Текст книги "Dearly Departed"

Автор книги: David Housewright

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

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Anne Scalasi was my best friend—maybe my only friend—and she proved it by ignoring my presence at her desk until she finished reading a memo that was one paragraph long. It took her several minutes.

The office of St. Paul Police Department’s Homicide Unit hadn’t changed much since I labored there. Hell, except for the occasional computer terminal, it hadn’t changed much since 1972. Detectives still sat in metal chairs at metal desks, separated from each other by movable soft-sided walls. Empty metal coatracks stood guard outside each cubicle.

From where Anne sat, she had a clear view of the erasable white plastic marker board covered with rows of names. It was a roster of this year’s homicides. Red was active. Black denoted cases where a suspect had been charged. There were only a few reds.

“What do you want?” Annie barked at last.

“I can always tell when you’re upset.”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re sick, Taylor,” she informed me. “Sending a dozen long-stemmed roses to a woman on the anniversary of her divorce is a sick thing to do.”

“I thought it was a kindly enough gesture,” I replied in my defense. “Telling a dear friend who’s down that someone cared.”

“Oh, then that explains the card,” she said.

“The card?”

“The unsigned card. ‘Oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby, thank you for last night and all the nights that came before.’ Remember?”

“I was joking about you going to the baseball game with me on such short notice,” I protested.

“Yeah, right. My oldest—who isn’t too thrilled that I divorced her father in the first place—signed for the flowers. She read the card. She wanted to know if it was a message from my lover.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth. It was from a sick friend.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Only when I told her the sick friend’s name.”

I ignored the insult and insisted that I was only trying to be considerate.

“Since when?”

“It’s the new me. A man for the millennium: thoughtful, kind, selfless—”

“What do you want, Taylor?”

I held my thumb and forefinger in front of my eye and squinted through the quarter inch that separated them. “An itty, bitty favor.”

Anne tried to look stern, eventually failed. Like most true friends, we had long ago surrendered to each other’s faults and foibles; prolonged anger between us was impossible. She shook her head and smiled. It was a dazzling smile, rarely seen by anyone other than her children and, occasionally, a pal. A few months ago a photographer for a local magazine spent the better part of a morning attempting to coax that smile from her and couldn’t, so zealously does she guard it. It was just as well. The headline above the accompanying article read: ST. PAUL’S ANGEL OF DEATH. It was not an image Anne approved of.

Lieutenant Anne Scalasi was commander of the St. Paul Police Department’s Homicide Unit and therefore one of the most visible female law enforcement officers in the state of Minnesota. She rarely enjoyed the attention she received; press coverage of her divorce had infuriated her. Yet she loved the job. Many suggested—although they would not allow their names to be used in the article—that Anne’s promotion was merely a public-relations ploy by an affirmative-action-conscious police chief and mayor. I spent well over four years working in Homicide, nearly all that time as Annie’s partner, and I wholeheartedly disagreed. Anne Scalasi was the best cop I have ever known.

She began life as an elementary schoolteacher in Anoka, a fact the magazine found particularly ironic. Just for the giggles she decided to join the local Ride-Along program and went patrolling with Anoka County deputies. That was all it took. She was hooked. Anne quit teaching, got a job as a night dispatcher for a suburban police department that same week, and attended the police academy during the day. And she married a cop. After earning a law enforcement degree, she became the department’s first female officer and, later, its first female detective. Eventually she was recruited by the state attorney general’s office. That was a political appointment, and as soon as she realized it, Anne quit, taking a position with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. The BCA liked her so much, they sent her to the FBI’s training center in Quantico, Virginia, where she was taught by the Behavioral Science Unit to investigate mass murders and serial rape killings. She scored first in her class. When she returned to the BCA, she requested that she be allowed to work with other law enforcement organizations that might require her expertise—which, of course, is why the agency was created in the first place. But the BCA began placing various bureaucratic restrictions on her, making her play second, third, and often fourth fiddle to their field agents. So she joined the St. Paul Police Department, which was happy to give her free rein.

I remember when she arrived. We gave her the cold shoulder, my colleagues and I, calling her “Miss Betty” behind her back—Miss Betty being the name of the woman who taught Romper Room on TV. One day she leaned across my desk, smiled her dazzling smile, and announced: “The more violently the face of a murder victim is battered, the more likely the killer and the victim had a close relationship.”

I told her I knew that.

“And now you know that I know it,” she told me. “I know a lot of other things, too. So, you want to catch bad guys with me or what?”

We caught a lot of them together.

“Do you know the Dakota County sheriff?” I now asked.

“Yes. Ed Teeters. Nice man.”

“Nice enough to let a PI snoop around one of his investigations?”

Anne gave me one of those here-we-go-again eye rolls and asked, “What are you into now?”

