six-foot-three hobbit.”
“I eat when I’m nervous.”
“You should be nervous,” said Gabriella. “You two are dick-deep in shark-infested waters.”
“Hey, watch the language around Ellegaard. They don’t talk like that in Edina. You’re going to embarrass him.”
“Dick-deep water for Ellegaard is chest-deep water for you. You’re the one who should be embarrassed.”
“Hey, I’m embarrassed just to be alive.”
Gabriella Núñez smiled and Minneapolis jumped above zero for a heartbeat.
Ellegaard said, “How are we going to handle this Andrew Fine situation?”
I said, “Well, we can’t put a tail on Fine without the FBI knowing. That’s how I earned my little field trip to Brooklyn Center. So either you arrest Fine or we wait. But if we wait, we risk the chance of Fine finding out that we know about the carpet fibers. Then he becomes a flight risk.”
“McGinnis still hasn’t said a word to me about staying away from Fine.”
“Of course he hasn’t. He wants you to arrest Fine and get into it with the FBI.”
“So your chief has his bases covered,” said Gabriella. “Either the FBI hauls in a net full of terrorists and he associates himself with the bust, or he clashes with the FBI over the Somerville case and plays the local hero standing up to the big bad federal government.”
Someone other than the blonde brought out our food. Everybody’s a fucking specialist.
Gabriella said, “You boys up for a drive to Brooklyn Center?”
I said, “What do you got in mind?”
“You can’t trust McGinnis. You got to keep him a step behind you. And the way to do that is delegate to the Bureau.”
“You just earned yourself a free breakfast.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anything that came out of this little chat was your idea. I’m just a dumb girl with a pretty smile.”
Ellegaard laughed for the first time since showing me the dust-covered body in the big bedroom in Edina. We finished our food and drank refills of coffee and tea and tipped the blond waitress too much because she hustled to get us on the road when we were ready to go.
Ellegaard and I said good-bye to Gabriella then pulled out of the Lowry parking lot. I called ahead and told Special Agent Delvin Peterson to clear the conference room. He told me to fuck off. Ellegaard called Edina CSU and asked them to keep their mouth shut about the carpet fibers from Fine’s office park matching the dust in Maggie Somerville’s house. We drove north on Hennepin and merged onto 94, which took us straight to the FBI building.
Agents Delvin Peterson and No Chin Olson sat across from Ellegaard and me in the conference room. We didn’t say a word until Special Agent in Charge Colleen Milton entered with a perturbed look on her face.
“I left halfway through an acupuncture session, so this better be fucking good,” she said as she sat down at the head of the table.
I said, “Did they take the needles out? I’m just asking because of the look on your face.”
“Can we get to it, please?” said Milton.
Ellegaard said, “We have physical evidence linking Andrew Fine to our murder victim in Edina. The evidence is strong and, normally by now, we’d have warrants to search his home and places of business. But you told us to back off, and so we have.”
“So what’s the problem?” said Milton.
“The problem,” said Ellegaard, “is we’re afraid he’ll get wind of our discovery and run. And since we can’t tail him, you’ll have to.”
“I can’t spare the manpower to tail a guy who’s not going anywhere.”
“Fine has the means to take off and not get found.”
Agent Delvin Peterson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You really think Andrew Fine killed someone while cooperating
with us on a national security op?”
“We do,” said Ellegaard.
I said, “It’s nice to have friends in high places when you do bad things.”
No Chin glared at me. “You’re pushing it, Shapiro.”
“The only thing I’m pushing is Andrew Fine is now your responsibility. If he runs, it’s on you. If he kills someone else, it’s on you.”
“And if there’s a terrorist attack because you’re fucking with our operation,” said Agent No Chin, “it’s on you.”
“We’re not fucking with your operation. That’s why we’re here.”
“What are you, again,” said Milton, “a private investigator? A stakeout guy with a long lens who spends his time hunting adulterers? Why are we even talking to you?”
