Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  She took another sip of coffee and nodded. “Yeah. I buy that.”

  “And you know, it is possible he stole the mug and didn’t mess with the car. Could be the timing of the accident was a coincidence.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sure he did it.”

  “Why are you sure?”

  She thought about it. Her intuition and instincts had always served her well in navigating cases. The times she’d ignored them had led to disaster. “I just am.”

  Duncan nodded. “Okay. We’ll get something out of him at the reunion.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Saturday night. What do I wear?”

  “What you’ve got on is fine,” she said. She pointed to the heap of silk on the desk. “Except a different tie.”

  He took another sip of coffee, held the cup between both hands. “What are you wearing?”

  “A dress.”

  “A fancy one?”

  “God no. We’re not going to the opera. A cocktail dress.”

  “Then I should wear a suit.” He slurped his coffee. “Gotta get a suit. A suit coat would hide my piece.”

  “Duncan.” She paused. Clearly he was looking for an excuse to get dressed up. “Okay. Get a suit. But save the receipt.”

  “Good idea.” He polished off the coffee and tossed the cup toward the wastebasket. It hit the wall and bounced in.

  “Now let’s talk strategy,” she said.

  “Strategy,” he repeated. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. The running shoes were still part of his uniform.

  “Wait,” she said. She pointed to his feet. “Lose those, okay? I hate jokers who wear sneakers with suits. They think it’s cute and it’s not. Dress shoes, okay?”

  He gave her the thumbs-up signal with his right hand. “Got it, Chief. Next?”

  “ ‘Chief’ is the operative word here. I’m in charge of this operation.” She took another sip of coffee and set the cup back down on the edge of his desk. “No cowboy stuff.” She braced herself for an angry comeback but he only nodded. She kept talking. “I’m getting a copy of the cast from the tire treads. Before I knocked on Sweet’s door, I took some photos of his truck tires. We’ll use those to compare. If we’re still not sure we’ll take the cast copy to the reunion and compare it to the actual treads on Sweet’s truck. As far as getting Sweet’s fingerprints, we’ll have to be sneaky about it. Maybe give him a clean wineglass and take it back after he handles it.”

  “So we can compare it to the print off the shoe?”

  “And the stiletto,” she said.

  He held up his hand to stop her. “Stiletto?”

  She felt bad for Duncan; that bastard Winter was doing a good job of keeping him in the dark. “They found a stiletto near Pederson’s body.”

  “Part of Sweetie’s knife collection?”

  She nodded. “Got prints off the handle.” Then, so Duncan would know she wasn’t talking to Winter behind his back: “Erik Mason told me.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Mason. That’s who I heard when I called you this morning. Knew I recognized the voice. You two move in together or what?”

  “No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I’m not ready to have anyone move in.” She looked up, could feel her face growing hot. “Can we talk about my personal life some other time?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Been saying that to you a lot lately.” He took his feet off the desk and stood up. Unbuttoned his left shirt cuff and started rolling up the sleeve while he talked. “I take it Mason is the one slipping us the copies of the treads and prints.”

  She stared at his left arm. No tracks. “Yeah. Erik,” she said distractedly. “Keep it under your hat. If Winter found out, he’d be pissed.”

  “What time should I pick you up?” He unbuttoned his right shirt cuff.

  “Seven,” she said. “Cocktails and appetizers at seven, dancing at eight.”

  “Dancing, huh? I better warn you. I’m a damn good dancer. Better keep up.” He rolled up his right shirt cuff. “Where’s it at?”

  She studied his right arm. Again, no tracks. “Reception hall on Summit Avenue.”

  “The one with the wrought-iron fence, right? I know the place. Nice joint.” He sat back down, rested his arms on the desk and caught her studying them. A tight smile stretched across his face. “You heard that bullshit story, too.” Her mouth fell open; she didn’t know how to respond. “I’m surprised you swallowed it. A smart cop like you. How long would I have lasted on the streets if I was doing that shit? Who fed you that crap? Your new boyfriend? Tell Mason he can kiss my ass.”

