A Grand Murder

by Stacy Verdick Case

  Locked.

  That usually meant there was something important inside. Anyone who would take the time to lock a desk drawer, inside a locked, and security systemed house, must have something good hiding inside.

  At least that was my theory. Either that or this guy was way more paranoid than I was.

  A criminal would have to break a solid oak door, circumvent a sophisticated security system, find their way upstairs, through the bedroom, and then break into the desk. Which was exactly what I was about to do.

  I reached into my purse and fished out a Swiss Army knife, the miniature key chain kind, but it would do. Even on a desk this fancy, the locks could easily be popped, and this wasn’t my first time at the dance. It would only take a few seconds to bust the drawer open.

  Victim and perpetrators alike bought little tiny locks to keep out what is big and bad of the world. None of the locks did a damned bit of good. What’s big and bad of the world would always find a way inside. The bad didn’t care if it had to go through the front door, back door, or the side door.

  Just ask Nathan Stanley. He’d taken all the precautions you’re suppose to in life, security system, alarm on his car, and still he ended up murdered, cold and dead on a slab in the morgue.

  I inserted the tiny blade between the drawer and the desktop. A few rattles, a small jerk and the drawer scraped open.

  “Open sez me.”

  I closed the knife and dropped it into my purse.

  “Let’s see what was worth all the fuss.”

  A checkbook, a phone bill, with no long distance charges, a credit card bill, with a lot of dining charges, probably business related—bills, bills, and more bills.

  “Well, that was anticlimactic. Hardly anything worth locking up. Come on you bastard, where are you hiding your dirty little secrets.”

  I opened the drawer to the right, which was full of office supplies. The last drawer was a file drawer with a year’s worth of bills neatly filed by month.

  “Come on, all that effort for some stupid bills?”

  No, there had to be something more hidden in the desk. Why lock up your old bills and some cheap drug store office supplies?

  An idea flashed through my mind. There was a movie once where the guy hid the documents by taping them to the bottom of the drawers.

  I slid each drawer out and ran my hand under the drawers. Nothing.

  Nathan Stanley was pissing me off.

  I yanked the top—drawer open again. This time I pulled the bills out and set them on top of the oversized desk. Maybe I’d missed something the first time.

  Beneath all the bills was a ruler.

  Why would you need a ruler to pay your bills?

  I tried to pull the wooden ruler out, but it was glued to the bottom of the drawer. The corner of the straightedge angled up and moved enough for me to get my fingers under. I gave one swift tug up and ripped the ruler out. A strip of the drawer ripped out, too.

  “Shit,” I said. “It’s a good thing he’s dead or he’d be really pissed.”

  To my surprise when I looked inside the hole I’d created, I didn’t see the rich patterns of the area rug on the floor under the desk.

  “A false bottom? Who was this guy?”

  I pulled the banker’s lamp from the corner of the desk and held it over the drawer. Bulkier than a flashlight—yes—but easier to find. I angled the glass shade so the light washed down into the hole. Something glinted inside the slender gap.

  The opening was too narrow to get my short sausage fingers inside and pull out the hidden treasure. I went to plan b. After a few minutes of searching, I again retrieved my Swiss Army knife from my purse.

  I used the blade of the knife to chase the shiny mystery item back and forth in the trench. Finally, whatever it was, butted up against the edge of the drawer. I pushed the blade underneath and stood the little piece of metal on end. I pinched it between my fingers and lifted it out.

  A small silver key.

  “Now, where do you belong?”

  “Where does who belong?” Louise said from the doorway. “Are you talking to yourself, again?”

  “Yep, it helps me think.”

  I swiveled in the chair and showed her the key.

  “I found this little key hidden in a false bottom in the drawer.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “Must be an important key.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Where do you think this little guy belongs?”

  She leaned in, took the key from me, and examined both sides. “Hmm, file cabinet?”

  The only file cabinet in the office, was a tall, wooden replica of an early 1900’s model. As I approached the cabinet, I realized it wasn’t a replica, it was the real thing, complete with antique lock.

  “There is no way that key fits this cabinet.”

  I leaned against the wall.

  “Maybe it’s for a file cabinet at his office.” Louise said.

  “Maybe but then why keep it hidden in a drawer here? Why wouldn’t he keep the key on his key ring or in his brief case?”

  My synapses were still firing from dinner.

  “Think about it. If he needed the key he’d have to run all the way back to his house. What sense does that make?”

  “You’re right. That wouldn’t make sense.” Louise thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s not his. Maybe it was already in the desk when Stanley bought it.”

  My curiosity got the better of me. I tugged the top drawer of the file cabinet. It slid open with only the slight resistance that wood dragging across wood caused.

  Empty.

  The second drawer was stickier than the first. I wiggled it back and forth until it was halfway open.

  Louise and I peered in and found a blank scrap of paper.

  “Come on,” I said. “You’re telling me someone would spend a truckload of money for an antique file cabinet and leave it empty?”

