A Grand Murder Page 2

  I patted the victim’s jacket pockets and checked the one’s in the lining of his coat.

  “What are you looking for?” Louise asked.

  I looked up at her. “His cell phone. The killer must have taken that too.”

  “Maybe he didn’t have one,” she said.

  “Right, when’s the last time you saw a business person without their phone attached to their ear?”

  “Good point,” the rookie said. “Does that mean something?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “It could mean something or it could have just been taken to make this look more like a robbery.”

  I pulled the sheet over the victim again. Now all we had to do was find the killer, his motive and build a case. Just another day at the office.

  An overweight uniformed officer came jogging up the steps. He gasped and wheezed a few times while he caught his breath.

  “I think we have the murder weapon.” He held up a tissue—wrapped, slender, curved—blade knife covered in blood. “It looks like a letter opener of some kind. Strangest damn thing I ever saw.”

  “It’s a Katana,” Louise said matter—of—factly. “A Japanese samurai sword.”

  She must have registered the quizzical look on my face.

  “What? Highlander was one of my favorite T.V. shows back in the day.”

  “Really?”

  My love for all things Star Trek was a source of humor for Louise, so I couldn’t picture Louise watching anything SciFi.

  “What? I was young, in college, and Adrian Paul was hot.”

  Well now it made perfect sense. I should have calculated the lust factor and weighed it against her desire to not be seen as a geek.

  The fat officer held up the sword and looked at it closely. “Pretty small for a samurai.”

  “It’s a replica of a Katana, a miniature probably used as a letter opener,” Louise admitted.

  “Well, it’s plenty sharp for letters—and for killing a man,” I said, leaning in for a close look. “Bag it, and send it to the lab. See if they can pull any evidence from it.”

  “Hold it up for a second.”

  The officer held up the knife and Louise snapped a picture of it with her phone. She touched the screen a few times and the photo disappeared from the screen.

  “Okay, get a forensic unit out here,” Louise said. “The coroner’s on the way, hopefully we can get the body removed before people start leaving for work. We don’t want to create any more of a scene than we already have.”

  “No one talks to the press,” I said.

  We certainly didn’t need a media circus inhibiting our investigative efforts.

  “Send any inquires to the chief, Detective Montgomery or me.”

  A few of the men rolled their eyes, as if to say, duh, but no one commented outright.

  The coroner and forensic units showed up and cleared the scene in record time. My guess was the chief had probably been in touch with them before we called.

  A few neighbors asked what was happening, gawkers arrived with their camera phone’s jockeying for position, and local news agencies sent vans, but all were kept at bay by uniformed officers and police tape surrounding the scene.

  My voice mail would be packed with messages from news stations wanting more than “an official statement will be issued at a later time.”

  Minnesota reporters were relentless in their pursuit of a story and that trait was to their credit. Sometimes they even helped in an investigation and were happy to turn over information they found to the police, as long as they retained the exclusive.

  Hell, we’d even had criminals who would only turn themselves in to a reporter. They were the glory—seeking bastards who killed and terrorized so they could watch their exploits on the news.

  There were times in an investigation when surprise worked in my favor, and I didn’t want the media blabbing information before we were ready.

  Louise eased up beside me and leaned against a squad tapping on her phone. She finished sending the text she was writing and then looked at me.

  “I’ve questioned the neighbor. She was able to give me information on where the guy worked and some names of his friends. She’s been to a few parties at his place in the last year. They were even intimate now and then.”

  “Anything solid?”

  “No, everything is very limp.”

  She grinned when I rolled my eyes.

  “Nothing to hang your hat on.”

  And she thought I had a stupid sense of humor?

  “She’s not the jealous lover type?” I asked, grasping at straws.

  Louise drummed her fingers on the door of the squad and shook her head. “Unfortunately no.”

  “Well, where do we start?” I headed for the car.

  “I’d say his office,” she said. “Maybe we can find something more substantial to go on there.”

  “Like mob connections?” I always dreamed of taking on a mob guy, just like Elliot Ness. “That would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She gave me her sphinx look. “But he does have a business partner.”

  I considered this possibility for a minute.

  “The business partner tries to muscle Stanley out of the business and when that doesn’t work, the partner gets angry enough to off him.”

  A bolt of excited energy rushed through me from top to bottom. There were legs to this theory. I slapped the roof of the car.

  “I like it–a lot,” I said. “The office it is.”

  Chapter Three

  A fluorescent light buzzed and snapped overhead in the gray and burgundy lobby of Stanley and Forster. God, I hated that sound, like the incessant buzzing of a mosquito when you were trying to sleep.

  Fluorescent lights made it impossible to concentrate on work and I’d read somewhere they actually leeched the vitamins from skin. Employers did more to hinder productivity by subjecting their employees to these conditions than they saved in dollars by installing the florescent bulbs.

  The pretty, little, blonde receptionist looked like the nasty blue lights had affected her too. Her pasty, pale skin punctuated the dark circles under her eyes and made her look as though she hadn’t slept in weeks.