  She stood up. The cordial meeting had turned ugly. “My turn to say it. I’m sorry.” She picked up her purse, threw the strap over her shoulder and turned to walk out. She put her right hand on the knob, pulled the door open a crack.

  He bolted out of his chair and was right behind her. Pushed the door shut with his right hand. “Not so fast,” he said in a low voice. “That hurts, Paris. That really fucking hurts. We worked together.”

  She kept her back turned to him. She wondered how he’d guessed Erik was the one who told her; they must have crossed paths before. It didn’t matter. Erik was the one who told her, but she was the one who believed it, if even for an instant. She said again in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”

  He planted his left hand on the other side of her. “Well ‘I’m sorry’ ain’t gonna fix it.”

  They were standing too close. She felt trapped. Wished there was someone else in the office. At the same time she noticed he smelled good. Irish Spring soap and a cologne she recognized but couldn’t place.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m only gonna give you this speech once. I’m fucking sick of defending my undercover work. Sure I dressed like a dope fiend. Hung out with them. Acted like a dope fiend. But that’s all it was. A fucking act, and a good one at that.”

  She turned and looked at him. He was genuinely hurt, and she felt bad. For the first time she noticed he had blue eyes. Not dark blue like hers. Light blue. Then she silently berated herself for noticing his eyes. Noticing his scent.

  With her facing him, he suddenly realized how close they were and it seemed to embarrass him. He quickly took his hands off the door and lowered his arms. Took a step back from her. Folded his arms across his chest. “My record speaks for itself.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Had no good excuse. “I’m sorry. I really am. I told Erik he was full of shit.”

  “But you had to see for yourself. Didn’t you? Had to check out the junkie’s arms. Look for the lines.” He took a step toward her, turned both his arms and raised them so she could see the inside of his forearms. “Here. Take a closer peek. Push the sleeves up more if you want.” She lowered her eyes and shook her head. He stepped closer. Raised his arms higher. “Really. I insist.”

  She grabbed each of his wrists with her hands and pushed his arms down. “Duncan. Stop.”

  He pulled his arms away from her and paced the width of the room once. “Jesus Christ. How about a little common sense? Would that tight-ass Christianson have put an addict in charge of Homicide?” He stopped walking and stood in front of her, even closer than before.

  “No,” she said. She couldn’t keep from looking in his eyes. Bloodshot. Angry. Incredibly blue. If Jack was young James Caan and Erik was old James Dean, Duncan was Robert Redford after a rough weekend.

  “No. Fucking right no. Why do you think people spread that kind of manure? Hmm? Think that new boyfriend feels threatened?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned into her left ear and whispered, “A smart cop like you, you know exactly what I mean.”

  “No I don’t,” she snapped.

  He turned and walked to his desk, sat on the edge of it. Picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. Set it down. “You know, I’m the one who should be worried about who I’m partnering with. I hear that crazy doc not only blew his brains out in his own house with your gun, but did it with you
r encouragement. That right, Murphy? Did you egg him on? The poor, crazy fuck.”

  She gasped. How did Duncan find out? Only one other cop knew what had happened that night. Gabe had heard the words she and the surgeon exchanged before the gunshot, and he kept it out of the report. Did Gabe share her secret with Duncan?

  As if he’d read her mind: “Did I ever tell you who my first partner was?”

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “Yeah. Nash and me, we were like this.” He held up his right hand, with his middle and index fingers twined together. “Every once in a while, when something is bugging the shit out of him and he can’t dump on anyone else, he calls me.”

  “Why? ’Cause you’re so good at keeping your mouth shut?”

  “I have kept my mouth shut, against my better judgment.” He stood up and walked toward her. “I told Nash he should’ve turned you in. It’s one thing to take out a dealer in a good, honest shoot-out. But to talk someone into suicide.” He stepped in front of her, stood inches away. Pointed his right index finger in her face. “That is fucking nuts.”

  She turned, put her hand on the knob, pulled open the door. Felt relieved to walk out. Felt even more relieved to see Castro and Dubrowski and Sandeen sitting at their desks. Duncan stood behind her, a hand on each side of the open doorway. Said loud enough for the entire office to hear, “Know what else is nuts? Dumping a decent guy like Jack for a puke like Mason. If you ask me, Paris, you traded down.”

