“David?”
He shook his head, instead.
“Oh, what the hell?” T said.
T marched across the living room into the foyer. She brought her hands up and Deese braced himself for the blow he was sure would follow. Instead, T wrapped her arms around him and hugged him so tightly that he nearly lost his breath.
“You are such a jerk,” she said. “You have always been a jerk, even when we were kids, but I love you so fucking much, anyway.”
Deese did something then that he hadn’t done even when his mother died. He wept.
* * *
One man was killed and another was critically injured, although he was expected to survive, in the shooting on the Green Line. According to witnesses, a man boarded the train and made his way toward a back bench where he sat with another man who clearly knew him. They spoke for a few moments, and then the first man pulled out a gun and shot his friend in the face. Next, he got up and made his way to the door. A second man was standing there. The first man shot him in the head—he’s the victim who was expected to survive, according to Dr. Lillian Linder at Regions Hospital. The train stopped at the next designated station, the door opened, the first man disembarked, and walked away. Detectives Sarah Frisco and Eddie Hilger were currently working with Metro Transit to identify the suspect from a surveillance video taken on the train. Mason Gafford was attempting to identify the murder victim and trace his movements. At least, that’s what Commander Dunston told Shipman when he returned to the Griffin Building.
“Bobby, I resent this.” Shipman was standing in front of his desk in his cramped office. “I really do.”
“Exactly what do you resent, Jean?” Bobby asked.
“This, this—being made to go after McKenzie’s assailant when there are so many other things I could be doing.”
“Other things that you believe are more important?”
“The shooting on the Green Line; I should be on that. I should have been the lead on that biker thing.”
“Because?”
“I’m the best investigator you have.”
“Are you?”
“Well, yes.”
Remember I told you about Bobby’s stare? He unleashed its full fury at his detective; enough anyway that Shipman found herself taking a few steps backward.
“Listen to me—very carefully—because I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” Bobby staggered his voice, something I’ve only seen him do when he was very, very angry. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—happening in this office—that is more important—than this—than finding McKenzie’s shooter—nothing. I’ve known McKenzie since he was five years old. Since kindergarten. We went to the same schools together. We played on the same teams together. We cried together when his mother died. We cried together when his father died. He is my best friend. More than that. He is my brother. He is my wife’s brother. He was best man at my wedding. I was best man at his. My daughters are his heirs. Deputy Chief Hodapp said I shouldn’t—investigate—this crime—myself. He said that I might allow my emotions—to cloud—my judgment. He said it would be better if I let one of my people take lead. He was right. Given that, you tell me, Jean, who should I have given this case to? Who should I send—to find—my friend’s shooter? Who would you send?”
“I’m sorry,” Shipman said.
“You didn’t answer—my question. Who—should—I—send?”
“Your best investigator.”
“Do you want off this case, Jean?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you have anything else to tell me?”
“I’m developing leads.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that.”
Shipman moved toward the door, thought better of it, and turned back.
“Commander,” she said. “Bobby.”
“Yes, Jean?”
“About one of those leads, I suppose now would be as good a time to go as any. Try to beat the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”
“Go where?”
“Northfield.”
ELEVEN
Shipman’s first thought was that the GPS got it wrong. Instead of leading to the City of Northfield Police Department, it had somehow directed her instead to an elementary school that looked as if it had been built yesterday. The walls were a mixture of brown, tan, and red decorative bricks and it had more windows than you’d think the law would allow. She might have driven past it except for the U.S. and Minnesota State flags flying near the entrance and the parking lot on the side that contained a single black-and-white Ford sedan with a push bar attached to the front bumper, a light bar mounted on the roof, and the words “Northfield Police” printed in capital letters on the side.
She parked her unmarked car and made her way to the front door which was mostly glass and Shipman wondered if anybody working in law enforcement down there had ever worried about their safety. There was a large rubber mat in front of the door with the words “Northfield Police” printed inside a blue outline that resembled a badge. Shipman refused to wipe her feet on the badge, instead tiptoeing around the mat until she reached the door and opened it.
Inside the foyer she encountered a lot of forms and pamphlets stacked on shelves fixed to the wall as well as a box where citizens were encouraged to dispose of their unneeded prescription medications, illegal drugs, and drug paraphernalia, no questions asked. Shipman was tempted to look inside to see if the program had worked even a little bit but decided against it for fear that it would only confirm her already rampant cynicism.
She opened the glass door that led inside the building and found an information window, only there was no one sitting behind it. Nor was there any noise that she could hear suggesting that people actually worked there.
“Hello,” she said in a loud voice.
“Hello,” a voice answered.
A door opened and an officer stepped into the corridor. He was wearing a black uniform that made his gold badge seem that much brighter. There was a five-pointed star in the center of the badge and a full-color image of the Minnesota State flag in the center of the star.