  “Mr. Forster will be with you momentarily, Detectives,” she said with no hint of a smile.

  “Thank you,” Louise answered in her usual chipper manner. We took a seat on a padded bench, which ran the length of one lobby wall.

  It was way too early in the morning for that kind of cheerfulness. Especially from Louise who hadn’t slept in twenty—four hours.

  I watched as Louise checked her emails on her phone. She hadn’t lost any of her texting dexterity from lack of sleep.

  Maybe Louise was on one of those highs you get for short periods during sleep deprivation. At least I get them when I’m sleep deprived, and I was hoping to get one any second to help make it through this interview with the dead man’s business partner.

  It would help if the receptionist would offer us some coffee or a Coke, anything with caffeine. Instead she was too busy rearranging the photos on her desk top to worry about our beverage needs.

  Several minutes passed before a somber, older woman in a black dress appeared at the door behind the receptionist. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and her pale hands were folded together in front of her.

  A bitter chill rolled over me when I realized that the countenance of the woman reminded me of Sister Mary Teresa, my third—grade teacher. If she hadn’t looked like a crazed Mary Kay lady had assaulted her, she would have been the spitting image.

  “Are you the detectives here to meet Mr. Forster?” Her soft voice was low and reverent, adding to the nun—like facade.

  Louise shot me a worried glance, then plastered on a giant smile, and got to her feet. “Yes.”

  I stood and positioned myself half behind Louise. It surprised me how easily at thirty—two—years—old I could be reverted to a child by a memory. Although I think Catholic upbrin
gings haunt the best of us, I bet the Pope even runs into a nun around the Vatican that makes him want to cross himself.

  She looked us up and down with a scowl as if trying to determine if we were telling the truth. “Follow me, then.”

  We followed in her Esté Lauder wake, past the half—round reception desk, and into a giant florescent—lit room filled with half—walled cubicles. She glided through the maze of fabric—lined walls, weaving her way to the far end of the room where a warm, oak—colored door stood out like a flashing, neon, light against the cool white walls.

  The door opened onto a rich wood—paneled corridor with wall sconces and doors every few feet. A stark contrast to the dreary outer area where the employees worked. No doubt meant to impress clients and intimidate underlings.

  The nun—cretary led us to a set of double doors at the end of the hall. She pushed open the door on the right and stood with her back against it so we could pass into the small room. Leather sofa’s flanked two of the walls both facing a half round desk that looked suspiciously like the one in the reception area.

  “Please have a seat and Mr. Forster will be with you shortly.” She gestured to one of the large leather sofas.

  “Excuse me?” Annoyance crept into my voice unchecked. “We were taken out of one waiting room to be shoved into another, albeit nicer, waiting room? What is this, a doctor’s office?”

  Louise touched my arm but I shook her off. The old woman looked startled for a moment but recovered her hard edge quickly.

  “Mr. Forster is very busy this morning, and you didn’t have an appointment.” Her left eyebrow arched and she looked down her nose at me. “I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Well, I certainly do. You see I am a very busy woman, and I hate to be kept waiting. I’m trying to figure out who killed Mr. Forster’s business partner. I’m sorry that the killer didn’t give us an advanced warning so we could make an appointment. Each moment that passes while we’re sitting on our asses, waiting for a good time in Mr. Forster’s schedule, means the trail gets colder and colder.”

  “Catherine,” Louise warned.

  “I’m sorry Louise, I just don’t understand what’s going on around here. They leave us waiting half the day.” I jammed my fists into my hips. “And no one has even offered us coffee. What’s with that?”

  The woman’s face grew red. She took a deep breath and let it out slow to regain her composure. “Would either of you care for some coffee?”

  “Black for me, please.” I smiled and dropped onto the sofa closest to me.

  Louise shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  The nun—cretary smiled at Louise and scowled at me, then trotted back down the hallway to get my coffee.

  “Catherine, was that necessary?” Louise picked up a copy of In Style magazine from the end table, and flicked through the glossy pages.

  “Yes. I didn’t want that old nun to be staring at me the whole time we were waiting. Besides, she smelled like an old person. Plus, I think we need to agree on our line of attack.”

  “Okay, but first.” She slapped the magazine closed on her lap. “Old nun?”

  “Sister Mary Teresa—third grade.”

  “I see. Childhood trauma.”

  I’m not sure Louise really did understand my childhood traumas. She’d had what I would consider a normal life growing up. She didn’t appreciate the richness of growing up in a Catholic household, where everyone was on the border of sanity and took any opportunity to pack their bags and cross the border for a nice long vacation.

  Louise tossed the magazine back onto the end table.

  “Now what do you mean by line of attack? Good cop, bad cop? I think everyone’s clued into that one by now.”

  “No. Do we want to treat him like a suspect or butter him up? Which do you think will get him to slip up?”

  “So you’re assuming he’s our man?”

  “Business partner seems like the first best bet to me,” I said. “You have something different?”

  “I’m reserving judgment until later.” She picked up a copy of Newsweek and scanned the pages.