“Alison Donnerbauer Emerton,” I told her. “She disappeared seven months ago. I was just hired to learn what happened to her.”

“Good luck,” she said. “I worked the case …”

I don’t know why I was surprised. Solving unsolvable murders is, after all, Annie’s specialty.

“Teeters asked me if I could give him a fresh perspective. I couldn’t,” she admitted.

She opened a lower desk drawer and took out a huge family photo album—her murder book, a grisly, gory, gruesome account of every homicide investigation she had ever worked, the investigations presented in chronological order with the most recent in front. Each account contained before-and-after photographs of the victim, a detailed description of the killing, a synopsis of the investigation, and final disposition of the case. Homicides that were solved had a blue tab; those that remained unsolved had a red tab. There were only a few red tabs, and most of these were near the front. Anne turned to the tab labeled #197. Case #197 differed from the others in that it was skimpier and didn’t feature a photograph taken after the victim’s body was discovered. The “before” photograph was a reprint of the one Hunter Truman had given to me that morning.

“Theories?” I asked.

Anne shrugged. “Assailant knocks, Alison answers; assailant pushes a gun in her face, forces her into a car, drives off. I put a stopwatch on it. From the mouth of the cul-de-sac to the driveway to the front door, back to the car and out; add thirty seconds waiting for Alison to answer the door: one hundred and sixty-seven seconds total. And that’s conservative.”

“Who?”

Anne consulted her notes. “Raymond Fleck.”

“Based on what? The tape?”

“No, his MO. He was convicted of rape eight years ago; what he did was knock on the woman’s door in broad daylight. When she answered, he pointed a gun at her, shoved her in, raped her, left.”

“Does one conviction constitute an MO?”

“He was convicted for one, but the arresting officers figured him for a half dozen others they couldn’t get positive IDs on. Victims wouldn’t come forward.”

“Why take Alison with him?”

“The one time he was convicted, he stayed in the house for five hours. Made himself lunch between attacks. This time he didn’t have five hours to enjoy himself; the husband was on his way home.”

“If he did it for revenge, why not simply kill her and leave?”

“Where’s the sport in that?”

She had a point. Still, did she have anything that made it more than a theory?

“He’s free, isn’t he?”

“I asked a stupid question.” I admitted.

Anne studied Alison’s photograph for a moment and then closed the album with a resounding thud. “Teeters brought me in because he was looking for an angle his people might have missed. I could convince him to let you in for the same reason.”

“Would you?”

Anne pushed herself away from the desk. Her swivel chair was on wheels, and she rolled it slowly to a bank of beige-colored metal filing cabinets. From the third drawer of the middle cabinet Anne retrieved a file maybe three inches thick, the pages held together with a metal fastener. The label on the file cover listed Alison’s name and the date of her disappearance. Anne dropped the file in front of me and started rummaging through the bottom right-hand drawer of her desk. She came up with a brown grocery bag and slipped the file into it, but not before I peeked under the cover and read the first page: Case #97-050819 Dakota County Sheriff’s Department Alison Donnerbauer Emerton TABLE OF CONTENTS FELONY MURDER. The word COPY had been stamped in red several times across the page.

Anne folded the bag and tossed it for me to catch, explaining that since technically it wasn’t a St. Paul or Ramsey County case, technically she wasn’t violating department regulations by lending me her file. Technically.

“But I want it back. Without any rocket ships or baseball diamonds doodled in the margins,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to grease the skids for you with Teeters.”

“You’re being awfully cooperative, Annie,” I told her.

She leaned across the desk and spoke slowly between clenched teeth. “I do not like it when women are killed simply because they are women. It is UN-AC-CEPT-ABLE.”

Now you know why Anne Scalasi is the best in the business. It’s not the training; it’s not the experience. It’s the outrage. She never lost it. The rest of us had. We were afraid of it, afraid of how it twisted our perceptions of the real world, afraid of the pain it made us feel. So we hid from it—hid behind bad jokes and out-and-out goofiness, hid behind booze and drugs and sex and macho behavior that bordered on the self-destructive until the outrage went away, leaving us numb. Not Anne. Anne did not hide from her outrage. She drew it like a gun.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” she said but never did. That’s because she was interrupted by a detective, a black man whose reputation was also unfairly marred by an affirmative-action label.

“Yo, mama!” Martin McGaney called as he danced toward us, waving a folded piece of paper like a baton before him.

“Yo, mama?” I repeated quietly.

“This better be good, Martin,” Anne warned as the detective approached. The warning was unnecessary. You could tell by the smile on his face.

“Lookee what I have,” he said, drawing out the words, handing Anne the paper. It was an arrest warrant.

“You finally found the guy who stole my ten-speed when I was in high school,” I ventured.

“Taylor, you’ll appreciate this. You used to be a good investigator.”

“Used to be?”

“When you were young.”

“Ahh.”

