A Grand Murder Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Copyright ©2011 by Stacy Verdick Case

  Inside cover author photo by Joanna Obraske

  Cover art © 2011 by Designs by Jeff.

  ISBN: 978-0-9837137-1-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011912155

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Chapter One

  I rolled out of bed and lowered my feet onto the hardwood floor. Damn, it was cold this morning.

  The persistent ringing of the phone made my heart race with an urgency to make it stop.

  Where the hell did I put that obnoxious thing?

  Finally, I found the cordless handset, under the clothes I had shed the night before, next to a pile of dirty laundry I’d been meaning to wash for a while.

  “Yep,” I croaked into the phone.

  “Catherine, is that you?”

  I recognized Louise Montgomery’s smoky voice right away. When the department had assigned us as partners, I couldn’t stand her, but I’d grown to like her over the three years we’d been working together.

  “Yes, Louise, it’s me.”

  I buried my feet in a dirty sweater lying on the floor to ward off the cold. One of these days I’d have to give serious consideration to buying an area rug for the bedroom.

  “Jesus it didn’t sound like you. You feel okay?”

  “Yeah, just cold and tired.”

  I checked over my shoulder to make sure the ringing hadn’t woken Gavin. His dark hair drooped over his eyes and a grunting snore rattled out—still asleep. He could sleep through a tornado.

  “What’s up?” I asked and shuffled the sweater toward the bathroom.

  “You’d better get in here.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “All hell’s breaking loose. You’re going to want to be here for it.”

  “Do I have time to shower?”

  In the background, I heard shouting that was definitely our police chief.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Another barrage of yelling came over the line.

  I sighed and rolled my head from side to side, hearing an all—too—familiar cracking. “Make that ten minutes.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Work?” A sleepy Gavin said.

  “How’d you guess?”

  I stumbled to the dresser in the corner. With any luck, I’d find clean underwear in there somewhere. I hated to go without.

  “Sorry I woke you.”

  “Christ, how late were you at the station last night?”

  He propped himself up on his elbows. The blankets slid to his waist, exposing his bare chest. I loved the way he looked in the mornings. His dark hair disheveled and sexy. His hazel green eyes dreamy with sleep.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Actually, I just got home a couple hours ago.”

  I tugged open the sticky top drawer of my dresser. Success! One pair of clean underwear — my granny panties —my “last resort” underwear. No bra though.

  “And you have to go in again?” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “When am I going to get a few minutes of your time? Not much, maybe fifteen minutes for a little loving.”

  “Gav.”

  “Well, I’m a normal, healthy, American male and it’s been awhile.”

  A shiver raked over him and he pulled the blankets up around his neck.

  “The guys on my work crew are starting to look good to me for Christ—sake. Especially that new guy.” He waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “Poor baby.” I gave him an exaggerated frown. “Give me your hand.”

  Gavin suspiciously held out his hand. I lifted my pajama top, pressed his hand to my right breast, then pulled it away.

  “That should hold you for awhile,” I said and patted his hand before I shuffled into the bathroom. “Or at least keep the new guy safe for another day or so.”

  Gavin laughed.

  “Catherine O’Brien, you’re a freak!” he yelled behind me.

  “You have no idea,” I said and closed the bathroom door.

  Less than ten minutes later I guided my red 2003 Dodge Charger into the downtown St. Paul parking garage and turned off the ignition. The car sputtered a little before it stopped.

  I have to get a new car.

  Maybe the Charger would last through the summer and I could get a new one before winter. The Charger had been good to me this long despite the fact that I neglected all general maintenance and ignored all warning lights. I had faith she would keep running until winter.

  My stupid high—heeled boots echoed through the nearly empty ramp, making it sound like I was following myself. The suspicious part of me glanced over my shoulder just to be sure no one was there.

  Paranoia and stupid shoes—that was me for as long as I could remember. Afraid of my shadow and ashamed of my five—foot—one stature.

  I took the elevator to the eighth floor bustled with activity. Cops never slept.

  I saw Louise’s braided head bob above the crowds. At nearly six feet, with dark mahogany skin and African braids that hung to her waist even after she had knotted them together at the back of her head, she was hard to miss. She stepped away from the crowd, and I noticed she was in the same suit she’d worn the day before.

  “Didn’t you go home?” I threw my diaper bag of a purse on my desk.

  She shook her head. “The fucking place fell apart right after you left this morning. I never got out.”

  “And yet you look put together. How the hell do you do that?”

  Louise grabbed a Starbucks cup from a cardboard drink holder on her desk and stuffed it into my hands.

  “Nectar of the gods.”

  I took a sip of the bitter brew. It burned all the way to my stomach.

  “So who died?”

  I gulped my next taste of coffee. Why not? My tongue had lost all feeling after the first sip.

