by Gina LaManna
“Match made in heaven,” I agreed. “Was there any relationship after that?”
“Not much. Okay, a few times. Your garden-variety booty-call sort of relationship. Harry Brine doesn’t date girls like me. But it’s okay, we had a fun time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Harry is... well, he was...” She considered her choice of words. “Vain. Incredibly vain. He never wanted to be out in public with me because I was a nobody. I didn’t even own my own business at that time. I guess he just liked me enough for our... uh, private evenings together.”
“Sounds like he was a jerk.”
“I hate to speak ill of the dead.”
“But he was a jerk.”
“He was,” Brandy admitted. “But I wouldn’t have killed him over it. Oh—cripes! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You somehow found my DNA at his house and think I’m a scorned lover who murdered him! I couldn’t have. I don’t even know how he died. How did he die?”
“Take a deep breath. I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said. “We’re just trying to figure out how Harry ended up dead.”
“Was it an accident or not?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“That’s weird.”
“It’s an active police investigation,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to want Harry dead?”
“Not offhand. But like I said, we were just friendly. It’s not like we sat around and pillow-talked.”
“Understood,” I said. “Can you expand on the reason you think Harry might have been involved with someone else? You said it was because he was polite?”
“Like I said, it was more of an inkling. It wasn’t like he had a wedding picture set out on his kitchen table or something.”
“What gave you the inkling?”
“Well, he was always sort of flirtatious when it was just the two of us in private. When I got the gig, I sort of thought we might—you know—rekindle our spark.”
“That didn’t happen?”
“No. And not for lack of effort on my part.” Brandy looked as if she was considering her word choice. “I didn’t throw myself at him, but I made it clear that I would be open to resuming where we’d left off. He... didn’t take me up on it.”
“Maybe he just wanted to keep things professional while the two of you were working together?”
She snorted. “Professionalism never stopped him before. At his office, one time we—” She stopped abruptly. “Never mind. Call it a gut feeling. Harry wasn’t the sort of guy to turn down a woman without a good reason. Not that I cared or anything—like you said, he was a jerk.”
But I could see that Brandy did care, and I’d begun to suspect that somewhere along the line, Brandy had fallen for the guy. He just hadn’t fallen back.
“Listen, I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said. “I think that’s everything I had for you today. If I have any more questions, where can I reach you?”
“Actually, I just had these made up.” She pulled a business card shyly from her pocket. “Brandy Lee Events. Get ahold of me at any time. Or, of course, for all your party planning needs!”
As I left Brandy’s office, I pulled up my phone, already looking toward the next task. I was too paranoid to make the call inside of Gem Industries, however, so I waited until I was in the privacy of my own car to ring Lassie.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said, cranking up the heat. We were just above the freezing point—cold enough to be miserable, warm enough to turn more pretty snow into ugly mush. “I need a favor.”
“And I need a coffee,” Lassie said. “Your mom’s café in five?”
“Ten, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Great,” she said. “You’re buying.”
Chapter 14
After I’d made good on my promise and nabbed us two lattes from Elizabeth, Lassie and I found ourselves nestled into a cozy corner of the café. The sun peeped through the wall of windows, warming my back as I focused my gaze toward the counter.
“Avoiding your mother?” Lassie asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“You know, the fact that you waited five minutes for your mom to go into the back office so you didn’t have to talk to her when you ordered.”
“We’ve had a bit of a falling out,” I said. “They tried to stage an intervention.”
“For what?”
“Serial killers.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Lassie said. “But I can see how that’d annoy the living daylights out of you.”
“I told Jane she needed to stay with my mom for a few days.”
“Is this case really that bad?”
“It’s not great,” I said. “And we’ve still got a missing person.”
“Oh, you’re right. That’s not good.”
“Not good at all.”
“Is this where you ask me for a favor?” Lassie brushed blonde hair back from her face. “And I swoop in all beautiful and Mary Jane-ish and save the day?”
“I think you mean Mary Sue.”
“Whatever.”
“And I don’t think Mary Sue—or Mary Jane for that matter—means what you think it means.”
“Again, you’re probably right, but you see my point,” Lassie said. “What can I do to help, detective?”
“It’s actually not in regard to this specific case.”
Lassie’s case fell. “Dang.”
“And you can’t tell anyone I asked you to do this.”
“Double dang. Do I get a blog post out of this at least?”
“If you find something good, I’ll take you as my plus one to Alastair Gem’s holiday bash. You can’t tell me you haven’t been dying to get inside Gem Industries. Imagine the photos.”
“Imagine the dress! The shoes! I could finally wear the new kicks I got at Nordstrom’s.” Lassie clapped her hands. “Okay, talk to me. What can I do ya for?”
“It’s actually about Gem. I need to know about his dating history.”
“Oh. Oh.” Lassie’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “This is one of them ‘personal cases’, isn’t it? Off the books?”
