by P. J. Tracy
CHAPTER
7
GRACE WANTED TO drive her Range Rover into the city, and Magozzi was fine with being a passenger. He was encumbered by some macho hang-ups, but always being behind the wheel wasn’t one of them.
They were just entering the outer-ring suburbs when Gino called. “Where are you, Leo?”
“About fifteen minutes out.”
“Good. The chief wants us at Gregory Norwood’s house pronto. Suspected suicide.”
“Who’s the vic?”
“Gregory Norwood.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. The chief is pretty ripped up about it. His tie was crooked when he called me into his office, and if that’s not a tell, I don’t know what is.”
To anybody else, that would have sounded like an inappropriate, smart-ass comment, but for anyone who knew the stoic, hyper-meticulous Chief of Police Malcherson, a hair out of place meant imminent doom, but a crooked tie was the definitive end of the world.
Magozzi rubbed his forehead. And to think the morning had started out so well. “Of course he’s ripped up about it. He was an old friend.”
“Media outlets are already reporting a nine-one-one call to the address. It’s going to be a frigging zoo there in an hour, if it isn’t already, so put the pedal to the metal.”
“You got it. See you soon.”
“I’ll be parked on Fifth, waiting for you.”
He hung up and looked over at Grace. “Can you take me straight to City Hall?”
“Of course. What happened?”
“High-profile suicide. Suspected suicide,” he corrected himself. “Gregory Norwood. He was an old friend of Chief Malcherson’s.”
“I’m sorry. Please give him our condolences.” She adjusted her course to take him to downtown Minneapolis.
As promised, Gino was waiting for him in an MPD sedan when they pulled up to City Hall. He stuck his head out of the driver’s side window, called a greeting to Grace and Charlie, then quickly shut the window against the escalating August heat and humidity. The one thing Gino hated more than cold and snow was heat and humidity. That left his touchy constitution with one or two comfortable months out of the year when he had to find something else to complain about.
Entering the sedan felt like going from the Amazon rain forest to Antarctica. Magozzi shunted the blasting vents away from his face and settled into the passenger seat. Co-pilot was apparently his role for the day. “So what do we know?”
“Nine-one-one got a request for a welfare check at Norwood’s address around nine this morning. The responding officers found him alone in the house, dead from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Their words, not mine. Fucking cop-speak drives me nuts sometimes.”
“Who made the nine-one-one call?”
Gino made a sharp right and hit the freeway, maxing out the acceleration on the weak-hearted sedan. “Robert Zeller.”
“The guy who’s probably going to be our next governor?”
“The very same. And maybe the President someday, according to the political wags. They’re fondling themselves over him. Anyhow, Zeller spoke to Norwood at around seven thirty this morning, then called nine-one-one an hour later, requesting a welfare check on the address.”
“So he figured something was up.”
“Makes sense. Zeller’s firm has been Norwood’s legal counsel since the nineties, and they’re thick as thieves, always have been. Malcherson might be an old friend of Norwood’s, but Zeller is a consigliere. Was. And today is the one-year anniversary of Trey Norwood’s OD. And what does your best friend do on a tough day? Call to check in, make sure you’re handling it. Which he obviously wasn’t.”
Very briefly, Magozzi thought of his ex-wife Heather, a former defense attorney, champion of all the scumbags he and Gino risked their lives trying to put away. “Nobody loves a lawyer until they’re yours.”
“You know it better than anybody.”
“What about Norwood’s family? Where are they in the mix?”
“His wife and daughter are in Aspen, but they won’t be for long.” Gino let out a weighty sigh. “Suicides are a bitch. Everyone loses.”
“Everyone loses in any unnatural death.”
“Yeah, but with a homicide, there’s a chance to bring some kind of justice to the family and to the perp. With suicide, it’s just over. We walk in, we make the call, and it’s a done deal. We step out of the picture, do the paperwork, and the family limps away, walking wounded. It’ll never make sense to them as long as they live.”