  Louise rifled through some papers and finally came up with the red file folder she called her “hot” file. All our current cases were located in the hot file. Supposedly, the red would make the folder easier to find in the mess that was her desk, but she was constantly losing it.

  I laid the file on top of my coffee cup, flipped it open with my thumb, and scanned the first sheet in the folder. There wasn’t much information, just the name and address of the victim and the name of the first responding officer.

  “Nathan Stanley. Don’t know him. Who is he and why is he ours?”

  “He’s ours because I was the butt in the seat when it came down.” An errant braid tried to creep across her forehead and she pushed it away. “Who he is, is a prominent business man and an acquaintance of the chief.”

  She slumped into her chair and spun it around, catching her feet on the wall and pushing herself back.

  “He cares so we have to care.”

  Scrubbing my fingers over my head, I realized I hadn’t run a comb through my unruly curls. I pulled a rubber band from my center desk drawer and raked my hair back with my fingers.

  “You couldn’t have gone home when I did and spared us the honor?”

  “Sorry, couldn’t drag myself away.” She stood. “We’d better get over to
the scene and see what’s happening before someone’s dog walks through the evidence.”

  She grabbed her purse, the Smartphone that rarely left her hand, and her keys.

  “By the way Catherine, your ponytail’s crooked.”

  It figured. Louise was always suited in the finest, feminine, latest, and well coiffed. Standing next to her made me feel like a short, pasty-white, slug. My hair was never right and my clothes, except for my boots, were more masculine than feminine. One of these days, I would make Louise take me shopping.

  Poor Gavin, having to be married to a slob all these years, but then again, I was no different on the day he married me. He’d probably have a heart attack and die if I came home in something feminine and sexy. Better forget about shopping with Louise.

  “The ponytail stays that way. Let’s get on the road.”

  Chapter Two

  Louise’s new sand colored Toyota Prius cruised through the streets of St. Paul, toward Grand Avenue Hill. I put my feet on the dashboard and prayed that the car—which I liked to call the chariot of death—wouldn’t be my coffin. The car was safe enough, just not with Louise behind the wheel.

  “Get your feet off the dash,” she said. “You’re leaving dirty footprints.”

  “Can’t. Too scared.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re fine.” She careened around a garbage truck. “Explain to me why the hell you’re wearing those damned shoes? Your feet will be killing you in a few hours.”

  “I can live with it. That is if we make it out of this car alive.”

  I dug my fingers into the fabric of the roof, and braced myself as she slammed on the brakes behind a slow—moving Cadillac.

  “Damn it!” She shouted and laid on the horn. “Long pedal on the right, grandpa!”

  We followed the slow Caddie, giving my nerves a well—deserved rest until we reached Grand Avenue Hill. We pulled onto the mansion—lined street, still dozing in the early morning.

  Robberies or attempted robberies were common in this area, but it was rare to have murders on this street. The wealthy hid behind walls, gates, and security systems. Apparently, it wasn’t enough.

  A caravan of flashing lights marked the scene as we topped the hill.

  “Nothing like being inconspicuous. Tell me the media isn’t here yet,” I said.

  Louise craned her neck to see past the glittering lights. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  We pulled up to the police line where a uniformed officer held up a hand. Louise rolled down her window, but before she could speak he stuck his baby—faced head in the window.

  “Ladies, please turn around. We got our hands full enough without gawkers.”

  God, I hated assumptions. I held up my badge.

  “Back away from the window, junior, or I’ll come out there and put my foot in your ass.”

  He stuttered and took a step back. Louise rolled up the window.

  “Do you think you could have been a little nicer?”

  “Not with an hour of sleep.”

  “I haven’t had any sleep and I think I could have been nice.”

  I rolled my eyes at her and unhooked my seat belt.

  “Well good, Shelly—sunshine, you can handle all the nice—nice situations today.”

  I jerked the door open, stepped out onto the well—manicured lawn, ducked under the yellow police tape, and headed up to the gaggle of guys standing around the front steps of the brick mansion. Louise came up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder, and slowed my pace.

  “Let me get us in there. I don’t want you to have to put your foot anywhere unseemly today—especially your mouth.”

  The men toward the outside of the scrum gave Louise a quick glance but paid no attention to her. Amazing that any male could dismiss the tall, stunning woman, but these guys were wrapped up in their job.

  Louise tried again to insert herself into the crowd to no avail.

  Tired of waiting, I grabbed the officer closest to me and moved him out of my way. Then I grabbed the next and the next until they began to part voluntarily. I might only be five foot one, but I can be quite aggressive when I haven’t had enough coffee.

  Louise followed behind, offering a cheerful “excuse us” to each officer.

  When we finally reached the stoop, the commotion of the scene had grown quiet and all attention had turned to the two of us now standing at the center of everything.