“The bastard who raped and murdered that woman in front of her twelve-year-old daughter a couple weeks back? I got ’im!” He pumped his fist as he said it.

The case had made daily headlines since the crime occurred. A woman and her daughter had been driving home from a movie late at night when their car broke down. A “good Samaritan” stopped to offer assistance. Some assistance. He forced the woman and the girl into his car at gunpoint, drove to a secluded spot, and raped the mother, threatening to shoot the daughter if the woman resisted. When he was finished, he told the daughter she was next. The mother went to protect her child, and he shot her dead. In a panic, he shoved both mother and daughter out of the car and drove off. The daughter described the well-dressed assailant in detail but not the car, telling the police only that it was dark and “sporty looking.”

“I took the daughter with me,” McGaney said. “She wanted desperately to help us find her mother’s killer. We cruised the car dealerships on the 1-494 strip, looking for a model she might recognize. We found it. A Ford Taurus GL.”

“A Taurus is sporty looking?!”

“She’s a little girl, what does she know from cars? Anyway, I obtained a list of every black or dark-blue Taurus in Minnesota from DMV, concentrating only on those vehicles owned by men who fit the age and general description the girl gave us. I found nineteen within five miles of where the woman’s car had stalled. I questioned each one, telling them I was investigating a hit-and-run and wanted to see their vehicles. One guy told me he’d sold his. Yeah, he sold it all right. The day after the murder he practically gave it away to a guy in St. Cloud. I drove the girl up to St. Cloud. She said it looked like the same car, but what clinched it was the radio. One of the buttons was still set for the station the guy was playing when he raped the mother—a station you can’t pick up in St. Cloud. The new owner allowed us to impound the car, and I had forensics do a search. They found bloodstains and strands of hair in the back seat. The samples were identical to the victim’s.”

“Nice,” I told McGaney, and I meant it; he’d done a helluva job. “Very nice.”

“Where is the daughter now?” Anne asked.

“At home, waiting for me to call her about a lineup.”

“The county attorney?”

“Licking his chops.”

“And the sorry sonuvabitch named in the warrant?”

McGaney smiled. “At his place of business.”

Anne grinned, too—grinned like she’d just learned her own daughter had been named class valedictorian. She took a small school bell from her desk drawer and rang it vigorously. “Ticket to ride, boys! We have a ticket to ride!” she shouted across the room. The detectives, smiling just as incandescently, literally hopped up from behind their partitions and started holstering guns, fastening bulletproof Kevlar vests, and donning dark-blue windbreakers with the word POLICE spelled out in huge white letters on the back. Conversations grew louder, jokes flew; it was like a party had suddenly broken out. This was why most of the detectives had come to this line of work—to get the bad guys– and they were loving it.

Anne told one of the detectives to arrange for uniform backup.

“Backup? We don’t need no stinking backup,” another replied in an accent that was supposed to be Hispanic, paraphrasing a line from The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

They headed for the door en masse, Anne leading the way.

I hadn’t felt so excluded since my friends won the softball league championship the season after I retired from the team.

Cynthia Grey always greeted me the same way, like an old friend she hadn’t seen since the last high-school reunion. This time she gave me a warm hug and happy smile in her office suite, located in a former cloister not far from the St. Paul PD. Her office manager didn’t approve—not of the hug and certainly not of me. Once again I had arrived without an appointment, distracting Cynthia from the task at hand, which was the practice of law.

Cynthia was known in the Twin Cities for her stalwart defense of DWI suspects, and her quotes were often sought by the local media. Like MADD, she wanted them off the street. But unlike those militant enemies of drunk drivers everywhere, she wanted the lawbreakers in treatment, not in jail. However, it was a stunning victory in a single civil suit that had recently thrust her into the public eye.

She had filed a complaint against a women’s clothing manufacturer on behalf of a dozen female employees, alleging that the company’s TV and print ads—which always depicted women in a sexual context—fostered an environment inside the company that condoned, if not encouraged, sexual harassment. Stories about the suit appeared in several local and national publications, usually accompanied by a photograph of the women and their lawyer. You could always tell which woman was Cynthia. She was the beautiful one in back who wasn’t smiling.

Anyway, the clothing manufacturer settled. No one knows for how much because the settlement was sealed. But it was big time. You could tell by the quality of the cars the plaintiffs went out and bought immediately afterward. Cynthia bought a car, too. And gave it to me. True, it was only a 1991 Dodge Colt—it was all I would accept—but, still, when was the last time your girlfriend bought you a car?

Which brings me back to Miss Efficiency, aka Desirée Smith, the office manager. The phone had been ringing nonstop since the settlement, and without her, Cynthia wouldn’t have time for all that media schmoozing. Without her, Cynthia probably would be late for most of her court appearances and client meetings, few of her motions would be filed on time, and her highly organized brigade of freelance attorneys and legal assistants would become a confused rabble. Chaos would reign, and the firm would fall. At least, that’s how Miss Efficiency sees it. And whenever I come along, well, there goes the schedule.