There were a lot of branches that the tree of this conversation could grow, but that morning Magozzi wasn’t eager to pursue any more dialectics, especially since they hadn’t even visited the scene yet. He changed the subject. “Grace thinks we’re both wrong.”
“About what?”
“The bet.”
“You told her about it?”
“Of course I did. She’s the one who’s carrying the baby so I thought I could get some insider info and screw you blind for twenty bucks.”
Gino’s mouth broke a smile, all gloomy introspection temporarily suspended. He’d save it for later. “Did you?”
“Hell, no. All I could get out of her was the general impression that we’re both total idiots. In an amusing way.”
“Fair enough.”
CHAPTER
8
AMANDA WHITE PUSHED her way to the front of the stage as Robert Zeller finished his closing statements, capping off what had been an impressive morning stump speech in front of several hundred supporters. She caught a few grumblings from her more docile colleagues as they parted, like startled sheep. When would they figure out that Minnesota nice didn’t get you anywhere in the news business? Maybe never, which was why she didn’t belong in this market. Her ambitions were far grander than covering local news, which seemed to breed resentment in her professional circles. Not that she cared.
She homed in on Zeller with shrewd eyes, trying to spot some exploitable fissure in his polished demeanor, but the man seemed like he’d come out of the womb ready for the political arena. He was a unique gubernatorial candidate for Minnesota: he was handsome, he was charismatic, and he actually seemed to have ideas and personal conviction. He didn’t regurgitate the stale rhetoric of past politicians, who’d promised anything in exchange for votes, then got amnesia when they’d taken office. She categorized him as a populist in the vein of JFK, a man who told people a rising tide lifted all boats. In fact, that might be exactly how she would begin her piece on him.
But that wouldn’t stop her trying to pick him apart while the cameras were on. “Mr. Zeller!”
He gave her a nod. “Good morning, Ms. White.”
“If you’re elected, you inherit a weak economy and an immense budget deficit that you’ve promised to turn into a surplus in your first two years as governor. Can you be more specific about how you would do that without cutting crucial services or forcing a government shut-down?”
“It’s actually quite simple, Ms. White. Government accountability across the board. A shocking majority of taxpayer dollars goes to running an inefficient system that services only itself and its special interests through profligate, unmonitored spending of public treasury. There is an understandable amount of frustration among our citizens who have had to make difficult decisions and cuts in their personal budgets during these challenging times and so must the state of Minnesota. Prosperity is easily within our reach if we allow common sense to prevail.”
So like a politician to give such a bloated, silky answer that didn’t address the question. “Yes, but what would your targets be? Specifically?”
Robert Zeller gave her a fond smile. “There are no specific targets, Ms. White. I propose a five percent budget reduction across the board for all government agencies as a start.”
There were some murmurs from the crowd.
“Sounds shocking, doesn’t it? That would be the largest, most comprehensive budget cut in the sta
te’s history. But allow me to put it into perspective. How many of you spend a hundred dollars a month at Starbucks?”
There were plenty of guilty chuckles.
“And would you be so horrified to learn that your coffee budget was suddenly decreased by five dollars? Perhaps. But isn’t the simple solution to make a pot of coffee at home once a month to absorb the loss? When people need to tighten their belts, then those who serve them must also. When governments and government employees are doing far better than the constituents who elected them to represent their interests ‒ the very constituents who pay their salaries ‒ then we are on the precipice of tyranny, a tyranny of an elite political ruling class.”
“But you’re advocating tax cuts on top of that as well.”
“There is no better place for money than in the hands of hard-working Minnesotans, and tax cuts have never failed to stimulate a languid economy.”
Amanda noted the enthusiastic cheers from the audience. He was in his element, speaking a language people wanted to hear. And she recognized something of herself in him at that moment—ambition. Pure, unalloyed ambition.
The crowd suddenly went silent when Robert Zeller’s omnipresent bodyguard ‒ Conrad was his name—walked hurriedly across the stage to the dais and whispered in his ear. Zeller’s expression remained impassive, but his voice was diminished greatly as he spoke into the microphone.
