by Blake Pierce
What had he been thinking about when the afternoon was mentioned? It was so imperceptible that Missinger himself might not have noticed it. That seemed unlikely if he was recalling murdering his wife in the afternoon. She would have expected either a bigger reaction or a concerted effort to have no response at all. At yet, something about the mention of the “afternoon” had thrown him, if only slightly.
Jessie’s thoughts were interrupted by a new person entering the interrogation room.
“Hello, Detectives,” a short, balding, forty-something man said buoyantly. “I’m Brett Kolson, Mr. Missinger’s attorney. I hope we’re all having a good time here. And I’m confident that you haven’t been questioning my client after he called me.”
He breezed in and pulled out the metal chair beside Missinger. Jessie typed Kolson’s name into the attorney database to see what she could glean about him.
“Nice to meet you, counselor,” Hernandez replied with a tone that suggested he wasn’t being entirely sincere. “I’m sure your client will tell you that we’ve been nothing but gentlemen prior to your arrival.”
Missinger nodded.
“They’ve just been reconfirming stuff,” he said quietly.
“That’s right,” Hernandez agreed. “But now that you’re here, Mr. Kolson, we’d love to get a little clarity on some timeline-related matters.”
“You’re welcome to try. But I reserve the right to advise Mr. Missinger to refuse to answer anything I think is out of bounds. And I will pull him if I deem it appropriate. Mr. Missinger wants to help get to the bottom of this horrible event. I trust it won’t be a witch hunt.”
“Of course, not,” Hernandez said, pretending not to be troubled by the very developments he was concerned would happen.
“Give us a moment to confer, privately, would you?” Kolson said.
“Sure,” Hernandez said. “We’ll be back momentarily.”
A few seconds later he and Trembley stepped into the observation room and looked at Missinger huddling quietly with his lawyer.
“We’re not going to get anything out of this guy,” Hernandez said, dispirited. “His lawyer is going to advise him not to answer anything of consequence. When we go back in there, he’s going to shut down every path we take.”
“Maybe not,” Jessie said, still studying the screen.
“What do you mean?” Hernandez asked.
“This Kolson guy isn’t a criminal lawyer. He may be putting on a good show but he’s the corporate attorney for Ecofund Investment Partners, Missinger’s hedge fund.”
“Does it really matter?” Trembley asked. “He’s still not going to let us start peppering his client with probing questions.”
“No,” Jessie agreed. “But Kolson’s legal obligation is ultimately to the fund, not to Missinger personally. If we can get Missinger to believe that his interests and his attorneys aren’t aligned, maybe he’ll say something useful.”
“Any suggestions?” Hernandez asked. “Because I can’t think of any way to go at him that doesn’t get shut down immediately.”
“There’s definitely something up with what he was doing yesterday afternoon. He flinched when you mentioned that timeframe. Maybe go back to that. See if he can walk you through his calendar for Tuesday afternoon at work. Maybe Kolson won’t balk if he thinks the answer won’t incriminate his client. I want to see how he reacts when you bring up that stretch of time.”
“What are you looking for?” Hernandez asked.
“I have no idea,” Jessie admitted.
The detectives returned to the room. Missinger and Kolson stopped whispering. Jessie tried to read their faces. But other than generalized anxiety on the client’s part, nothing jumped out at her.
“Let’s talk about yesterday afternoon, Mr. Missinger,” Hernandez started. “I know you told our officer you came home to meet your wife for a planned dinner out. What were you doing prior to that?”
Missinger looked at his lawyer, who nodded.
“We had a conference call all afternoon,” he said.
“You led it?”
“No. I made a few introductory remarks. But it was mostly run by our CFO, Sven Knullsen. It was a reevaluation of the EIP portfolio heading into Q one, sort of a last review before we lock everything in for the holidays. He had a big presentation planned so I deferred to him.”
“This consumed your entire afternoon?” Hernandez asked.
Jessie saw Missinger tense up involuntarily, almost imperceptibly, before responding.
“It did. I had to prep for it and then I was on the call for well over an hour.”
“The meeting was in your downtown office?” Hernandez asked.
“Technically, yes. That’s where it originated. But our team is dispersed throughout the world. It’s not like we were in the conference room. Everyone called in remotely, even within our offices.”
“Is there a recording of the call?” Trembley asked.
“There usually is,” Missinger said. “We maintain them so that folks who couldn’t make it can listen later.”
Kolson piped up at that point.
“Anything from that meeting is work product and I would object to it being used for anything other than to verify my client was on the call.”
“Were you on the call the whole time, Mr. Missinger?” Hernandez asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
Again, his jaw muscles flexed ever so slightly. Jessie had seen enough. She decided it was time to be more than just an observer.
CHAPTER NINE
Jessie left the observation room and knocked on the next door, ignoring the army of butterflies in her stomach. Trembley opened it.
“Mind if I join for a moment?” she asked.
Hernandez raised his eyebrows in surprise but quickly recovered.
