A Grand Murder Read online

  “Okay, Tracy. Thank you.”

  She nodded, smiled politely at Louise and me, and then left.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s a godsend.”

  “She’s one of your executives?” Louise asked.

  “No, she was Nathan’s personal assistant but really she could run this company better than either one of us.” He gulped the last of his tea. “She knows everything that goes on around here.”

  Louise shot me a look I understood well. Anyone who knew everything going on inside the company was someone we needed to talk to.

  I swirled my almost—full cup of coffee, put it on the edge of the desk, and stood. “That coffee went right through me. Please excuse me.”

  I slipped through the door and came face to face with sister—Mary—gloom and doom, who scowled. I ignored her and proceeded down the hallway after Tracy.

  “Excuse me, miss?” I called after her.

  She faltered a moment, then kept walking. I sped up to the pace of a marathon walker to catch her.

  “Excuse me, Tracy, please stop.”

  My official cop command finally got her attention. She stopped and turned with a doe—eyed “who me?” look on her face.

  “I’m sorry, Detective O’Brien, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

  Yeah right, I thought but this time I managed to keep it to myself. Maybe one of those sleep deprivation highs had finally arrived.

  “That’s quite all right. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Certainly.” She crushed the paper—filled folder against her boobs.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  She glanced back toward Forster’s office and then toward the bullpen area considering her options.

  “I sit in a cube now, but I guess we could use Mr. Stanley’s office. He won’t need it anymore.”

  There was no hint of humor in her statement, just fact.

  “That would be perfect. I’d like to look around his office anyway.”

  “For what?”

  She led the way into an office that was a mirror image of Forster’s. Polished and intimidating. Their decorators knew their stuff. This place screamed success. The only difference between the two offices was Stanley’s desk sported a sleek, giant computer monitor, which was probably higher definition than my television, and there were papers stacked in sorters.

  “Well, you’ve seen all the cop shows.” I smiled. “We’re looking for a hint of who would have had motive to kill the victim. A clue to lead us in the right direction.”

  I nosed around some papers on a table next to the door for effect, then swept my eyes around the room. Toward the back was a door leading to a private bath—a little addition that Forster’s office didn’t have.

  Tracy turned pale and slumped into one of the armchairs facing Stanley’s desk then cradled her head in her hands. Sobbing shudders ran through her body.

  “Are you okay?” I took the seat across from her and leaned on my knees.

  “No.” She shook her impossibly red head. “I’m not okay. None of this is okay. The victim as you call him had a name and in less than twenty—four hours he went from a person to a body.”

  She took a tissue from the end table between the chairs and blew her nose with a loud goose honk.

  “It just upsets me, that’s all.”

  “Murder will do that,” I said, not sure if it came out comforting or sarcastic. “Did you know the v—” No, I wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Did you know Mr. Stanley very long?”

  “Ten years. That’s when I started working here.”

  Notes—I should be taking notes. I fumbled through my purse until I finally found my worn, old, notebook and a pen. Louise usually takes the notes on some app on her phone. She’s better at notes than I am, I’m too busy watching the person’s face and body language to remember notes, consequently I’m always caught unprepared when I need to write something down.

  “And during that time you were his secretary?”

  I flipped through several notebook pages on which I had scribbled titles of songs I wanted to download, books that I wanted to buy the next time I was at the store, and a phone number for someone but I couldn’t remember who, until I found a clean sheet.

  “Personal Assistant,” she said with a haughty air.

  “And what does a personal assistant do?”

  “I draft letters, file.” She folded her fingers around the tissue, laid her hands in her lap, and twisted the tissue as if she were strangling it. “Just about anything that needs to be done, including personal errands.”

  Tracy rattled off a laundry list of duties like she was being interviewed for a new job.

  I scribbled “glorified secretary,” under the words personal assistant in my notes. How precious are titles going to get? Why did people believe their jobs where more important if they were given a high—minded title?

  “Do you know why anyone would want to kill Mr. Stanley?”

  “Huh.” A mirthless smile twisted her lips. “I could make you a list.”

  Shock must have registered on my face. A low, haughty, “you’re so stupid” laugh assaulted me. She ran her index finger in a circle over her lips.

  “Detective O’Brien, you’re talking about a very successful business man. He didn’t become successful by making friends. He stepped over quite a few people to get where he is—was.”

  Her eyes fixed on the tissue in her hands.

  I snapped my notebook shut to bring her back from the edge of another crying jag. “In that case, I’ll need a list.”

  Tracy nodded and slid out of her chair. “I’ll get started right away.”

  “Do you mind if I look around?”

  “No, go ahead. If you can’t trust the cops. . . .”

  Awkward silence hung in the air for a few moments. Tracy wrung her hands in front of her and looked around with saucer eyes, like she didn’t know where to go.

  “Can I make the list somewhere else?” She rubbed her upper arms and then hugged herself. “Being in here gives me the creeps. I keep expecting him to walk in and ask me what the hell I’m doing here.”