  “Liar.”

  We always speculated on who the killer might be — it was a game. First, a preliminary guess, then an investigation and whoever guessed correctly, the other bought dinner.

  “Catherine, we don’t even know who all the players are yet. Don’t you think we should know who we’re dealing with before we jump to conclusions?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” I picked up my own magazine and flipped through the first few advertising pages. “We’ll wait until we’re introduced around, then fry the guy.”

  “Damn, where is that woman with your coffee?” She peered around the corner and down the hall. “You’re unbearable without caffeine.”

  The door to our left opened and a man in his mid—fifties, carrying a folded over newspaper under his arm crossed to the waiting room desk. He took a pen from the drawer, tested it on the edge of the newspaper, then did the same with another and another until he found one that he liked.

  For a few moments, our presence went unnoticed as the man jotted on the paper. When he realized he wasn’t alone in the office he jumped with a start and took a step away from us, as if he might bolt back into his office and slam the door.

  “Have you been helped?” he asked clutching his paper to his chest.

  “Are you Mr. Forster?” Louise stood and held up her badge.

  “Yes.” He relaxed enough to drop his arms to his sides. “You’re the officers investigating Nathan’s murder?”

  He shook Louise’s hand, then mine. His middle—aged spread shook along with his arm, as the carefully arranged and hair sprayed gray hair, flopped back and forth like a bad toupee over the bald spot on the top of his head.

  “We are, sir, and we have a few questions for you if you have a moment,” I said.

  “Please come in,” he said. “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

  Forster’s office was a posh, wood—walled room. I teetered on my high heels as they sank into the green, deep—pile carpeting. A large mahogany desk filled the space in front of towering arched windows, with a double—sided banker’s lamp perched in the middle. The whole room gave one the impression of being in an old library.

  I choked away the urge to whisper and said, “We won’t take too much of your time. We know you’re busy.”

  “Even more so today.”

  He laid the newspaper on the desktop, dropped into his leather chair, and leaned his chest on the edge of his clean desk. There was no computer, no papers or files on the surface, except the newspaper which was folded back to reveal the crossword puzzle he’d been working.

  Forster’s arms dangled somewhere out of sight beneath the desk. An odd position for anyone to sit in — let alone a man whose whole environment was crafted to intimidate. Chris Forster didn’t belong in his own setting.

  “All of our clients and suppliers are calling to find out about Nathan’s murder, and I don’t know quite what to tell them. I’d like to know myself.”

  “How do they know what happened?” My usual edgy suspicion crept over me.

  He sat back. A momentary flicker of confusion crossed his wrinkled face. “Nathan’s murder is all over the news. Our company is rather high—profile, officer . . . I don’t think I ever got your names.”

  “Detective O’Brien,” I said. “And this is Detective Montgomery. I apologize. I didn’t realize that the media had been given any details.”

  “Just his name and the fact that he’s dead.” He sat forward again. “Our media liaison has of course put out a press release saying how shocked and saddened we are at his loss.”

  His blue eyes watered and he blinked back tears.

  “Of course,” Louise said. “Are you going to be alright, sir?”

  The skin on his hands looked like tissue paper stretched over the bones, as he wiped his eyes.

  “I’m fine. It’s just hard to believe he’s gon
e, you know?”

  The door opened behind us and sister—Mary—secretary came in with a tray of coffee and assorted teas.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Forster, but this lady said she wanted some coffee, and I wasn’t sure if you would want something. Perhaps some soothing tea?”

  She said it as if he were a child. I was sure she would have suckled him had he asked.

  “Thank you, Jannie. Tea would be lovely.”

  Jannie – hmm, not the name I would have pegged her with – more like a Gert or a Bertha. She put the tray down, and passed the coffee mug to me. I took the cup. She shot me a dirty look. I returned the glare and toasted her with the mug.

  “Now, detectives, you have questions for me?” He dunked a licorice—smelling tea into a fine, silver rimmed china cup.

  “Yes. They’re just routine.” Louise flashed him her most reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

  She began the interview with all the standard questions: when was the last time he saw the victim, where was he between the hours of four and five this morning?

  If he was guilty, he certainly didn’t act like it. No sweating or twitching. He just sat in his goofy pose, sipping tea, answering our questions without hesitation, and occasionally weeping.

  My murder theory eroded and crumbled before my eyes. Forster was a good man with no ill will toward his partner. Either that or he was an extraordinary actor.

  I was just about to drift off to sleep when the door rattled opened and banged against the wall. A woman carrying an over—flowing file barged into the room.

  “Mr. Forster, I need your approval . . . .” The woman—short with red hair—stopped in her tracks. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d canceled your appointments for the day.”

  Eagle eyes swept both Louise and me, not missing a detail, as if she were cataloging everything about us for later study.

  “Tracy, these are the detectives investigating Nathan’s murder. Detectives Montgomery and O’Brien.” He indicated each of us in turn.

  “Oh.” She closed the green file folder in her hands and shuffled the papers back inside. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. This can wait until later. Just see me before you leave, okay?”