  She froze in her tracks. Saw the three detectives look at her and then Duncan and then her again. Her colleagues were waiting for her to return the volley. She spun on her heel to blast Duncan but before she could say a word, he threw her jacket at her. She caught it, and he delivered one last jab: “I’ll pick you up at seven Saturday. I know where you live. Wear something hot for a change.” He went back inside his office, slammed the door so hard he rattled pictures on the wall.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “FIRED!” THE WORD kept repeating itself. Over and over. Each time getting louder. “Fired!” At a stoplight, he covered his ears with his hands but it didn’t do any good. The word was inside his head, not inside his truck. He grabbed a Manowar disc, Louder Than Hell, to drive out the loud word. His hands were shaking so much he dropped the CD on the seat. He picked it up again. Shoved it into the player. Cranked up the volume. Even the thumping of the bass guitar failed to drive the word out of his head. “Fired!” The light changed and he stepped on the gas. Squealed through the intersection.

  THURSDAY had started badly and gone downhill, bottoming out with that word. “Fired.” He’d tossed and turned and gotten tangled in his sheets Wednesday night. He couldn’t sleep. He was worried about the visit Paris Murphy had paid to their trailer. Why had his old man invited her in? He feared his pa was going to turn him in to the cops. The pills he’d taken—some Tylenol with codeine he’d found in Keri’s purse—didn’t knock him out as he’d hoped. They only made him dizzy and tired and sick to his stomach. He’d gotten up in the middle of the night and taken two more. A few hours later, two more. Still no sleep. Only the room spinning and his stomach churning. When he rolled out of bed Thursday morning, he felt like he hadn’t slept for days and was constipated on top of it. He sat on the pot reading the warning labels plastered all over the bottle. One was yellow and had a drawing of a sleepy eye with the lid half-open. “May cause drowsiness,” it read. “Alcohol could intensify this effect.” He knew he should have taken it with a shot of booze, but there wasn’t any left in the house. Another label, also yellow: “Use caution when operating a car or dangerous machinery.” The white label next to it had a drawing of a loaf of bread: “If medication upsets your stomach, take with a modest meal, crackers or bread.” Wished he’d read that label the night before. He’d skipped dinner Wednesday; he was too busy cooking for his old man. Waiting on him. Listening to his lies about why he’d invited a cop into their house. I didn’t mean anything by it, son. Just being a gentleman. Fine-looking women get the best of me. The final label on the pill bottle, another white one, made Trip laugh: “Caution. Federal law prohibits the transfer of this drug to any person other than the patient for whom it was prescribed.” Out of curiosity, he checked the prescribed dosage and patient name on the bottle. “Take two tablets by mouth every four hours as needed. Dunkling, Mildred R.” Poor old Mildred R. Dunkling was missing some pain pills, courtesy of Keri Ingmar. Trip set the bottle on the edge of the sink, stood up, pulled up his boxers. Constipated or not, he had to get his ass in to work. He should’ve checked in with Murray Wednesday but didn’t. For sure he had to show up today.

  He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Looked even worse than he felt. Turned on the faucet and let it run until it got hot. Opened the medicine cabinet and took down the shave cream and a disposable razor. The same shave cream and razor Keri had used. He wanted to throw away the razor, but it was the last one on the shelf. Dried cream on the handle. Dried hairs on the blade. Keri’s hair from her pits or crotch. He shuddered and held the blades under the hot tap water. Whacked it against the side of the sink. Watched the tiny blond hairs disappear down the drain. Rinsed the handle. He bent over, cupped his hands under the faucet and splashed scalding water on his face. The burn felt good. Jarred him awake. He stood up, squirted a mound of foam into his hand and lathered his face. He dragged the razor across his skin. Cut himself a couple of times. The blade was dull after servicing Keri. He rinsed off the cream, turned off the tap and stood up. Studied the shadowy face in the mirror. A little more human.

