Текст книги "Dearly Departed"

Автор книги: David Housewright

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

nineteen

I announced myself at the reception area of the Kreel County Sheriff’s Department, speaking to the secretary through an intercom on the other side of a bulletproof glass partition. If I was going to have more trouble with the sheriff, I wanted to get to it—I’d be damned if I’d spend the day looking fearfully over my shoulder for irate deputies. A moment later the secretary buzzed me through the door and led me to him.

Sheriff Orman’s office was small and cluttered and dominated by a large canvas hanging behind his desk. It was an oil painting of a magnificent twelve-point whitetailed buck at sunset, the buck looking real enough to move, his reflection shimmering on the lake he was drinking from. In the bottom right corner of the canvas, the name R. ORMAN was painted with an unobtrusive brush.

Orman was sitting behind the desk. He took a good look at my battered face but said nothing. His face wasn’t in much better shape: two days’ stubble, bloodshot eyes, sagging cheeks. But I didn’t say anything, either. Instead, I stood staring across the desk at him, trying to act like a pro boxer just before the bell rings. I wasn’t desperate for a rematch but if he wanted one, I’d be happy to oblige; this time my hands would be free.

“I am a licensed private investigator from the state of Minnesota; I am here looking for a woman named Alison Donnerbauer Emerton who is going under the name Michael Bettich,” I informed him defiantly, explaining my presence and purpose in an out-of-state jurisdiction to the proper authorities just like the handbook suggests, pretending the sheriff and I had never met before.

“Michael is in a coma,” Orman said sadly, looking down at a framed photograph lying flat on his desk blotter—a photograph of Alison. “They took her by helicopter to Duluth General. They have a better-equipped trauma unit up there, better-trained staff. That’s what they tell me.”

“I’m sorry about Michael,” I said and I meant it.

The slight smile that flashed and then disappeared suggested that he believed me. I also think he liked that I used the name Michael and not Alison.

“If there’s anything I can do …” I added.

“Loushine!” he shouted so unexpectedly that I flinched.

“I spoke with the doctor,” Orman told me in a softer voice. “She said whoever administered first aid at the scene probably saved Michael’s life. I’m grateful.

“Loushine!” he shouted again.

“The other day, you didn’t ask who I was or why I was here,” I reminded him.

“I know who you are and why you’re here.”

“Want to tell me?” I asked. “I’m a little confused.”

“Dammit Loushine!”

“Yes,” the deputy said, coming through the door. He looked surprised to see me.

“Gary, this is Holland Taylor,” Sheriff Orman said. “He’s a private investigator from Minnesota. I checked on him. He did ten years for the St. Paul Police Department, four in Homicide. I’ve asked him to consult with us on the Michael Bettich shooting. If he’s willing, you’re to give him full cooperation.”

Loushine clearly wasn’t thrilled with the order. “Sheriff …?” he began.

Orman cut him off roughly. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sheriff.” The answer came reluctantly.

Of me Orman asked, “Are you willing, Mr. Taylor?”

“Yes,” I told him without reluctance. The last time a private investigator received such an invitation was never.

“Good.” Orman rose from his chair. “I’m going to Duluth. I’ll check in later.” He brushed past us.

“Wait,” I called to him. “I have questions.”

“Ask Gary,” the sheriff said and hung a left in the corridor, disappearing.

“It makes even less sense as it goes along,” I told Deputy Loushine.

“What’s the matter, Taylor?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever heard an apology before?”

We were walking along the well-lit corridor of the Kreel County Sheriff’s Department building, my Nikes making soft squeaking sounds on the tile.

“What have you got?” I asked him, flexing my new muscle.

“The Buick was stolen,” Loushine said. “It was owned by the chief of the volunteer fire department down in Wascott. He reported it missing the day before the shooting.”

“Where’s Wascott?”