“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I must attend to some unexpected personal business. Thank you all for coming.”
Formerly meek reporters dogged his sudden departure with frantic shouted questions about his agenda, suddenly emboldened by the fact that Zeller wouldn’t be able to respond, but Amanda slipped away quietly. The story wasn’t here anymore. It was somewhere else ‒ and she would find it.
CHAPTER
9
THE NORWOOD HOME was impressive, tucked into a large, wooded lot in a pricey, exclusive neighborhood that seemed largely disconnected from the city it was a part of. But it wasn’t crazy over-the-top, as one might expect from a man who had built a Fortune 500 juggernaut from a regional, family-owned home-improvement retailer. By those standards, it was downright austere.
It was sheltered from the road and prying eyes by a wooded area; today that protection was vastly enhanced by a battalion of squad cars, emergency vehicles, and police barricades. Traffic had been temporarily redirected to keep out the curious and the media, but they would need more people and a more organized perimeter to keep the area under control as the word spread.
The two first responders were local constables for the wealthy enclave and both looked pale and shell-shocked. Back-up had come in from some of the MPD’s comparatively grittier divisions, but they didn’t look much better. Head shots were something that haunted you for the rest of your life, no matter what your experience in the field.
Magozzi registered their names when introductions were made, but they drifted out of his mind as he focused on the walk-through and their accompanying narrative.
No sign of B and E at any point of entry, nothing overtly out of place … House was empty, no family, staff, or guests present … No sign of a struggle … We found him here . . . Looks like his home office …
Magozzi reentered the present when they arrived at a door being guarded by another patrol, this one a woman. She was young, but wore a seasoned poker face and had a military bearing. She nodded a respectful greeting and stepped aside crisply. Definitely military. And maybe she’d seen a lot worse than what they were about to.
Gregory Norwood’s body was crumpled on its side on the floor by a large, wooden desk, a gun near his right hand. Blood and gore were splattered on the rug, on walls painted a soft cream, on the pale blue shades that covered the windows. He was dressed in a suit and tie and his face was largely intact, framed by his famously thick white hair, which had garnered him the sobriquet “Silver Fox.” The back of his skull wasn’t intact, not remotely.
The top of his desk was uncluttered—there was a desktop computer, a cell phone, an empty martini glass, and a nearly empty crystal pitcher of clear liquid sitting in a bucket of half-melted ice. Next to the keyboard was a single sheet of paper and an open collector’s-edition box with a velvet insert shaped to snuggle a gun.
Magozzi gave the cops a solemn nod. “Thank you, Officers.” He still couldn’t remember their names, but he would always remember the relief on their faces as they made a hasty retreat from the room.
Gino walked over to the desk to get a closer look at the piece of paper. “I was thinking maybe this was his note, but it’s an itinerary. He was scheduled to fly a private charter to Aspen at four forty-five today.” He stuck his nose into the pitcher. “This isn’t water, that’s for damn sure. If this pitcher was even half full when he started, his tox screen is going to be off the charts.”
“A pitcher of martinis at the crack of dawn would help you pull the trigger if you were leaning in that direction.” Magozzi pointed to the gun. “It’s a Colt Peacemaker. Collector’s edition. Fits the box.”
Gino skirted the blood spray behind Norwood’s head, then started scanning the walls and floor. “I’m on board with that. I don’t see a spent shell casing, which fits with the revolver. Shit, he got lucky, one shot, lights out. As far as suicide goes, that’s a home run. A lot of people who try with a handgun make turnips out of themselves instead of taking the eternal plunge they’d been hoping for.”
Magozzi looked around the room, up at the discreet, ceiling-mounted security cameras. They were like the ones in Grace’s city house. That would tell them everything they needed to know if there were any questions.
Gino followed his gaze, then walked over to a digital panel on the wall. “Security is off.”
Or not. “He didn’t want his suicide to be recorded.”