  One drawer left. I tugged the last drawer. It didn’t move. I tried again, this time pulling with more force than was needed to open a drawer, even an old wood one. Finally, it jerked open.

  Inside was a small fireproof safe.

  “We have a winner,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” Louise said.

  She squatted next to me, pulled the beige safe out of the drawer, and set it on the floor between us.

  The little silver key slid into the lock, without any coaxing—a perfect fit.

  “It feels like Christmas,” I said and rubbed my hands together. “Open it! Open it!”

  She turned the key and pushed the lid back. Inside were four writable CD ROMs, and several large manila envelopes. Each envelope had a name written on it in black marker. Underneath everything was a videotape with the name Annabeth Carter on the spine.

  “Damn. We’ve hit the mother lode,” Louise said. “Looks like one of your far—fetched, convoluted theories finally holds water.”

  She held up an envelope marked Bel/Phil. “Stanley did have something on them.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I lied. I was surprised. Not just because my theory was right, but also because there were at least half a dozen envelopes, all with the names of important people written on them. Our very own enemies list.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Judge Carlson. He doesn’t strike me as someone who could be blackmailed.”

  I laid the envelope on the floor.

  “He’s such a straight arrow.”

  I lifted the next envelope. “This one’s a St. Paul city council member.”

  “No wonder he got so many government contracts.” Louise picked up another envelope. “Here’s the deputy mayor’s envelope.”

  Holy cats. I’d seen photos of Stanley shaking hands with the deputy mayor. Imagine having to smile and shake hands with the man who’s blackmailing you for something.

  Why hadn’t any of these people reported being blackmailed? The department could have made arrangements to keep their indiscretions out of the press. It would
n’t have been the first time.

  “Do you think we should open the envelopes?” I asked. “Maybe we could use this stuff ourselves.”

  “Catherine.”

  “I know, I know. Blackmail is illegal, but we do need to know what’s inside. The information in these envelopes is part of a murder investigation.”

  Louise sat across from me with her long legs wrapped to the side. “I know they are. So are these.”

  She dropped each envelope one at a time—a senator, competitors of Stanley and Forster, and more judges. What was more surprising than no one reporting the blackmail was that Stanley hadn’t been killed sooner.

  Louise stopped, took in a sharp breath, and stared at the last envelope. Her eyes went wide and she chewed her bottom lip. Not a good sign.

  “What? Who is it?”

  She turned the envelope over so I could read the name. There in thick, black, marker was the chief’s name.

  “Oh, no.”

  Louise dropped the envelope, like the paper had grown teeth and taken a chunk out of her fingers.

  “I don’t want to know,” she said.

  “Me either.”

  We stared at the chief’s envelope. It was a wooly mammoth in the middle of the room that no one was willing to talk about, but it couldn’t be ignored.

  No matter how hard we tried to pretend the envelope didn’t exist, it wouldn’t go away. At some point we would have to raise ourselves out of denial and deal with whatever ugliness lurked inside.

  “Let’s open the others,” I broke the silence, “Starting with the envelope on his ex—wife since she and her, whatever you want to call him, are our first best bet. We can deal with the rest of this ugliness if we rule them out as the murderers.”

  Two small metal prongs held the manila flap shut. I folded the prongs up, opened the flap, and dumped the contents onto the rug.

  Stanley had something on them all right. Not just photos of Belinda and Carter, but also pages of Xerox copied documents, showing some questionable business dealings Carter and his ex—wife had a hand in. And their hands were dirty.

  “Here’s your motive. People have been killed for less.”

  I held up one of the photos of Belinda and Philip in a moment of strange sex. I tilted my head. Belinda Stanley was very limber.

  “Between these documents and the photos, there’s more than enough reason for murder.”

  Louise agreed. “I think we have enough to get a warrant to search both Belinda and Carter’s house for evidence. Especially the missing mittens.”

  I yawned and stretched.

  “Let’s put in for the warrant tomorrow. I don’t think they know we’re on to them, and I doubt they’re going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, they’re comfortable that we’re satisfied with their alibis.”

  She stood in one graceful, fluid movement. “Go home and see your husband.”

  Louise held out her hand and helped me struggle to my feet. My legs had gone numb from sitting on the floor and there was pain behind my knees where my jeans had creased into my skin.

  Damn, I was getting old. A few years ago sitting on the floor wouldn’t have bothered me at all. These days I was more likely to stand than take a chance that I wouldn’t be able to get off the floor.

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven thirty. Gavin would be in bed, asleep by now, but at least I could curl up next to him, and let the dulcet sound of his snoring sing me to sleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gavin was crashed out on the sofa, with his head half buried in the cushion crack, and his feet hanging over the arm. He didn’t look comfortable at all, but from the steady buzz coming through his nose, comfortable or not, he was asleep.

  I dropped my purse next to the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch.

  The TV was still on, blaring a car chase from some 1970’s police drama. The actor on the screen looked like he had to throw the bullets from his gun, but he did manage to precisely hit the back tire of the bad guy’s car. The car spun out of control, and crashed over a sidewalk, flipped and careened down the street on its roof. Miraculously the crash didn’t kill the suspects or anyone else on the crowded city street.