“Yes, it’s off the books. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“You want me to scope him out before you take things further with him?”
I scowled. “No. It is a case—an actual case, just an off the books one. I can’t have you asking any more questions about it, or I’ll find someone else to look into it for me.”
“Look no further. I’m your girl.” Lassie extended her arms before her body and made like she was cracking her knuckles. “What sort of dirt do you want?”
“A list of prior girlfriends dating back, oh, I dunno—a few years?”
“Girl, he’s a billionaire. That might be a long list. Are you ready for it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know the two of you have a thing,” Lassie said. “I’m just saying that if I was about to date a man, it might be intimidating to see a list of his exes. Especially if there were famous ones on that list.”
“This is not about my personal life,” I reiterated. “So, if you could just get me that list—”
“That’s almost too easy,” Lassie interrupted. “I’ll get you the list, and maybe some extra.”
“I was counting on it,” I said. “When do you think you can get that to me?”
“I’ll have something by tomorrow morning. But, you know, I might need some caffeine to power me through the night.”
I rolled my eyes. On the way over, I’d picked up a Caribou Coffee gift card for thirty bucks and handed it over. “Does this buy your silence?”
“Thanks, my friend! You know me so well. Okay, see you.”
Before I knew it, Lassie was off in a flourish, latte in hand. Unfortunately, my mother chose that exact moment to reappear from the kitchen. She caught sight of Lassie’s tail end which made her do a double take around the room until
she pinned me in her gaze.
She beelined toward me like an eagle who’d found her prey. “Hello, darling.”
“Ma.”
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“It’s business.” I stood. “I was meeting someone.”
“Since when does Lassie qualify as business?”
I shrugged. “Did Jane bring some of her things over to your place today?”
“Yes, but not because you kicked her out. She was trying to sleep this afternoon, and those remodeling neighbors of yours were making a ruckus.”
“Most people aren’t trying to sleep at one in the afternoon.”
“Your sister is working very hard. Give her a break.”
“I’m proud of her. I just want to be proud of her from a distance. At least until the case wraps.”
“I see our intervention didn’t knock a lick of sense into you,” my mother said. “I just hope you’re not dragging other innocent bystanders into it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You wouldn’t be worried about Jane staying at your house unless something happened.” My mother pointed at me. “I know you, Kate. Now you’re meeting Lassie on business? What’s going on here?”
“I’ve got to go. Just—try to keep Jane at your place for a few days. Please.”
My mother headed back to the counter and harrumphed. Then, almost as an afterthought, she stomped back over and planted a smack of a kiss on my forehead.
“Don’t think this means I’m happy,” she said. “But I do love you.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
With a wry smile, I turned to head out of the coffee shop and ran smack dab into a familiar chest. I glanced up, found a smirk on Russo’s face.
“Aw,” he said. “That’s sweet.”
“Shut up.” I elbowed him out of the way. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he said. “How were your errands?”
“Anything from Melinda or Asha?”
“Nothing of interest. I hear you were helping out on another case.”
I cursed Frankie Dunkirk and his big mouth. “Maybe a bit.”
“As if you don’t have enough to do?”
“We need to find Sarah,” I said. “But we have nothing to go on. I’m working it, Russo. We all are. But I need something.”
“Asha’s following up on the guards,” Russo said. “Melinda’s waiting for some of the tests to come back—the smudge on the envelope. Fibers from the Warren Parcel crime scene. We’ll get something this afternoon. I can feel it.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Time’s running out.”
“How do you know? More letters?”
I squinted at him. “No. Gut feeling. He’s been quiet for too long. He’ll want the attention back on him.”
“In your expert opinion, what should we do next?”
I had a retort prepared, but his question made me think. I sank into a chair near the door. Russo did the same, sitting across from me. My mother leapt into action, bringing over two new lattes.
“It’s Jonathan Tate,” I said. “We have to go back to him.”
“You mean, drive back to LaCrosse?”
“No, but we need to focus on him. He was the only personal part of this case so far.”
“I think Warren Parcel and Sarah Belmont would argue that things got pretty personal for them, too.”
“That’s all part of his game,” I said. “He chose them—I imagine—because of ease of access. To show he can get close to me.”
“So, you admit he’s circling you.”
It was impossible to deny after the last letter I’d received, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it aloud. “Jonathan Tate, though—that wasn’t convenient. I don’t think so, at least. They had communication. There’s something there—something we’re missing.”
“Are you suggesting we go back to Wisconsin?” Russo asked. “Please don’t make me go back to Wisconsin.”
I hid a smile. “You’re already getting the gist of being a Minnesotan.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
I laughed, shook my head.
“I think you have a point,” Russo said finally. “But we interviewed everyone, checked out his house. CSU didn’t find any letters from Wilkes in either Jennifer or Jonathan’s houses.”