“About forty miles southwest of us,” Loushine said. “We have bulletins out on the car. Also, you were right about the gun. It was an UZI semiautomatic carbine. We dug .41 AEs out of both Michael Bettich and Gretchen Rovick. A MAC fires only .45s or nine millimeters—”

“Chip Thilgen,” I interrupted, just to prove how smart I was.

“Yes,” said Loushine. “We know he made threats toward Michael at The Height Restaurant in Deer Lake about an hour before the shooting. We have several witnesses. Including you.”

“Including me,” I agreed. “What does Thilgen have to say for himself?”

“Nothing yet,” Loushine answered. “We haven’t found him. We have a man on his house; he hasn’t been home. And we checked with his employer. Thilgen has been absent without leave since the shooting.”

“Where does he work?”

“King Boats.”

“He works for King Koehn?” I asked, surprised.

Loushine shrugged. “Why not? Everyone else does. Anyway, we’re checking his family, his friends—actually, he doesn’t have any friends—and we have bulletins out on him, too.”

“What else?”

“Hmm?”

“What else have you got?”

“That’s it.”

I stopped next to a door marked EXIT.

“What do you mean, that’s it?” I said, appalled. “You’ve had this case for almost forty-eight hours.”

Loushine didn’t answer, and I pushed my way through the door.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Taylor,” Loushine told me as he followed behind. “I’m not an experienced investigator. I’ve worked as deputy sheriff for nine years now, and I’ve handled exactly two homicides, both of them slam-dunk domestics. On this case I’ve been following Bobby Orman’s lead, and quite frankly he’s not up to it, either. Man had exactly two years of law-enforcement experience before he was made sheriff—in the Highway Patrol.”

That stopped me again. “Two years? How did he get the job?”

“Appointment. The former sheriff was caught shacking up with a prostitute. The county board wanted someone squeaky-clean and politically palatable. Orman’s father and grandfather had both been sheriff, and people loved them—”

“So they went with the son.”

“There you go.”

“Does he know the job at all?”

“Bobby knows administration; he was the factory manager over at King Boats for a half dozen years after he left the HP—it’s kind of a complicated story. I went to school with Bobby; we played ball together, so I know he didn’t want to be a cop, didn’t want to follow the family tradition. But he did, anyway; joined the Highway Patrol after junior college. His old man was still sheriff, and Bobby could have gotten a job here in Kreel, but he went away; people figured he just didn’t want to work in the old man’s shadow. Two years later the old man dies of a heart attack while pulling an ice fishing shack off the lake; Bobby quits the HP and goes to work for King.

“The county goes through three sheriff’s in the next six years, and each is worse than the one before. People are pissed; the County Board of Commissioners is up against it; half of ’em are up for re-election, right? So they tap Bobby; they want his name. He takes the job. Surprised me. But he’s been okay. Works hard. Goes to a lot of law-enforcement seminars. Takes care of his people.”

“How long has he been sheriff?” I asked.

“Couple years.”

“Turn it over to the Department of Criminal Investigation,” I suggested bluntly. The DCI was the Wisconsin equivalent of Minnesota’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, a statewide investigatory unit created to lend aid to local police departments that didn’t have the resources to handle major cases.

“That’s what I said,” Loushine told me. “But Bobby doesn’t want to give it up, and neither does the county attorney.”

“Where is the county attorney?” I asked.

“Vacation in San Francisco.”

I gave Loushine another stare.

He shrugged. “What can I say? Man likes his job; he wants to be re-elected next year.”

My stare intensified. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s a sorry situation,” Loushine admitted, and I sighed dramatically. But the truth was, I couldn’t have been more delighted. Giving a police department guidance during an active criminal investigation? A free hand to do whatever I want, all with the department’s support? That’s like a PI’s most forbidden fantasy come true.

“Okay,” I said and continued walking.

“Okay,” Loushine echoed, falling in step with me. “Where are we going?”

“What do you know about Alison Donnerbauer Emerton?” I asked in reply as we crossed the street and headed for the Saginau Medical Center.