  “Go ahead,” I said and moved behind the desk. A wave of nausea swept over me when I saw the view the massive windows afforded. Ugh, I hate heights. “Just close the door on the way out.”

  “Sure.” Tracy’s face was full of suspicion. She kept a watchful eye on me until the door completely closed.

  I dropped into the high—back, leather chair—softer than my bed. “Oh, I could get used to this.” I was pretty sure there was no way the department would spring for the Cadillac of chairs. Hell, I had to promise my first—born just to get a keyboard tray.

  Settling back into the chair, I scanned the paper—filled desk. The chaos made me think of my own desk, equally messy, but what I considered ordered chaos. The victim probably felt the same about his space.

  On the corner of the desk sat a red—covered book with It’s All About Winning gold embossed on the spine. There’s a small insight into the man. If winning was all he cared about then it was no wonder his secretary could make a list of people who would want him dead.

  Several reports were stacked together, bound in heavy card stock covers. I flipped open the report on top and scanned the pages of what looked to be a financial summary for Stanley and Forster, and tried to take in as much as I could. Considering I have trouble balancing my checkbook, I understood very little.

  A few minutes later Tracy returned holding a sheet of paper. “Detective O’Brien, I put together as many names as I could think of right now. If I think of anyone else, I can call you if you want.” She held out the list and glanced down at the report in front of me.

  “Yeah, that would be great,” I said and took the list from her. “Tracy, do you know what was on this little stand?”

  I pointed to a small wooden block that had two “U” shaped grooves cut into it, obviously mea
nt to hold something. “Is it a pen stand or something?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s for his letter opener. A small Japanese sword.” She lifted a stack of papers from the desk. “It must be here somewhere.”

  “A Japanese sword? You mean a Katana?”

  “Yes, I think that’s what they call it. It was a gift from a Japanese investor.” She continued searching. “I can’t imagine where it could be. He loved that thing.”

  “I’m sure it will show up.” I opened the list. Two columns of neatly printed names filled the page. This man certainly did have enemies. “Very thorough list, thank you.”

  I reached into the pocket of my purse and pulled out one of my business cards.

  “If you do think of anyone or anything else that may be helpful, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  As we left Stanley’s office I noticed a little stand that held business cards on the table near the door. I took one of Stanley’s cards and slipped it in my pocket to give to our Forensic Computer Examiners so they could check Stanely’s email address for any threats.

  In the hall Tracy stopped and turned toward me.

  “Can you find your own way out, Detective? I need to speak with Mr. Forster about a few things.”

  “Sure.” I headed toward the door that led to the lobby.

  “Detective O’Brien?”

  I stopped and looked at her. A worried pain showed on her face.

  “Please catch the guy who killed, Mr. Stanley.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter Four

  Louise waited for me in the lobby. From the way she paced the room, I could tell she’d finished with Forster shortly after I’d left. Dark crescents had appeared in the corners of her eyes, finally betraying her lack of sleep, but the rest of her was still flawless.

  Damn, that pissed me off. There was no mirror anywhere in the waiting room, but I was sure I looked like hell. At least I felt like hell. I would give good odds that the bloodless receptionist looked better than I did at this moment.

  “It’s about time.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Did you learn anything?”

  The receptionist turned to watch me with a nosy eye. I’m sure she kept the gossip mills well stocked with the interesting grist she overheard in the lobby of Stanley and Forster, but our business she didn’t need to know.

  I plastered on the best smile I could muster and bobbed my head. “Thank you, very much.”

  I wrapped my fingers around Louise’s upper arm, pointed her toward the elevators, and whispered, “I’ll tell you what I have when we get outside.”

  The sun blazed into my eyes when we stepped through the tinted glass doors that lead to the street. I retrieved my cheap plastic sunglasses from the inside pocket of my jacket, between half sticks of gum and unused tissues, blew the tissue lint from the lenses, and slid them up my nose.

  “Thank God, it’s finally day,” I said and buttoned my coat. “Even if it is still nipple—chapping cold out here.”

  Spring in Minnesota is an oxymoron. Instead of steadily increasing temperatures, Minnesotans have the curse of the boy’s high school basketball tournament snowstorms, and the constant threat of rain turning to sleet on the days that did decide to turn warm. Winter and spring are my least favorite times of the year here. But like my mother always says, “if you don’t have the bad, you wouldn’t appreciate how good, good really is,” and I appreciate a good summer when I feel one.

  “Well?” Louise unlocked the car doors with a little chirp from her key fob. “What did you find out from Stanley’s secretary?”

  “Personal assistant.” I ducked into the passenger seat.

  Louise got in and closed her door with a car—jarring thunk.

  “What?”

  “She is not his secretary,” I said and clicked my seatbelt into place. “She is Mr. Stanley’s personal assistant.”

  “Oh, please.” Louise took her sunglasses from the visor and slid them on before starting the car. “What did she have to say?”

  “She gave me a list of people who have a reason to want Nathan Stanley dead.”

  “You’re joking.”

  I held up the paper, fanned it back and forth, and batted my eyes at her.