“But isn’t that strange in and of itself?” I rested a finger against my lip in thought, tapped it. “Let’s go to your car. You’ve got that fancy Bluetooth thing where you can talk through your dashboard, right?”
Russo stared blankly at me. “They really need to get your tech updated.”
“You tell ’em.”
“I’m telling you,” Russo said as he stood and held the door open for me, “that there’s room for you at the bureau if you’re ever interested. Your car might even get serviced regularly.”
“My car works just fine,” I said with a shrug. “And having an old car has its perks. I don’t even blink when I hit something.”
“That’s alarming.”
“Okay, how do you work this thing?” I slid into the passenger’s seat of Russo’s car. “I want to call Jennifer. I’ve got a few more questions for her.”
Russo did whatever was necessary to get his phone connected and dialed. Soon enough, the line rang through to Jennifer.
When she answered, I glanced to Russo, then took the lead. I introduced myself and left Russo unmentioned. He sat quietly, staring ahead through the window.
“Can I help you with something?” Jennifer asked. “Have you found the person who killed Jonathan?”
“I just had a few quick questions for you,” I said. “I hope we’re getting close to having better news for you.”
“There’s no good news,” Jennifer said softly. “At this point, it’s just news.”
“We’re doing a little more research into the man Jonathan had been communicating with in prison.”
“The guy in Texas?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know CSU already looked and asked, but there’s no chance you’ve discovered any letters from this man, is there?”
“No. I looked, but Jonathan must have gotten rid of them, or stashed them somewhere I’d never think to look. I don’t know why. I mean, maybe they’re at his office, but—”
“We had CSU take a look,” I said. “We didn’t find anything there.”
“Well, then you know better than I do.”
“Could you send us a picture of Jonathan’s handwriting?” I asked suddenly. “Just text it to my phone.”
“I suppose so. I’m sure I have something... here. His planner. Do you want me to send it now?”
“Please.” I gave her my number, then waited for a beat until it came through.
I held the phone out so Russo could see it too.
The handwriting looked like something Jimmy might scrawl on a report when he didn’t want people to know exactly what he was saying. It was borderline legible.
“He mailed all of his own letters, right?” I asked. “He didn’t have someone helping him out?”
“I don’t understand the question. I mean, yeah—he wrote his own letters.”
“But did he mail them?” I glanced toward Russo, then continued. “We got information from the prison that it looked like the man exchanging notes with Jonathan was also receiving notes from a person with more feminine handwriting. Whatever that means.”
“Oh, do you mean the envelopes?” A coarse laugh tinkled across the line. “Sometimes I addressed or mailed the actual card for him. He’d leave it already sealed on the counter with the name on it. Wilkes or whatever. I’d sometimes address it for him and drop it in the mail on my way to work. Jonathan barely knew where to find the stamps.”
“That might explain it,” I said, feeling a bit of the wind deflating from my sails. “Sorry to bring this all back up again, Jennifer.”
“Where do you think—I mean, what happened with the notes?” she asked. “If they’re so
important, why didn’t Jonathan keep them? Was he hiding something?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Couldn’t you sort of—I dunno, get Jonathan’s letters from the prison and piece together their conversation? Maybe there’s something incriminating there.”
“We’re trying, but so far, there’s no sign of any letters at the prison either.”
“Huh.” Jennifer sounded stumped. “That’s weird. Maybe they were hiding something. Jonathan never said anything about it.”
“I’m sure he was just trying to protect you,” I said. “This guy, Wilkes—he’s smart. He has a way of worming himself into people’s lives whether they want it or not.”
Jennifer and I disconnected after a few more minutes of pleasantries. I turned to Russo.
“Nothing,” I said. “Waste of time.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Russo said carefully. “You hit on something important. We’ve got to follow this Jonathan connection. If Wilkes is working that hard to hide something—”
“There’s something there that’s worth hiding.”
“Exactly.”
My phone rang, interrupting our moment of contemplative silence. I glanced down, saw a familiar name. “Asha,” I said. “What do you have?”
“The guards,” she said. “Nothing conclusive, but a few tidbits I thought you should know.”
“Shoot.”
“The one named Dinkus—he’s got a penchant for gambling. Owes some people some money.”
“Has he had any deposits lately?”
“Some here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary,” Asha said. “But I’m not sure that means anything. If Wilkes is as smart as you say he is, he might’ve left it with an intermediary or something. The cash might drop in a few months, once we’ve stopped looking. This guy could really use it to get some dudes off his back.”
“It could fit. Wilkes could definitely make it work for himself.”
“The guard called Bellows—he’s been spending a little more lately, but from rumors I’ve heard it’s because he’s got himself a new girlfriend. There’s some inmate chatter that says he’s been a little less, well, Bellow-y, lately. People think he’s getting some.”