“What’s with the disrespect? Agent Peterson offered me a job yesterday.”
“I did not!” said Peterson.
“This is Mickey Mouse bullshit,” said Milton. “And I don’t have time for it.”
“Then we’ll leave. But unless you step aside so we can proceed with our investigation, Andrew Fine is your responsibility. Anything happens, it’s going to blow back on the FBI.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” said Milton. “And stay away from Andrew Fine.”
I stood and started toward the door. Then stopped. “Oh, by the way…” I set a few business cards on the table, “… in case any of you are having spousal trouble, I got a long lens.”
18
I sat across from Robert Somerville at his kitchen table made of reclaimed wood, half excited to read Maggie’s love letters and half afraid of getting a splinter. Robert handed a box to me, cardboard but printed up to look like it was made of an old map. I reached into my front pocket and removed a pair of latex gloves. I’d convinced my dental hygienist to slip me a gross. They were deep purple, but they worked.
Each letter had been stored in the envelope it arrived in, slit open with a letter opener on the side. The envelopes were sealed with their own adhesive, the peel-and-stick kind. There was no saliva to test for DNA. Both the envelope and the letter had been written on a computer and printed on plain white office paper, no return address, no handwriting anywhere. And the envelopes had been postmarked from various post offices around the Twin Towns.
Twenty-seven love letters. The writer had been careful not to identify himself. No moments or references to places or people, just professing his love for Maggie Somerville. Real love. Unselfish love. I read sentences like, You deserve happiness and love more than any person I know. And, Your generosity of spirit makes this world a better place. And, Your beauty, inside and out, makes me happier to be a man than anything else on this earth. And all signed, I will love you until the end of time.
I was sure Andrew Fine didn’t write them based on their content and lack of grammatical errors.
“These are remarkably not-creepy,” I said. “Any idea who could have written them?”
“None. Like I said, I only read a few, and they just made me feel like a shitty husband. Are you going to turn them over to the police?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They can dust the letters for fingerprints, but chances are the prints won’t be in the system. These are hardly the rantings of a criminal mind. They can analyze the ink, but that will only narrow it down to a few hundred thousand printers in town. Are you comfortable with me taking them?”
“Of course.”
I looked at the dates on the postmarks. The earliest was two years ago and the most recent a week before Maggie Somerville was murdered. Then I packed the letters back into their decorative box. “How are the kids holding up?”
“They’re not,” said Robert. “They’re having a terrible time. They loved their mom an awful lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Listen, I was wondering if you’re okay with me being at the funeral tomorrow.”
“Sure, if you think it’ll help with your investigation. My only request is that you stay away from the kids.”
“Understood. I will be there strictly as an observer.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Hey, I talked to the insurance company today. They said Maggie had named the kids as co-beneficiaries on her life insurance. A million each, which I was surprised to hear.”
“Maybe that’ll cover a couple years of college by the time they get there.”
“Maybe. Then the agent let it slip that there’s another beneficiary, but wouldn’t tell me who. Do you know anything about that?”
“I do, but I can’t tell you right now. Hopefully soon.”
“I guess it’s none of my business,” said Robert. “I just thought it was strange and maybe the police should know about it.”
“They do,” I said.
My phone dinged. I looked at the text. Could use you at the hospital. That detective showed up.
Be there soon.
“I have to run. Thanks for the letters. Do I have your permission to turn them over to the police if I decide that’s what’s best?”
“Yes. I just wanted you to see them first.”
“I appreciate that.” I started out then stopped. “You know what? Do you mind just writing a note saying I have permission to have them? I know it’s kind of weird, but I want to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up in case the letters lead us to a suspect. You just never know with defense attorneys.”
“Yeah, no problem,” said Robert.
I handed him a pen. He found a piece of paper and wrote the note. I folded it and clipped the pen onto the paper. “Thanks, Robert. I’ll be thinking about you and your family tomorrow.”
“I appreciate that, Nils.”
