A Grand Murder Read online

  Well, maybe in some parallel universe where she would at least acknowledge his existence, these opposites could attract. Louise wasn’t shallow. I’d seen her date men on the nerdy side in the past, but I don’t think she’d ever looked at him that way. To her Digs was a coworker—no need to muddy up the whole situation with trying to define the relationship as anything more.

  Digs hung his head like a scolded dog. “I’m afraid we don’t have much.”

  He picked up a manila file from the edge of the desk, folded the cover back, and held it out for Louise. She holstered her phone, studied the top page, gave the rest her best Evelyn Wood, and then handed the file to me.

  “No prints on the weapon,” Digs said.

  “Not exactly mind—blowing news, Digs.” I riffled through the papers—diagrams of the wound, detailed descriptions of the autopsy. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair so far the front wheels lifted off the floor. Digs flung his arms and legs out in front of him to recover his balance, and the chair slammed down. The blush in his cheeks deepened.

  “Not the way I’d want to die,” he said. “The M.E. says the blade went in at the base of his skull. There’s a minimal amount of blood with this type of wound. The knife cut the spinal cord and instantly paralyzed him. No calling for help, and no getting away.”

  “Oh great.” Louise picked a piece of lint from her jacket and dropped it on the floor. “More images to keep me up at night.”

  “Just when you thought you’d seen it all.” I folded back the top few pages of the report, turned it toward Digs, and pointed to a paragraph near the bottom of the page. “What’s this? You found fibers on the knife?”

  “Yeah, I’m surprised you caught that.” Digs sat forward, elbows on knees.

  “They don’t call me eagle—eyes O’Brien for nothing.”

  “No one calls you that,” Louise said. “More like visually—challenged O’Brien.”

  “Well, you didn’t see it. You were probably too busy checking your text messages to notice.”

  Digs held his hands together in the form of a T, calling a timeout to our bickering, which he couldn’t stand for too long.

  “We’re still looking into the type of fiber,” he said. “They’re not a synthetic material and it’s not the victim’s because no other fiber from his house matched this particular strand. That’s about all we know right now.”

  Louise took the file from me and examined the details in earnest. “Contamination from after the knife was tossed?”

  Digs’s eager puppy look reappeared at the opportunity to impress Louise. The hope in his face was painful to watch, especially considering he had no chance in hell, or a parallel universe, of getting a date with her.

  “No, I don’t think so.” He rifled through a bankers box on the floor marked evidence and came up with the murder weapon sealed in a baggy. He pulled the clear plastic tight around the handle of the little sword.

  “See, here on the handle, the metal is coiled around in a braid to form the hilt?”

  We leaned in to get a closer look and nodded like bobble—head dolls. On any normal given day, Digs would throw technical, hard—to—follow terms at us. At least this was something we could nod over and not have to pray that there would be a layman’s translation when he was done.

  “The fiber was wedged into the grooves of the braid. The fiber didn’t just fall from the sky and land on the hilt. It was way down in there.”

  He handed the Katana to Louise, then tipped back in his chair again, and laced his fingers behind his head. His torso was arched forward to help maintain his balance, so he wouldn’t spill over this time.

  “I think the killer was wearing mittens,” he said.

  “Mittens?” I said. “The no—finger jobs like little kids wear?”

  “Yep.” Digs had his cat—chomped—canary grin. He was holding something back, and he wouldn’t give until he was damn good and certain of his facts.

  Louise laid the knife in the evidence box. “It could just as easily been gloves, Digs.”

  A girlish giggle escaped him. A deep sense of sadness washed over me, because now I knew he had no hope with Louise. I doubted if Louise would date any man who giggled. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I had giggled.

  “It’s just a theory I’m working on. I’ll let you know when I have more.”

  “When will that be?” Impatience knifed into her voice. So much for Shelly—Sunshine; Louise needed a nap. “When we get upstairs, we’re going to have people who want answers, all over our asses. Answers we don’t have.”

  Nervous fidgeting replaced Digs’s smug sureness.

  “I’m giving your case my top priority.”

  “I have no doubt you will,” I said.

  He always gave every case his top priority, even without Louise glowering at him. In the years we’d been working together, Digs hadn’t let us down yet. If there was a rabbit in the hat on this case, he’d find it and pull it out by its floppy pink ears—carrot and all.

  I slid off the edge of his desk and headed for the door. “Come on, Louise. We’ve got a list of suspects waiting for us to rule them out.”

  “Literally.” She shot Digs a powerful look that said she’d be back for her answers, and he’d better have them. Then she turned in one elegant, swift movement and glided her way to the door.

  Even angry and tired, Louise managed to be graceful. Maybe I should think about asking for a new partner. Someone whose face looked like it had been through a cheese grater. Someone who had the grace of a wounded ox.

  When we entered the pit, as I affectionately call our bullpen office, we were met with lowered eyes, shaking heads and stern warning looks that said, “run while you still can.” Bob Shackelford whispered “warpath” to me as we passed his desk.

  Great.