Cynthia led me by the hand into her inner sanctum, away from the office manager’s disapproving gaze, and cleared an empty space for me on her file-cluttered leather sofa. She sat in a matching chair across from me.

Cynthia was wearing a black two-piece suit. The jacket was double-breasted with a shawl collar, the skirt was tight without being too tight and came to the top of her knees, and her blouse was white silk. Lately, that was all she wore. Black and white. I asked her about it once, and she said she was establishing a “definitive image all her own.” More likely it was the definitive image of the consultant at the store where Cynthia bought most of her clothes. Not that I’m complaining. She looks stunning in black and white, with shoulder-length brown hair and matching eyes, with long, shapely legs. I’ve only known two women with more attractive legs. The first was my wife, who was killed along with our daughter nearly five years ago by a drunk driver who Cynthia, in fact, later defended. The second was a twenty-two-year-old murderer I fingered for the Minneapolis cops. She was killed while resisting arrest.

“So, are you working?” Cynthia asked.

It was an honest question. I’m a one-man band, and I usually take on only one case at a time, so I often suffer through periods of unemployment. Occasionally, when those droughts linger long enough to cause me financial distress, I’ll obtain lists of unclaimed property from various government agencies and then locate the missing owners for a percentage of the property’s value. Sometimes—when money is real tight—I’ll do bounty work for a Minneapolis bail bondsman I know. Still, I can’t kick. Last year—my best year yet—I worked one hundred and sixty-nine days and took home nearly thirty-six K after taxes, insurance, health care, and expenses. That might not sound like much. But when you live alone (without house or car payments) like I do, it’s plenty.

“As a matter of fact I am working,” I told Cynthia. “I’m trying to learn what happened to a woman who disappeared last October.”

“I thought you didn’t do runaways.”

“This is a little different. The smart money bets the woman was murdered, but the police can’t find a body or evidence of foul play. I was hired to come up with an explanation that the woman’s attorney can live with.”

“Who’s the lawyer?”

“Ahh, well …” I stammered.

“Not Monica Adler?” Monica was Cynthia’s most hated rival.

“No, no, no,” I assured her. “I haven’t seen Monica since– well, quite awhile. Why would I talk to her?”

“Good question.”

“No, it’s not her.”

“Who, then?”

“He came to my office—”

“Who?”

“Hunter Truman.”

“That piece of shit?”

“You’ve met?” I asked.

“Bastard works the court like a fucking whore; that’s how he peels his banana.”

“Do you eat with that mouth?”

Cynthia flushed a deep crimson and not just from embarrassment. I am always amused when Cynthia’s carefully constructed facade of upper-class gentility slips and the street kid peeks over the top, but she certainly is not. She works hard—and pays a great deal of money—to make sure the facade never slips.

“I am surprised that you would deign to accept employment from that gentleman,” she said, her voice calm and well modulated.

“A buck’s a buck.”

“If you are financially embarrassed, I could lend—”

“Oh, stop it,” I told her. “It’s a job like any other job, maybe a little more interesting than most.”

“But Hunter Truman?!” Cynthia asked, making the name sound like a disease usually treated with penicillin.

“He’s no worse than most of the lawyers I’ve worked for.”

“It hurts me to hear you say that.”

I have to admit it gave me a twinge, too, defending him.

“Will you forgive me if I buy lunch?” I asked.

“I’ll buy lunch,” Cynthia replied. “I don’t want to be eating on that … gentleman’s money.” She opened her office door and announced, “Taylor and I are going to lunch.”

“You’re lunching with Judge Kennelly,” Miss Efficiency corrected her.

“I am?”

“Twelve-thirty at Gallivan’s. You need to leave in ten minutes.”

Cynthia closed the door again. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Actually, I came over to invite you to the Twins game tonight. They’re playing the hated Cleveland Indians.”

“I have a meeting tonight.”

“Who with?”

“My ETOS Club.”

“ETOS?”

“It’s a club several women and I started in law school. Once a month we get together and discuss the various sides of social issues. Exploring the Other Side, get it?”

“Yeah, I do. What kind of social issues?”

“Tonight we’re discussing why men embrace sports so dearly.”

“That’s a social issue?”

“Why do men like sports? Give me an argument,” Cynthia said.

“It’s a better excuse for getting together than forming a lame club.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Where are you holding this meeting?”

“Don’t get angry.”

“Why would I get angry?”

“One of the members arranged for a private suite at the Metrodome, along the third-base line.”

“You’re watching the ball game? From a private suite? With booze and food and instant replay on TV monitors?”

She grinned. “Want me to bring you a souvenir?”