I stepped out of Robert Somerville’s house, and a brisk wind slapped me in the face. The mucus in my nose froze and my cheeks stung. I drove back home to grab a cashmere scarf that Micaela had given me for Christmas. It probably cost more than my house. I had yet to wear it. But a thirty-below windchill felt like a special enough occasion.
On my way to the university, I stopped at the Edina Police Station to give Ellegaard the letters. I had no intention of keeping them from the police, but letting Robert Somerville think I did kept me in his trust. Ellegaard said he’d give them to CSU, though it was unlikely they’d find anything of value. We sat in his office, a small windowless box lit by fluorescents in a suspended ceiling.
“We have Fine’s fingerprints on record, so if they turn up on the letters we can compare them. And I have Robert Somerville’s right here.” I handed Ellegaard the pen, which I’d put in a ziplock bag back at the shitbox. “This way we don’t have to ask our dear friends at the FBI for them.”
“You think Somerville would turn over letters he wrote to his ex-wife?”
“Maybe. He might have thought someone else knows about them. Maybe Maggie told a friend, and if the friend told us … I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“I suppose it is,” said Ellegaard.
“I got to go, but—”
McGinnis stepped into Ellegaard’s office and shut the door. “Good. You’re here, Shapiro.” He was wearing the red scarf again. I’d had the decency to clump my scarf in the corner with my jacket and mittens. He spoke without raising his voice. “I just got off the phone with Colleen Milton at the FBI. She told me about your visit. What I want to know is, why didn’t you come to me with the Andrew Fine issue?”
Ellegaard and I looked at each other, not sure who should answer. Then Ellegaard spoke. “We assumed you didn’t want to talk about Fine since you never told us the FBI wanted us to back off him.”
“I didn’t share that information with you because I didn’t want to color your investigation. I wanted you to proceed without preconceptions and deal with the issue when it came up.” Then his calm, quiet voice grew louder. “And it sure as hell would have come up if you’d told me the carpet fibers from Fine’s office park matched the carpet fibers on Maggie Somerville’s body! What the hell were you two thinking?!”
I turned toward McGinnis
. “I can tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking your political ambitions have interfered with your judgment on this case.”
“And I’m thinking I’ve about had it with you, Shapiro.”
“There’s a communication problem here, Chief,” said Ellegaard. “And a trust problem. Forget about Nils. You haven’t been forthright with me, and I’m trying to identify a suspect in the biggest murder case Edina has seen in decades.”
“Detective Ellegaard, you deliberately withheld information from me and you instructed CSU to do the same. You’re in no position to talk about communication problems. Or trust.”
“Well,” I said. “Nothing would make me happier than hearing more platitudes from under the red scarf, but I’m late for an appointment.”
“Shapiro, invoice us for four days. You’re no longer working for Edina PD.”
“Chief,” said Ellegaard.
“There’s a chain of command, here. Without it, this investigation is chaos. You have broken that chain of command before today, Shapiro. You broke it again when you went to Brooklyn Center and you broke it yet again in this office. You are no longer working for Edina PD. Nor will you again.”
“Whatever you say, Chief. But you’re going to find I’m much less of a pain in the ass when I’m working for you than when I’m working for me. And you’d better not fuck up, because I’m going to be the first person to shine a big old spotlight on it when you do.”
“Get out of my sight,” said McGinnis.
“Have a beautiful day, Chief.”
I gathered my jacket, scarf, and mittens and walked out of Ellegaard’s office.
19
I had been fired before. When your job is to dig up ugly truths, it happens. The all-of-a-sudden happy spouse is cheating. The missing daughter is dead. The tax shelter is a scam, and the money is in Moscow and unrecoverable. But getting fired off the Somerville murder was the first time it hurt. The case had reconnected me with Ellegaard and Stevey Fine. Even Micaela popped back into my life an extra time because she read about the case. People I loved came from different points in my life like spokes from a rim, my investigation of Maggie Somerville’s death the hub. And without the hub, it felt like the wheel would collapse.