“Never heard of her,” he said. “You mentioned the name the day of the shooting. Who is she?”

“I assume Gretchen Rovick is still in the hospital?”

“Yes,” Loushine replied, then added, “Who is Alison Donnerbauer Emerton?”

“Deputy Rovick’s best friend.”

We cornered the woman doctor at the Saginau Medical Center. I asked her if she had any updated information concerning Michael Bettich’s condition.

“Still critical, last I heard,” she said.

“What do you think her chances are?” I asked. I wanted the doctor to promise that Alison would be all right. But she was unwilling to commit herself. I changed the subject.

“How’s Deputy Rovick?” I asked.

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor responded. “She should be on crutches in a few days and walking normally in ten more. The wound was superficial.”

“Where is she?” Loushine asked.

“Second floor. Two-oh-two.”

“Can we see her?” the deputy added.

“Be my guest.”

We started toward the elevators.

“By the way,” the doctor stopped us. She looked me in the eye and said, “It was you who administered first aid to Michael, right?”

I confirmed her suspicion.

“You saved her life,” the doctor said and patted my arm. “For a while, anyway.”

I was proud of the compliment, but the way the doctor phrased it sent an uncomfortable surge of electricity through my entire body.

We found Gretchen sitting up in bed, reading the latest mystery by Nevada Barr. Her leg was elevated under the covers, which were rolled to her waist, revealing a teal nightgown trimmed with lace that I found particularly alluring. Apparently Loushine agreed.

The way his eyes kept finding Gretchen’s ample chest, you just knew this was a side of his colleague that he had never seen before.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Fine,” she answered cautiously before turning to Loushine. “What’s he doing here?”

Loushine explained.

“No way!” Gretchen protested.

Loushine shrugged. “Sheriff’s orders.”

Gretchen returned her gaze to me. “But he could be responsible.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“There are people who wanted Alison found,” she insisted. “You found her for them.”

“Alison?” Loushine asked.

I silenced him with an upraised hand. “Why did they want her found?” I asked Gretchen.

“Because …” Her voice was high and excited, but something stopped her. After a few moments of reflection, she said, “No, you’re right. They’re probably all angry enough to kill her, but my understanding is that the people she left in the Twin Cities needed her alive; they wanted to prove that she was alive and that they had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

I had come to the same conclusion the day before and revisited it several times since then. Nevertheless, it was comforting to hear it from someone else. Part of the reason I had returned to Kreel County was to prove that I had nothing to do with the assault on Michael Bettich—mostly to myself.

“Tell me about Alison,” I told Gretchen.

“Who the hell is Alison?” Loushine asked again.

Gretchen sucked in her breath and started talking with the exhale, talking so low that Loushine and I had to move to the foot of the bed to hear her. From where I stood, everything she told him was the truth—except maybe why Alison had left the Twin Cities in the first place. She seemed as unsure about that as I was.

Gretchen told us that Alison simply appeared on her doorstep late one night eight months ago with a battered suitcase and a fascinating if not altogether heroic tale. She was seeking asylum and anonymity, and Gretchen agreed to provide both. The deputy was delighted that her friend had come to her, and if Alison now insisted on being known as Michael Bettich, that was just swell as far as Gretchen was concerned—although she did confess that her police-officer mentality had compelled her to take a keen interest in the goings-on in Dakota County, Minnesota, until she was satisfied that her friend was not fleeing criminal charges.

Michael soon settled in and began building a new life for herself. Her brilliant mind impressed King Koehn so much that he gave her a job overseeing his investments after their first meeting; the fact that she was also pretty probably didn’t hurt, either—King liked pretty. And after dating around for several months, Michael settled on Sheriff Bobby Orman, moving in with him two months ago.

When Gretchen had finished, Loushine shook his head. “Nobody tells me anything,” he muttered.