“Sorry there was no one here to greet you,” he said. “The building is usually closed this time of day. I kept the door open for you. Detective Shipman?”
“Yes.”
Shipman dove into the pocket of her blazer for her ID and gave him a look at it. The officer didn’t seem to care if she had one or not. Instead, he smiled at her as if she were his long-lost cousin from Nova Scotia.
“I’m Kyle Cordova,” he said.
He offered his hand and Shipman shook it. She noted that he didn’t try to overpower her with his grip like most of the men she met while on duty. She also noted that he was two inches taller than she was and at least a decade younger.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Officer,” Shipman said.
“The pleasure is entirely mine, I assure you. Please, call me Kyle. We’re all friends here, aren’t we? The thin blue line and all that?”
The officer kept smiling at Shipman as if he actually meant it and Shipman wondered if it was a small-town thing, a male officer acting so graciously toward a female officer—although twenty thousand people lived in Northfield and it was only forty minutes from the Cities. Could he actually be a nice guy?
“Call me Jean,” she said.
It was an unusual gesture on Shipman’s part, telling a man, any man, to use her first name and for a moment she wondered why she had done it.
“I must say, you’re not what I expected,” Cordova said.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone older.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Did I say I was disappointed?”
He smiled some more and Shipman thought, Okay not a small-town thing. It’s universal. Boy meets girl.
“Here’s the deal,” Cordova said. “Your Commander Dunston called my chief of police, who called the deputy chief, who called my sergeant, who called me, probably because
my name is at the bottom of the roster. We have twenty-three officers in the NPD including four investigators and an evidence technician. I’m the newest hire. I was told that you wanted to interview a student over at Carleton. I was told to escort you there and assist you in any way you require, being how the Northfield Police Department is always happy to help our colleagues from other jurisdictions.”
“I’m sorry you got the duty,” Shipman said.
“Not at all. I’m happy to do it, especially now that I’ve seen you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re way out of line, Officer,” Shipman said. “That is a highly inappropriate and unprofessional thing to say to me.”
“Yet true, nonetheless. Should we be off then?” Cordova held his arm out as if he was escorting her to the prom. “And it’s Kyle, remember?”
Shipman hesitated for a moment before hooking her arm around the officer’s.
“Kyle,” she said. “I can see that you and I are going to get along just fine.”
* * *
Carleton College was only two-point-three miles from the Northfield police station. Apparently everything in town was only two-point-three miles from the police station including Officer Cordova’s favorite bar where he said he would be delighted to buy Shipman a drink before she headed back to St. Paul.
“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said.
“Once I’ve finished this interview, I will be, too.”
“Perhaps we could start our own joint task force.”
Shipman liked that Cordova was flirting with her. She had always received her fair share of attention from men before they knew what she did for a living, but not so much afterward. Being a cop, Cordova understood at least some of what she experienced day to day, which she considered a good thing. On the other hand, none of her previous relationships with police officers had worked out and that, plus the forty-five miles and ten years that separated them, made a relationship problematic at best. Still …
Concentrate, she told herself. Stay focused.
While she might have been resentful before, Shipman was now desperate to solve my case. She wanted to please Bobby. While driving down to Northfield she imagined how impressed or at least grateful he would be. It would also allow her to one-up her colleagues in Major Crimes—who’s the best investigator; the one Bobby trusted the most? Not to mention, it would give her something to lord over me until the day one of us died. She wasn’t going to let some young cop screw that up for her, she didn’t care how damn cute he might be.
Seven minutes after they started, Cordova parked his patrol car illegally and led Shipman to a building called the Hoppin House, which was an actual house complete with porch and fireplace. That’s where the Carleton College campus security force was located.
Cordova knocked on the front door and opened it as if he had been expected, and held the door open for Shipman to pass through. As she did, a large man dressed in a white uniform shirt with a patch on his right shoulder and a microphone attached to his left circled a cluttered desk and approached her with his hand outstretched.
“Chad Volkert,” he said.
“Detective Jean Shipman, St. Paul PD.”
She reached into her pocket, yet Volkert didn’t seem to care if she had an ID any more than Cordova had.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
Cordova answered for her—“She’s here to interview a student.” When he saw the look in Shipman’s eyes, however, he folded his hands over his belt buckle and stood at attention.
“I apologize,” he said. “I overstepped.”
Shipman hadn’t heard a lot of apologies coming from men, either, and quickly accepted his.
“It’s okay, Kyle.” She used his first name to prove there were no hard feelings. To Volkert, she said “I would like to speak to a student, an English major named Elliot Sohm. S-O-H-M. Female. Age twenty. But understand, gentlemen. The young lady is not wanted for anything. There will be no arrests. I wish merely to question her concerning a matter that occurred recently in St. Paul of which she may—or may not—have personal knowledge. So, let’s not embarrass the kid in front of her classmates, okay? I don’t want to summon her. I don’t want her escorted across campus by one of your white shirts.”