“Mr. Missinger, this is one of our police consultants, Jessie Hunt.”
Missinger nodded.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sir,” Jessie said, sitting down across from the man in the chair next to Hernandez.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“I know this is a really raw time for you so I hope you’ll forgive me for being so direct. But you have to realize that the thing you’re hiding is going to come out.”
“What is this?” Kolson demanded, his voice rising.
“And unless you killed your wife,” Jessie continued, barreling past the lawyer’s protestations, “whatever you’re hiding isn’t worth protecting.”
“Don’t respond to that, Michael,” Kolson insisted.
Hernandez gave Jessie a look that was half fury and half befuddlement. She plowed on, aware that unless she got something now, her career with the LAPD might be over before it really got started.
“Remember, Michael,” she said softly, “Mr. Kolson’s obligation is to your company, not to you personally. I suspect that if you had called a lawyer with no connection to your firm, rather than the only one you had on speed-dial, you’d already have told us the secret you’re clearly holding back right now.”
“This conversation is over,” Kolson said huffily, standing up. “Either arrest my client or we’re leaving right now.”
“Is this conversation over, Michael?” Jessie asked, staring into his still-red eyes. “Or do you have something to share?”
“Come on, Michael, let’s go,” Kolson said, grabbing Missinger’s arm and tugging.
“Wait,” his client said in a near-whisper.
Jessie sat in front of him, waiting, not breathing for fear it might influence his decision.
“Can you promise me some kind of confidentiality?” Missinger asked.
“What do you mean?” Jessie asked.
“If I reveal something that isn’t illegal but could affect my company in a negative way, are you able to look into it quietly, and keep it quiet if it doesn’t impact the investigation?”
Jessie began to suspect the universe of “somethings” that Missinger might be hiding and tried to ease his
concerns as best she could.
“I can’t make any promises, Mr. Missinger. But I can tell you this. Whatever you’re hiding, we will uncover it. If you’re forthcoming now, we can investigate with a scalpel rather than an axe. We can be diplomatic. We can keep a low profile. We can do those things if we know what we’re dealing with. But if we don’t, we have to cast a wide net. We might have to be more forceful—warrants, subpoenas, that sort of thing. You can limit those kinds of actions by giving us the information we need up front.”
Missinger looked at Jessie helplessly. She could feel the other three men in the room staring at them both.
“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked with pleading eyes.
“You don’t,” Brett Kolson insisted, “which is why you shouldn’t say another word.”
“He’s right,” Jessie said quickly. “If you’re responsible for Victoria’s death, you shouldn’t say another word. But if you aren’t and you want us to find out who is, you’ll bite the bullet and take the hit for whatever you’ve done that has you feeling guilty. We’ll do our best to be discreet in following up, but only if you are forthcoming here and now. So what’s her name, Michael?”
Missinger’s eyes widened. But then something unexpected happened. His whole body seemed to relax, like a balloon once the air is let out.
“Mina,” he said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jessie noticed Brett Kolson tense up.
“Who’s Mina?” she asked.
“She’s Sven’s wife.”
“Who’s Sven again?” Trembley asked. Jessie wanted to punch him.
“He’s the chief financial officer for Ecofund,” Missinger reminded him. “He’s the one who was giving the presentation that day.”
“So you were with Mina…during the conference call?” Jessie asked.
“Yes. I made my introductory remarks from the office but I was on my cell phone. Once Sven took over, I stayed on the line but left the building. He was in his own office and never saw me go. I walked three blocks to the Bonaventure Hotel, where I had a room held using a corporate credit card. I went straight upstairs to the room. Mina was waiting there.”
“You had sex with your CFO’s wife while listening to him make a presentation?” Trembley asked, sounding equal parts horrified and impressed.
“My phone was on mute,” Missinger told him. “He couldn’t hear anything. But I could hear the meeting, so that if I needed to speak, I could. I actually did make occasional points.”
“Why did you meet her then?” Hernandez asked.
“Because I knew we couldn’t get caught, at least not by Sven. He was obviously busy. But I have to admit the risk element was exciting. It was very illicit.”
“Do you think your wife knew about the affair?” Jessie asked.
“No. I always used the EIP corporate card for our…visits. Mina and I met during the day, near work. Victoria would have no reason to be suspicious.”
“How long had this been going on?” Jessie pressed.
“A couple of months. It wasn’t anything serious. We started flirting at a dinner party one night and things just developed. But I love my wife and Mina has great affection for Sven. We both just wanted a little excitement.”
“That little excitement could have billions of dollars’ worth of consequences,” Kolson muttered, despite himself.
“That’s exactly why this has to stay quiet,” Missinger replied.
“That’s the least of your concerns right now, Michael,” Hernandez said. “We have to verify your alibi.”
“I’m sure cameras can show me leaving my office, entering the hotel, maybe even going into my room,” Missinger insisted. “Can’t you check the geo-location on my phone? There have to be ways to confirm where I was without going around asking a bunch of questions. If this got out, it would send the company into a tailspin. I’ve already lost my wife. I can’t lose my business too.”