“It didn’t bother you that Alison had left so many people in the Twin Cities holding the dirty end of the stick?” I asked Gretchen.

“The way Alison explained it to me, they all deserved it.”

“Probably did,” I agreed. Gretchen responded to my remark with a weak smile—she wasn’t sure about her friend, I concluded. After all this time helping to protect Alison, she still wasn’t sure. Hell, neither was I.

I smiled myself and removed a small notebook from my pocket and flipped it open. I read the names that I had written there the night before while sitting at Phyllis Bernelle’s kitchen table. “Who in Kreel County had motive to kill Michael?”

“You ask that like she’s dead,” Gretchen protested. “Michael is not dead. Stop talking like she is.”

Gretchen was right. From the beginning, I had been treating the case like a homicide investigation, when in fact there had not been a homicide—and saying so was like putting Alison’s photograph on the cover of Sports Illustrated: It was a jinx and lessened her chances for survival.

I rephrased the question. “Who wanted to hurt her?”

“Nobody,” Gretchen insisted.

“Nobody?!” I shouted, then checked myself. “Nobody,” I repeated in a softer voice, waving my notebook. “I’ve been in town for only a couple of hours, and I can name at least six suspects. How ’bout you?” I asked, turning toward Loushine.

“I only have one. Thilgen.”

Chip Thilgen looked good, I admitted; his was the first name on my list. But it bothered me that the car used in the shooting had been stolen out of town the day before Alison was shot. If the crime had been premeditated—as the theft would seem to indicate—it seemed damned unlikely that Thilgen would have announced his hatred for Michael one hour before shooting her. And if it wasn’t premeditated, why did he steal the car?

“Sure, there’s Thilgen,” I said. “But how ’bout Ingrid?”

Loushine demonstrated his lack of experience when he shook his head at the suggestion, eliminating the owner of The Height out of hand.

“She stands to lose business if The Harbor is a success,” I explained. “How many gourmet restaurants can this region support?”

Loushine still shook his head.

“How ’bout Charlie Otterness?” I asked.

Gretchen cringed at the sound of his name.

“Betrayed?” I continued. “Humiliated by the woman he loved?”

“That was before Michael became involved with Bobby Orman,” Gretchen interjected, as if that made all the difference in the world.

Loushine shook his head some more. “Charlie wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he said.

Unbelievable. According to these two, nobody in Kreel County was capable of murder.

“King Koehn,” I suggested.

Loushine held out his hand, wobbled it. “I suppose he’s worth looking into,” he agreed, bending just so slightly to the possibility.

Man, I thought. If they didn’t like those suggestions, they’re going to hate the final two names.

“Sheriff Orman?”

“Bullshit!” Loushine spit the word quickly and loudly.

“What motive would he have?” Gretchen queried.

“Did he know about Michael; that she was Alison?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Maybe he found out. Maybe he didn’t like it.”

“Bullshit,” Loushine repeated.

“He’s sure gone out of his way to botch the investigation, hasn’t he?” I reminded them.

The two deputies stared at me without speaking, but I could tell I’d struck a nerve. They looked at each other and then away.

“He just doesn’t understand how things work, that’s all,” Loushine said. But his words didn’t echo with the same vehemence as before.

“Who else?” Gretchen asked. “That’s five suspects on your silly little list. Who’s the sixth?”

I stepped next to the bed and showed her the name I had written last.

She read the name, blinking several times while reading it as if she feared her eyes were deceiving her. She was looking at Loushine, expecting him to say something, but he remained silent. He hadn’t seen my list and didn’t know the sixth name. Gretchen shook her head and closed her eyes more tightly than natural, then opened them quickly as if she expected me to disappear. I didn’t.

“Fuck you,” she said at last.

She was breathing hard through her nose; her mouth was clamped shut but only for a moment. When it opened again, she shouted, “How dare you?! Who do you think you are?”

She threw Nevada Barr’s book at me, but fortunately it was a paperback and easy to dodge.