“That’s considerate of you,” Volkert said.
Considerate hell, Shipman told herself. I want the kid to think I’m on her side until I’m not on her side.
Out loud, she said “Tell me, Mr. Volkert, how I can interview Elliot Sohm without the entire student body knowing about it?”
Volkert went to his computer and typed for about fifteen seconds, used his mouse, and typed some more. When he finished, he said, “Ms. Sohm is being housed in Burton Hall.” He glanced at his watch. “Most students are probably still at dinner. They could be eating at any one of three locations, Burton Dining Hall, East Dining Hall, and Sayles Hill Café, but Sayles has a grab-and-go menu after lunch. Think fancy takeout. That leaves Burton and East. Burton is closest. We could find her there, walk up and say ‘Hi’ like we’re old friends.”
“We?” Shipman said. “The three of us would look like a posse.”
Volkert gave it a few moments thought.
“Students are used to seeing security wandering through the residences, academic buildings, the Bald Spot, everywhere on campus,” he said. “We want them to be used to seeing us. It would not cause concern for any of them to see me doing a walk-through in the dining halls. You’re not in uniform. If you were to enter a few minutes behind me, I doubt anyone would even notice.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know Ms. Sohm?”
“From a distance. We’ve never met.”
Volkert gestured at his computer. There was pic on the screen of a pretty girl with short blond hair, round face, bright eyes, easy smile, and dimples. Shipman studied it for a moment.
“Okay,” she said.
She and Volkert spun toward Officer Cordova.
“Should I wait here?” he asked.
“You are my ride,” Shipman said.
* * *
Theresa Deese had made fettuccine alfredo with grilled chicken that everyone in her family said was as good as if not better than what they could find at Olive Garden. She never told them that the recipe actually came from the restaurant; she found it online.
She picked at the meal, though, while Deese dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in three days. You might have thought it would be the other way around.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” T said.
“My first thought was that this was a huge mistake,” Deese said. “I thought that they must have mixed up my results with someone else’s. Once I was convinced that they were accurate … It felt as though the foundation on which I had built my life had been pulled out from under me, you know? I was wobbling for a while. At the same time, I was afraid to tell anyone. Not you. Not even Barb. It took a while to regain my balance. Regain my balance—like I have. I haven’t. Not really. At least I’m not angry anymore. I became so angry that I had been lied to by the people I love the most and then I became sad and then—I had taken it for granted my whole life that when I looked into the mirror I was seeing not just myself but my whole family. Now I look and I wonder where did that other half come from?”
“It doesn’t change anything with me, you know that don’t you?” T said. “You’re my brother and I love you whether you’re a half, three-quarters, one-quarter, an eighth…”
“Thank you, T. You’ll never know how much that means to me.”
“You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”
“No.”
“All right then.”
“About the business; about our inheritance…” Deese said.
“In Minnesota, an individual has a full year to challenge a will or make a claim on an estate after a person dies,” T said. “A judge might waive the statute of limitations in the c
ase of fraud, only there wasn’t any fraud, was there? We both believed what we believed…”
“You looked all this up?”
“Of course I did. Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Dad would be so fucking disappointed in you. I mean, that was careless, David.”
“If you want to contest Dad’s will…”
“I’m not going to contest the will, you jerk. I just wanted to know how things worked in case papers needed to be signed or something. Besides, I really like what you’re doing with the business. You’re making me a helluva lot more money than I’m getting in alimony, so…”
“T…”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Only now it was T’s eyes that welled with tears.
“What are you going to do about this, anyway?” she asked.
“Nothing. I mean, what—I’m going to announce to the family that our mother cheated on our father? That she was … This is our mother we’re talking about. The kindest, most considerate, most loving, most, most…”
“She was a woman like any other woman. Sometimes mistakes are made.”
“Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, I know. But, T, what am I going to do? Call her out two years after she died? How is that going to make anything better?”
“Most of the family would be very angry if you did.”
“You think?”
“I won’t, though. I promise I’m good with whatever you decide.”
“Right now I’m thinking that we keep it a deep, dark secret. Just you, me, and Barbara.”
“Until someone else in the family decides to play DNA detective.”
“Cross that bridge when we get to it, I guess. Honestly, T, I wish I had never opened that box, Pandora’s box. I blame you.”
T snorted as she laughed.
“Yeah,” she said. “I thought it would be fun. Important, even, the idea of being able to trace our family tree. The DNA company tells you that you may learn unexpected things about yourself and your family and that you can’t unlearn them, except it’s all in the small print. They should have warnings like they do on packs of cigarettes—the surgeon general has determined that DNA research can screw up your life.”
What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel Page 16