“Damn twisted. Considerate enough to spare the family his own snuff film, but not considerate enough to refrain from blowing his brains out in the first place.”
“The suicidal mind doesn’t make sense to anybody except the one who’s planning to do it.” Magozzi bumped the computer mouse and woke up Norwood’s computer. A password-protected screensaver of an autumn mountainscape appeared. There were most certainly answers lurking inside the circuitry ‒ computers were often people’s closest confidants and nobody worried about sharing their darkest feelings with a machine. The MPD’s computer guru, Tommy Espinoza, would handle that, and help tie a black bow around a very sad case.
Magozzi knelt, slipped on a pair of gloves, and went over Gregory Norwood’s body. The necessity of frisking corpses had always disturbed him, but it was amazing what pocket litter could reveal.
“Anything?”
“Just his wallet. But there’s a travel bag in the cubbyhole under the desk.” Magozzi withdrew the leather valise and unzipped it. It was filled with crisp stacks of cash, neatly bound with paper strips that designated the value. Two thousand bucks a bundle. “Twenty grand total.”
Gino eyeballed the money. “Jeez, I usually just pack a toothbrush and some underwear when I travel to my second home.”
“Maybe he was planning to restock the family coffers in Aspen.”
“That’s probably grocery money for a week. The Norwoods are pretty famous for their luxe dinner parties.” Gino, circling the room, focused on a ceiling-to-floor bookshelf that held a few leather-bound literary volumes but was primarily filled with framed photographs. Most were of family—an elegant wife, a beautiful daughter, with intense brown eyes, a handsome son, with an impish smile ‒ but some were solos of Norwood at significant public appearances: cutting the ribbon in front of one of the buildings he’d restored and renovated during the North Loop renaissance; throwing out the first pitch at a St. Paul Saints game in the new stadium he’d ponied up a lot of cash to help build; signing a check that would fund construction of the new wing of a children’s hospital.
Magozzi joined him at the bookshelf. “A vanity wall. Pretty modest for a guy like Norwood.”
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sp; “He did a lot of great things for the state. This isn’t the half of it.”
Magozzi’s eyes kept returning to the photograph of him signing the check for the children’s hospital. He looked back at the sorry wreckage of a human being behind him, then again at the photograph.
“What?”
“Gregory Norwood is left-handed when he’s signing the check. The gun is by his right hand. Guns don’t jump.”
Gino chewed on his lower lip, then walked over to the body. “No, they don’t. But he could have been ambidextrous. I used to play tennis left-handed, but I write with my right hand. He could have been a right-handed shooter.”
“You played tennis?” Magozzi asked, trying to conceal his incredulity.
“It was a fleeting thing, back when I was ten.” He pulled out his notebook and scrawled in it. “We’ll check it out.”
“Yeah. Let’s do a walk-through and make some calls while we wait for Crime Scene and the medical examiner to show up.”
Everything seemed to be in place inside the Norwood domicile, just as the first responders had reported. It felt macabre and voyeuristic, touring the magnificent home with its sumptuous furnishings and astounding collection of modern art while the owner lay dead in his office, but it was part of the job, just like frisking corpses, as odious as it all was.
After their morbid tour, they spent fifteen minutes working their phones and learned that the household staff had all been dismissed after his wife had left for Aspen last night; confirmed the Colt Peacemaker was registered in Gregory Norwood’s name; and that the entire security system, including all cameras inside and out, had been disabled from the main control panel in his office at 6:05 a.m. From the vast majority of prima facie evidence, Norwood had emptied his house of people last night and gotten drunk this morning in preparation for his suicide on the anniversary of his son’s death. But then there was the pesky issue of the gun by a southpaw’s right hand.
Outside, they found another pesky issue—blood on the lawn by the pool deck. A lot of it, and it was fairly fresh. Magozzi pulled a pen out of his pocket and pointed to a mat of wavy brown hair, held together by a small piece of flesh. “Looks like a chunk of somebody’s scalp and it definitely doesn’t belong to the Silver Fox.”