  “That is so fake,” I said and clicked off the TV.

  “You mean that’s not what you do every day?”

  Gavin pulled his head out from between the cushions, then propped himself up on the arm of the sofa.

  “Me?” I feigned astonishment. “Naw, I hand out tickets and eat donuts all day. Don’t you know that’s what all good cops do.”

  His bloodshot eyes crinkled when he smiled, and I caught a glimpse of what he would look like when he grew old.

  That was for me.

  I wanted to be there to see every line and every crease as they were created. It didn’t matter if I had to go on vacation to do it; I was going to keep this man.

  “How’s the school—to—shopping—center conversion coming?”

  I took his left hand, kissed his palm, and ran his fingers between mine.

  “It’s coming. But we have a few months left to go.” He ran the back of his other hand over my cheek. “What about you? Arrest any bad guys today?”

  “Nope. We’ll more than likely make the arrest tomorrow.”

  “That was fast.”

  “It had to be.” I said.

  Gavin listened intently while I explained the case to him in as much detail as I could remember, considering how tired I was. I finally wrapped up the story with searching Stanley’s house and finding the blackmail envelope with the chief’s name.

  “Wow, what do you think was in it?”

  “I don’t want to know. We’re going to turn it over to him tomorrow. He can decide what to do with it,” I said. “Tell us or don’t tell us, I don’t really care. I’m confident that we caught our killers. Everyone else was just Nathan Stanley’s victim.”

  Gavin leaned in, cupped my face with his hands, and pulled me close.

  “Making the world safe for Joe every man,” he said. “My wife, fighting for truth, justice, and the American way.”

  His lips brushed mine with a feather soft kiss.

  “When what I should be fighting for is to protect our marriage.”

  I pulled his hands from my face, and held them in my lap. He hung his head.

  The silence was unbearable and went on for far too long.

  I wanted an instant denial. I wanted to hear the lighthearted Gavin saying we’re okay. I wanted him to tell me that it was a bad joke, and he was just giving me a hard time, but face—to—face he couldn’t lie to me.

  “I won’t deny it’s hard, Catherine. You’re rarely home. Every time you leave the house I’m sure some wacko’s going to kill you.”

  “Gav, please, you have to stop watching these cop shows. No one’s going to kill me.”

  He pulled his hands away from me.

  “How can you say that, Catherine? You’ve already been shot three times.”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  We’d had this conversation so many times I could have recited both sides of the argument by myself. I know Gavin supports me in whatever I do and he trusts me, but that doesn’t take away the fear and anxiety of knowing that my job brings me in close contact with people who would rather see me dead than let me arrest them.

  “How many construction workers died last year from accidents at a job site, Gav?” I asked. “Two? Ten? One hundred? They don’t make Kevlar vests for carpenters, do they?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger.

  “There are inherent dangers in both of our jobs, Gavin. So don’t think it’s any easier for me to see you on a construction site, with steal girders swinging from cranes over your head, nail guns going off near you. Hell, you could die just driving home from work in rush hour traffic.”

  “It’s not the same and you know it, Catherine. When I go to work I don’t have people who are intentionally trying to kill me.”
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  We stared at each other for several agonizing minutes. There wasn’t anymore we could say. We’d arrived at our old familiar impasse with no way around.

  I could appreciate that he wanted to keep me safe, but he knew I would never give up my job.

  “It’s the hazard of being a cop, Gavin. Danger is part of the job.”

  “It wouldn’t be, if you were on a desk assignment or research.”

  This was the first time he’d ever suggested I give up being on the street. He might as well have kicked me in the head.

  “I’m not a secretary, Gavin. I’m a detective. I don’t want to spend my days typing someone else’s reports,” I said. “I want to be out there making my own. You knew my job when you married me.”

  “You’re right.” He reached over and took my hand, again.

  The tension creeping into my shoulders ebbed. He only took my hands when the argument was over. So, for now we were finished but I wondered how long before the mention of a desk job crept up again.

  “I married Dirty Harry, I shouldn’t have expected to bring home Martha Stewart.”

  “Martha Stewart?” I whistled through my teeth. “I could blow her away.”

  “You mean figuratively, right?”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “Whatever it takes.”

  Again, an uncomfortable silence pressed at us from all sides. Too much was left unsaid. We’d resolved nothing, just set it aside until the next time the storm passed our way again.

  “Gavin, I could never take a desk job. I would hate every second. I’d be so unhappy. I’d go to work at eight every day and come home every day at five p.m. on the nose. And I would resent you every single day for asking me to do it.”

  He lay back against the arm of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

  “We can’t have that,” he whispered. “I wasn’t making a request Catherine, it was just something I thought I’d throw against the wall to see if it would stick or if it made a huge dent.”

  “I’d say it made an impression.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You know what?”

  He lifted his head and looked at me.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow after I put away the bad guys, I’m going to put in for—”