  That meant we were in for a shitload of trouble from the Chief. If our victim was a good friend of his, he’d be on our backs like an overweight jockey until we found Stanley’s killer.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” The chief bellowed from across the room.

  His bull moose tone was unmistakable. I’d know it was him by sound alone, even if he wasn’t filling the door frame of his office with his arms crossed waiting for us. Which he was.

  “What have you got on the Stanley murder?”

  “We’ve got a list.” It was sarcasm through and through, which didn’t escape his radar.

  I cleared my fear—constricted throat and tried to recover under the Chief’s dangerous glare. I had ridden the hot seat many times in my rookie days, and the Chief’s ability to intimidate hadn’t diminished through the years.

  “Um, the victim’s assistant was able to provide us with a list of people who might have had a grudge against him.”

  His cool gaze was unflinching. He wanted more. He expected more.

  “That’s all we have so far.”

  Arms crossed over his beefy chest, he shifted his weight to his toes. “That’s all?”

  “Well, no.”

  Louise stepped in to save me from myself. She always did. I guess I’ll have to forget about asking for a new partner.

  “There’s some fiber evidence that Digs is working on for us, and we have a few theories of our own to pursue. I’m confident we’ll have something definitive for you soon.”

  Slim evidence but it was all about the sell and Louise was a spin master. Whereas I might say, “you’re an idiot” Louise would rephrase that to be, “I’m trying to see this from your perspective.” The chief was a pretty good bull artist too so I was interested to see how this played out.

  The chief pursed his lips and nodded. “Tell me you have more than a few theories to base your staggering optimism on. Do you have a line on a possible suspect yet?”

  “The business partner looks to be a good bet,” she said. “We’ve been told there was a large insurance policy on both Stanley and
Forster, in case something happened to one or the other. We’ll be following up with the insurance company to verify this information. Forster does get full control of the company now that Stanley’s dead. Forster verbally confirmed that for me today.”

  He nodded again, convinced that Louise was on a good track. Hell, I was convinced, which was a huge leap for me since a few minutes ago she wouldn’t commit to a suspect and now she was prepared to convict Forster.

  “Good,” he said. “I want this to be your only priority. Your lives are on hold until this case is solved. I want something conclusive in 48 hours.”

  “48 hours?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Gavin wasn’t going to like being put on hold any more than he already had been. “Chief, we might be able to come up with some solid leads, but we’ll need time to build a solid case. We don’t want to rush things and end up wrongly accusing someone.”

  “Damn it, O’Brien.” His eyes narrowed. “48 hours or you’ll be back issuing tickets with the officers you threatened to put your foot in their asses.”

  I should have known that little bit of news would get back to the office faster than I did. The only thing that travels faster than news of treats in the break room, were stories of my misconduct.

  “Sorry chief.” I patted my belly. “Premenstrual.”

  Louise closed her eyes and shook her head, with a slight smirk drifting across her lips.

  The chief pointed at me, then wagged his finger slowly. “You’re skating, O’Brien, and it’s time to pull the houses off the ice.”

  “Right,” I said and squashed the urge to salute him. Like my dad always said, when you reach the point where the shit covers your nose, stop digging. “48 hours. We’ll have something for you by then.”

  I’d just tied our own noose, tightened it, and set us on tippy toes on the edge of a box. If we didn’t have something for him by the deadline, he’d have no problem kicking the box out from beneath our feet and watching us twist in the wind.

  Then there was Gavin. Being sans wife for another forty—eight hours wouldn’t do much to improve the mood he was in this morning. I wondered what a good divorce lawyer was going run me.

  Chapter Six

  “I just can’t fucking believe this!” The very tall, very thin, very blonde woman in front of us paced back and forth, gesturing with a cigarette stuffed in the crook of the index and middle fingers of her left hand. “Am I a god—damned suspect?”

  “Ma’am, we’re just talking to people who knew the victim.” Louise held her hands up as if she were surrendering to the white—haired dervish. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re looking for information about Nathan Stanley.”

  “This is just fucking great. Just because I was married to him I’m being accused of murder?”

  Belinda Stanley crushed out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, then gripped the end of the table and flipped it, end over end. Crystal, ashes and coffee—table books skittered across the marble floor of her white living room.

  Instinctively, I stood and put my hand on the nine mil holstered behind my back. Louise put her hand on my arm and shook her head. I relaxed slightly but left my hand on my gun. Louise might not perceive Belinda as a threat but in my experience, someone this volatile could fool instincts.

  Belinda buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably, for about three seconds. Then she took a deep breath, wiped her nonexistent tears, and turned toward us with her arms folded across her waist.

  “Okay, so I wanted him dead.”

  What a drama queen.

  Belinda Stanley had to use some type of recreational drugs to help her through the day because normal people don’t behave like this. Do they?

  “What did you say you do for a living, Mrs. Stanley?”

  I expected her to say she was a community theater, bored, rich girl. My mother had an acquaintance like her once, full of drama but little else. She’d spent years as the Grand Dame of our community theater, throwing tantrums and shaking up the whole production any time someone tried to steal her attention.