“We’ll check it all out,” Hernandez told him. “If you provide all the details, fully and completely, we’ll do our best to investigate tactfully. I can’t promise it won’t eventually get out in some future legal proceeding. But if you’re straight with us and you aren’t involved in your wife’s death, we’ll try to be sensitive. Fair?”
Missinger nodded. Hernandez pointed to the legal pad and pen lying on the table.
“Write it all down. Start with the dinner party you mentioned. List every date you can recall where you met Mina Knullsen. Then go through all of yesterday, listing everything you did, everywhere you went and everyone you met. Include times as best you can. Leave nothing out. Got it?”
“Yes,” Missinger said.
“After that, we’ll have more questions for you. We’ll want to know about Victoria’s doctors, everyone who knew about her diabetes, everyone who had access to your home, etc. You’re going to be here for a while, Mr. Missinger, so get comfortable.”
They left him in the interrogation room to write up his statement and returned to the observation room.
“Good catch on the affair, Jessie,” Hernandez said, “even though you took a massive risk pushing him on it. You’re lucky it worked out.”
“What you call luck, I call talent,” Trembley said.
“Don’t encourage her, Alan,” Hernandez said before turning back to Jessie. “How did you know to go there?”
“I didn’t know,” she admitted. “He seemed tense and guilty about the afternoon but wasn’t even aware that he was projecting that. If he’d killed her, I would have expected either a bigger reaction or none at all. And when he conceded that he’d done something wrong but not illegal, something that could hurt his company, I was able to narrow it down. It wasn’t drugs or financial impropriety. Either of those would be admitting law-breaking. But an affair wouldn’t rise to that level. So I guessed.”
“It may not be illegal, but it’s the sort of thing that could get him killed if Sven found out and got pissed,” Trembley said.
“I suspect Sven’s not the ‘get pissed’ type,” Jessie noted, “which may be why Mina was looking for some excitement in the first place.”
“All that is very interesting,” Hernandez said brusquely, “but we’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?” Trembley asked.
“If Missinger’s alibi checks out, we’ve just lost our primary suspect. We’re back to square one.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jessie felt like a churning cocktail of frustration and exhaustion. She hadn’t expected to watch the sunrise from a desk in that Central Community Police Station, but that’s exactly where she was as dawn began to settle over Los Angeles. And they still didn’t have any promising leads.
Trembley was running down the list of people Missinger said accessed their home regularly. Hernandez had a message in to Victoria Missinger’s doctor and expected a return call momentarily. He’d gotten an emergency warrant to access her phone and was now trying to track her movements over the course of the previous day. A few more detectives who had just arrived were helping him run down leads.
Jessie left the traditional investigation to them and instead studied the online calendar that Hernandez had downloaded from Victoria’s phone. There were multiple events listed during the last few days—including a fundraising meeting for a children’s charity called the Downtown Children’s Outreach Center and a Hancock Park homelessness reduction seminar.
Jessie noted that both events and several others over the last few weeks took place at the same location—the Beverly Country Club. It occurred to her that the club might not be a bad place to check out. Since she wasn’t technically a cop, she might be able to show up, ask around and glean some information that a more official law enforcement visit wouldn’t allow.
She glanced at the clock. It was 7:37 a.m. The club would likely be open at this hour to accommodate the early morning golf crowd. But she doubted those were the folks she needed to talk to. Even on a Wednesday, the wealthy wives gang was more likely to amble
in around brunch time.
“I’m going home for a bit,” she announced to Hernandez and Trembley. “I figured I’d take a quick nap and clean up. Then I plan to go to her country club. I’m hoping that if I keep a low profile, I might overhear some scuttlebutt from the ladies who lunch. I’m sure by then, they’ll all have heard about Victoria and be anxious to talk about it.”
“That actually sounds like a really good idea,” Hernandez agreed. “In my experience, once the cops show up, people are either really forthcoming or completely clam up. You going in as a civilian might allow you to hit the sweet spot of getting info without dealing with agendas.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know if I learn anything worthwhile. In the meantime, happy detectiving, gentlemen.”
She left the bullpen and headed for her car, excited to do a little probing on her own but even more excited to get a little shut-eye.
*
Jessie, wearing her best smart casual outfit, walked into the main entrance of the Beverly Country Club at 10 a.m. sharp. She’d called ahead and learned that brunch started at 10:30, but she wanted to be there well in advance in case anyone arrived early to trade rumors.
She had made a point of driving past the Missinger home on her way over. There was still one police car out front and tape surrounding the entire house. But other than that, it was quiet. Jessie had continued on, driving through the small neighborhood known as Larchmont Village.
The homes were an eclectic mix of ostentatious mansions and more modest cottages that had been here since before property costs in the area had skyrocketed. The business stretch of Larchmont Boulevard, just east of the country club, was a cornucopia of artisanal cheese shops, vegan-friendly cafes, organic markets, and fair trade coffee shops.