“What?” a confused Loushine asked.

“It’s me!” Gretchen shouted. “I’m the sixth name!” Then to me: “Get outta here! Get outta my sight!”

I moved away from the hospital bed, ending up in the corner as far from her as I could get and still be in the same room. I studied her from my vantage point, my arms folded over my chest, pretending I could determine her guilt or innocence just by looking at her.

“What the hell, Taylor?” Loushine asked.

“Michael Bettich has no family, as you well know,” I reminded Gretchen. “So if she dies, what happens to The Harbor? Who collects the little gold mine she was building for herself? Her best friend, I bet.”

“You think I hired someone to shoot her so I could get her resort?” Gretchen demanded.

“People have been killed for less,” I told her.

“I’m a deputy!” she shouted at me. When that had no effect, she added, “I was shot!”

“How convenient,” I told her.

“You sonuvabitch,” she hissed at me. She flung the covers off and attempted to swing her legs over the edge of the bed to come after me. But Loushine stopped her and rolled her back in bed—he seemed excited to have physical contact with his fellow deputy.

“Get out!” Gretchen barked at me after she was safely tucked in.

“We’ll talk again,” I told her and left the hospital room. Loushine followed me out.

“Is this how things are done in the big city,” he asked when we were in the corridor, Gretchen’s door closed behind us. “Is this how trained homicide cops conduct investigations?”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I led Loushine to the hospital switchboard. “No calls in or out of Gretchen Rovick’s room until we tell you,” I instructed the operator. “By order of the sheriff’s department.”

The operator looked at Loushine, and he nodded. I took him by the arm and half pulled him toward the hospital door.

“Put a tap on her phone,” I told him. “Then you can release her calls. I want to know who she talks to.”

“Why?” Loushine asked.

“Because in the unlikely event that she actually was involved in the shooting, she might contact her two partners.”

“Oh,” Loushine replied with an expression that was as cheerful as three days of hard rain.

We were climbing into Loushine’s 4X4 after he made the necessary calls.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said as he slid behind the steering wheel. “I did what you asked because the sheriff ordered me to give full cooperation. But you’re wrong.”

“Probably,” I agreed.

“No, I mean it,” Loushine said. “I remember this time, it was about six months after we hired her. Gretchen and I were called to a simple burglary; I was riding with her from time to time back then, doing the supervising-officer routine. It was a trifle—fishing equipment taken from a victim’s shed—and I acted like it, veteran cop telling the rookie not to get excited. The victim didn’t see it that way and became pretty upset at my indifference.

“After we took the complaint, we went back to the car. I was about to open the passenger door, when Gretchen suddenly drew her revolver, aimed across the roof of the squad, and yelled, ‘Drop it or I’ll shoot!’ She was aiming at someone standing right behind me. ‘Drop it or I’ll shoot!’ she yelled again. I didn’t move an inch. Then Gretchen started counting, real slow but loud. ‘One, two, three …’ I’m standing there, praying to hear something hit the ground. Then I heard a muffled thud, and Gretchen yelled, ‘Step back!’

“I turn around, and there’s the owner of the shed with his hands in the air. On the ground is a crossbow. The man was going to shoot me in the back with an arrow because I didn’t take the theft of his fishing equipment seriously. Later, I asked Gretchen how high she was willing to count before she pulled the trigger. She told me she knew at three the guy would drop the bow.”

“And if he didn’t?” I asked.

“She would have killed him at four.”

“What has that got to do with this?” I asked him.

“Gretchen is cool enough,” he answered. “If she wanted Michael dead, she would have done it herself. Clean. And simple. No way she would have been as sloppy as the shooters at The Harbor.”

“Now there’s an endorsement,” I said smugly.

“She’s one of us,” Deputy Loushine snapped back.

“Hell, Gary,” I told him. “According to TV, according to the movies, cops go bad all the time.”

I meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come off that way.