  Belinda straightened and brightened. “I’m a fashion designer. Maybe you’ve seen my pieces in the local upscale specialty shops.” Her eyes ran the length of me, then she cocked her head to the side. “No, maybe not.”

  Apparently, my standard attire of faded jeans, tank top, and a suit coat wasn’t what she considered to be great fashion. What the hell did I care about fashion? With the hours I put in these days, my main goal when I walk into my closet in the morning is to find something clean, that I can spend twelve to fourteen hours in without getting chafed.

  Belinda dropped into a colorless armchair across from us. Her chin dropped to her chest and her bottom lip pouted out. “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with you explaining why you wanted him dead?” Louise remained as cool and professional as usual, despite Mrs. Stanley’s unusual outburst.

  She ran her red nails through her bleached white locks and considered Louise for a moment. “Wanting someone dead and actually killing them are two different things. Wouldn’t you say?”

  She had a point. My register of people I wished would kick off and make the world a better place to live could rival Santa’s naughty list. Belinda Stanley had just recently been added to my ever—growing catalog, but I never took the matter into my own hands. Wishcraft was all the further I was willing to go.

  “It’s no secret that my ex—husband was a bastard. He was fucking ruthless at times but that’s what made him sexy.” She clenched her bottom lip between her teeth and grinned. “You know what I mean?”

  “No,” I said. I tried to picture the bloodless man I’d seen lying on the front steps of his home as anything but cold and dead. I couldn’t manipulate the image into sexy.

  “Well it did.” She dragged her tongue across her bottom lip and laughed through her nose. “Anyway, I didn’t kill him. It would have been fiscally stupid for me to kill Nathan. Now that he’s dead, I’m cut off, unless he left me something in his will. I don’t know what I’m going to do without my alimony checks coming in every month. I should have insisted that he keep the life insurance policy I had on him. At the time it didn’t seem like a fighting point, so I settled for a large monthly payment.”

  “I didn’t realize women still got alimony,” Louise said.

  “They do if they have the right lawyer and the right judicial contacts.” Belinda sneered. “The only women who don’t get alimony are stupid or poor. I can give you some names if you ever need them.”

  I thumbed the gold band on my left hand and thought about how frustrated Gavin had sounded this morning. After I told him I’d be working overtime again, I might need Belinda’s legal contacts.

  “Thanks, but no,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “When did you last see your ex—husband?” Louise asked.

  “The last time I saw Nathan, he was alive. It was Saturday at a black tie gala at the Minneapolis Club. We were both invited, but we didn’t attend together. I didn’t make a habit of hanging out with my ex, but occasionally we cross paths.”

  “Where were you between 1 a.m. and 6 a.m.?” I asked.

  “With a new friend.”

  She pulled her legs up under her and stretched her arms out while holding her knees. It reminded me of my Mom’s old tomcat. He was a big, fat, black and white cat. He’d flop over on his side and stretch his front paws straight out before curling up for a nap. Despite the fact that Belinda was thin, all white, and human—and she hadn’t yet choked up a hairball—the resemblance was uncanny. Or maybe I needed more sleep.

  Louise moved to the edge of her seat and fixed a narrow—eyed gaze on Belinda. “A new friend? Was this friend male?”

  “Yes. He’s prominent and married and I won’t tell you his name. I’m very discreet when it comes to my affairs. You can arrest me but I won’t disclose who I was with last night.”

  Louise fixed her gaze on me as if t
o say we were done here. Belinda Stanley had drawn her line in the sand, and there was no more to say.

  “I’m sure you won’t have to worry about being out of alimony checks for long,” I said and got to my feet. “Don’t go running off with your new friend for awhile. We may have more questions for you later.”

  Louise stood and followed me to the door, then stopped, pulled a business card from her pocket and laid it on a circular table in the entryway.

  “If you think of anything, which might be helpful, please give us a call.”

  Belinda shot me a hateful look. “I’m sure I won’t remember anything. My memory is notoriously bad and getting worse by the second.” She tapped her finger on her temple. “Detective . . . I’m sorry I don’t even remember your names.”

  “This is Detective Montgomery.” I pointed to Louise. “And I’m Detective O’Brien.”

  “How original an Irish cop.”

  “Actually, I’m Polish. Just married the name.” I slid my sunglasses up my nose and smiled. “Thanks for all your help.”

  Once safe inside the chariot of death, I turned to Louise. “What do you think?”

  Louise turned the key in the ignition and the Prius hummed to life. I sent up a silent prayer and took a cleansing breath.

  “Far too stupid to hide her tracks as well as our killer did,” she said, and jerked the car out onto the road.

  “Good point.” I yanked the seatbelt across my chest and strapped myself in for another wild ride. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Paddle—less on the poopy creek.”

  “Yep, that’s what I figured.”

  We spent the bulk of our day interviewing half the people on the enemies’ list without any luck. By the time we made it back to the station, we were exhausted and punchy.

  I had gotten to the point where the slightest thing sent me into fits of laughter. The laughs had gained momentum like a snowball rolling downhill, and now I couldn’t stop the tittering giggles. My incessant tee—hee—hees were driving Louise crazy.