  “Holy shit. That’s quite a list.”

  “Yes it is, but I think we can narrow it down a little, without much effort.”

  “How?”

  Louise pulled out into traffic without looking over her shoulder for cars. The blare of horns was like white noise to Louise—it happened so often, she didn’t even hear them anymore.

  I gripped the door handle with my right hand and dug the fingers of my left hand into the fabric that covered the roof.

  “Jesus, Louise, how did you ever get your driver’s license? Were you sleeping with someone at the license bureau?”

  “Shut up. I’m a better driver than you are and you know it, Miss Two Accidents.”

  She smiled and waved at the man who passed her and gave her the finger.

  No matter how bad her driving was, she always played her trump card—a clean accident record. I maintained that causing the collisions of other cars around you, made you equally culpable, even if your car came away unscathed.

  “So, how can we narrow down the list?” she asked.

  “I found where the killer got the murder weapon.”

  “No shit.”

  Louise swerved, and cut between two cars in order to make our exit ramp. I clutched my hand to my chest and prayed.

  “The assistant knew where the sword came from?”

  My heart tried to rip its way through my breasts. When my hand blocked its escape, it tried to creep out my throat instead. I swallowed the errant organ back into place.

  Next time I get into a car with Louise, I’m going to ride laying on the floor in back. Not that I’d be any safer on the floor, but at least I wouldn’t see death coming.

  “The knife was the victim’s own letter opener,” I said. “It was a gift. Apparently, he was quite fond of the thing, which makes me think it was someone who knew him well. Someone who was trying to make some kind of a statement with the weapon.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Give me a break. The murderer was someone close enough to get into his office, take the knife—”

  “It’s a sword.”

  “Whatever. The semantics aren’t what matters here. What matters is that someone close to the victim hated him enough to kill him with the sword he liked so much.”

  Louise skirted the cars in front of us, sped around them, and cut them off. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and repeated the mantra – we’re almost there, we’re almost there.

  “I think we’re dealing with a crime of passion after all,” I said when I’d recovered enough to speak. “Maybe not the kind we originally thought of, but a crime of passion all the same.”

  Doubt cracked Louise’s perfect features. She never put stock in any of my theories. To her they were too far—fetched to be credible, but this one wasn’t out of reach.

  “Why can’t my theory be the correct theory, just once, right off the bat?” I gave Louise a narrow—eyed glare. “It’s not that big of a leap. Hate is passion too. We may not be dealing with a jilted lover, but maybe a jilted client, business partner . . . open your mind to the possibilities.”

  “I’m open to possibilities. We don’t have even half the facts we need.”

  “Facts schmacks. Let’s just go with my theory.”

  Louise careened up the parking ramp at the station. On the third level, Louise spied an opening between a BMW and a Ford Explorer. The driver of the Explorer had pulled in at an angle and not bothered to straighten the SUV after parking.

  Louise didn’t see a half a parking space, no, to Louise this was a challenge. She jerked into the parking spot, clearing the bumper by a gnat’s ass, and brought us to an abrupt halt.

  “Let’s find out what forensics came up with before we commit to
your theory.” The sunglasses went back into the visor. She turned and arched a brow at me. “Is that alright with you?”

  “Fine.”

  Chapter Five

  Randy Ray, our resident forensic pathologist, was feverishly clicking the keys of his computer keyboard. In the glow of the monitor his normally pale skin turned a sickly green color. I wondered when he’d last left the office and seen the sun.

  Years ago when I’d first started working homicide, I’d nicknamed him “the digger.” Not only could he find the proverbial needle in the haystack, he could tell you what shelf it came from in the drugstore. The name stuck to him like gum sticks to hair, and evolved over time into the more succinct, Digs.

  An oversized coffee mug perched on the edge of his gunmetal gray desk. A tower of paper hovered next to the cup like the leaning tower—dangerously close to creating a landslide that would annihilate the unsuspecting cup.

  “Hey, Digs,” I said and moved the coffee mug to the back of the desk, for my own peace of mind, of course. I didn’t want coffee to obliterate any of the evidence from our case. “What’s the news that’s fit to print?”

  He looked up through his thick wire—rimmed glasses with innocent, gray, rabbit—beady eyes. It took a second to change his focus from the computer to my face. His eyes twitched over my features, like the fingerprint computer comparing ring patterns, until his brain put it all together and registered a name.

  “Oh, hey, O’Brien.” His eyes flicked to Louise. Crimson circles swelled on the apples of his cheeks. “Hello, Louise.”

  For years, my keen detective’s mind had suspected that Digs had a huge crush on Louise. Hell, you didn’t need a detective’s mind or eye to see his feelings. Digs wasn’t just wearing his heart on his sleeve, he wore it like a Dickies uniform jumpsuit–bright orange with the name Louise embroidered on the badge over his heart. But Louise barely noticed him. Digs, being the genius that he is, is a bit nerdy and she is completely uptown, but who knows, opposites like these two could attract.

  Louise looked up long enough from her phone to give Digs a short nod, but didn’t really look at him.