  On the stoop, a white sheet covered the body. Crimson stains marred the crispy white fabric.

  Louise knelt, lifted a corner, and peeked underneath. “Who found the body?”

  Angry faces were the only answer. My strong—arming had pissed them off and now they were giving us the silent treatment. One of these days, I would remember to not be my own worst enemy.

  “Obviously a crack team of investigators,” she said.

  “Obviously.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if you don’t know I suggest you all get back to your patrols then.”

  “The neighbor,” said a young tan, dark—haired officer, who looked like he belonged on an episode of Jersey Shores and not out working on patrol.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “The next—door neighbor found him a few hours ago, right where you see him.” He climbed up onto the step next to me. “I was the first officer to arrive on the scene.”

  “All right, you stay,” I said. “The rest of you break up and see if you can come up with something more useful than blank stares. Try to remember that the dead man is a friend of the chief’s, so he’s taking a personal interest in this case. Anyone screws up and they’re going to have to answer to him.”

  Reluctantly they broke into groups to investigate the grounds, leaving Louise, the young officer, and me on the steps with the body.

  “Who covered the body with a sheet?” I asked. “That’s not our policy.”

  “I did. I thought because it’s such a nice neighborhood, it might be a good idea.” He shrugged. “Who would want to wake up and see this?”

  He had a point, but the neighborhood had nothing to do with it. I was sure that no one wanted to wake up to a dead body, even in less—affluent communities.

  “Which house is the neighbor’s who found him?” I asked.

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The condos across the street. She was coming home from, shall we say, an encounter. Doesn’t know his name, so we can’t corroborate.”

  His tone was full of disgust.

  Louise stood and fixed an icy stare on him, one perfectly arched brow lifted. “Any reason to suspect her?”

  “Well no, but you know women like that.” His face went ashen when Louise took a step toward him. “I mean, you know, picking up a guy like that. Not even knowing who he is. Come on.”

  I guess women were supposed to be above such antics as one—night stands. They couldn’t have carnal needs like a man. If they did, they were sluts or whores. In that respect, women hadn’t stepped far from the glacier.

  “We can question the neighbor but I’m guessing she doesn’t have anything to do with this,” I said. “It’s a nice neighborhood, low crime, the kind of place where you’d expect someone to call the police if something was out of the ordinary. Plus people who kill someone don’t usually call the cops and then wait around for them to show up.”

  “Yeah, right.” His cheeks flushed and I felt a little bad for embarrassing him. “Anyway, she called when she got home. It looks to me like a robbery gone bad.”

  Louise looked doubtfully at me. I grimaced and shrugged with my hands splayed wide.

  “Why do you think it’s a robbery?” Louise put her hands on her hips, shifted her weight to her right foot, and rocked on her left heel.

  The young man lit up, eager to prove his Hardy Boy skills. “His wallet’s been cleaned out, it’s on the ground next to him.”

  I knelt and pulled back the sheet. The silent, screaming face of a wel
l—dressed businessman in his late thirties stared in blank horror. His eyes, drained of life, were still wide with shock.

  I surveyed the scene, taking in all the information I could without moving him. The victim’s head was twisted unnaturally to the side and at this angle a nasty wound was visible at the base of his skull.

  “This was staged to look like a robbery,” I said. “It’s a homicide. Premeditated from the looks of it.”

  “How do you know?” He hiked up his belt and then fixed us with a curious gaze. “I mean what do you look for? Just so I know. For next time. If there is a next time I mean.”

  “Are you interested in moving into homicide?” I asked.

  His lips twisted into a half smile and he nodded.

  “Alright rookie, I like that you’re not afraid to ask. You don’t know until you know so don’t be afraid to ask. Take a look.” I pulled the sheet away from the victim’s hand. “Gold watch and ring untouched.”

  I took a pen from my coat pocket and flipped the wallet open.

  “All his credit cards and bank cards are still here. His briefcase hasn’t been opened.”

  I fished a tissue from my pocket, picked up the BMW—logoed key ring that lay next to the body and pressed the unlock button. A chirp came from the street.

  “Plus, here are the keys to that brand—new, BMW Z4 sitting on the street. If this were a robbery that baby would have been in a chop shop and stripped by now.”

  “That and your average in—it—for—the—cash—only pickpocket wouldn’t approach someone at their door,” Louise said. “They usually work crowds where they won’t easily be noticed.”

  “Most thieves aren’t killers, either,” I added. “It was probably an afterthought to make this look like a robbery attempt. It’s a murder. A particularly vicious one.”

  “Vicious?” His brows drew together.

  “Yeah, you have to be up close and personal to stab a person in the back of the neck.” I stood behind him to demonstrate the killer’s proximity. “A junkie or burglar might kill someone if they’re startled or caught in the act, but it takes real hate to sneak up behind someone and jam a knife into their head.”