  He turned and looked at the closed shower door. He’d have to use it eventually. Might as well get it over with. He pushed open the door and reached inside. Turned on the shower. Stepped out of his boxers and into the stall. He faced the shower and ducked his head under. Bent his neck down so the spray kneaded the back of his head. Reached for the shampoo. Squirted a dab in his hair and put it back. While he worked it into a lather, he remembered the shit Keri had given him for using baby shampoo. Ain’t you old enough to use big-boy suds? He squeezed the soap from his hair. She’d said there was nothing he could do to save his hair and that he’d have to get a rug. He looked at his wet, soapy fingers. More strands of black hair tangled around them. He pulled them off and dropped them on the shower floor. The bitch was probably right. Still, better bald than dead. He wondered when someone would notice she was missing. She didn’t have any family in town. His pa was right about the neighbors; they were nosy, especially that old lady next door to Keri. How many of them saw Keri walk to their trailer Tuesday? Her job would probably be the first to sound an alarm, however. When was she scheduled to work next? She’d said she had the rest of the week off. Did she say that included the weekend? Even if the cops came by her place, they wouldn’t find anything unusual. Her car would be parked in front of her house. The trailer would be locked up. Everything would be in order, as if she’d left town with someone. His pa had said she concocted some story for work about visiting a boyfriend. Maybe he and his old man could add to the tale. Come up with a description. Send the cops after this phantom fella of hers. Yeah. Good idea, he thought. Only problem was it required his pa’s cooperation and he didn’t know if he could count on it. Didn’t know if he could count on his old man for much of anything anymore. Kill a few folks and that family loyalty goes right down the crapper.

  He heard his old man thump into the bathroom. He banged on the shower door with his cane. Trip hated the way his old man used it as a weapon. “What?” Trip yelled from the shower.

  “Going into the office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I bagged up the dirty clothes. Make a run to the Laundromat when you get a chance.”

  Trip was going to do the wash Wednesday night, but he was too nervous to leave his old man alone. He was still nervous, but he had to leave the house sometime. His pa banged on the shower door again. “Yeah,” Trip yelled. “I heard you. Laundry. I’ll d… do it. Can’t a g… guy wash his d… dick in peace?”
>
  He heard his old man lift up the toilet lid, take a pee. Sure enough, he was hitting the wastebasket. Trip could tell from the sharpness of the tinkle. He opened his mouth to yell something and closed it again. Better leave the old coot be. Let him piss where he wants, like a mean, old, blind dog. His old man flushed. He knew not to flush. Suddenly the shower turned scalding. Trip backed away from it. “Pa!” he yelled. “Why the fuck you d… do that?”

  He heard his old man laugh. “Wash your pecker with that.” He thumped out of the bathroom.

  Things sure as hell had changed between him and his old man. He’d have to find out what he was hiding; Trip needed some collateral. In the meantime he’d have to get to the office. For a change, work didn’t seem like such a bad place to be. He assumed Wade Murray had some lingering respect for him. Not like his old man.

  TRIP’S assumption was blown out of the water at nine-fifteen that morning, when he poked his head into Murray’s office.

  “When’s the s… sales meeting?” Trip asked.

  Murray glanced up from a stack of papers and frowned. “Come in. Shut the door.”

  Trip raised his brows. Ducked through the door, shut it behind him. Looked at Murray. He was a short, fat man with a washboard forehead. He always had sweat above his upper lip. He had short, black hair on the sides of his head, but the top was pink and shiny. So shiny, Trip wondered if Murray waxed it. Trip figured he’d better take notes; he’d be joining that club soon enough.

  “Sit,” Murray said, pointing to the metal folding chair on the other side of his desk. Pinecone Clothing Distributors had had an address at Riverview Industrial Park south of downtown St. Paul for years, but the offices—a small room, a larger conference room and a greasy rest room—were furnished as if the company had recently moved in or was in the process of moving out. Folding chairs. Card tables. Empty boxes piled in corners. Murray and his sales force worked out of their homes and cars, and used the industrial park space mostly for meetings and to pick up samples. No warehouse; the shirts went directly from the manufacturer to the clothing store. Murray sat at a metal desk in the small room. The walls were bare except for a map of Italy. The edges were ripped and curling. Murray was always talking about a vacation in Italy. Trip figured it would never happen because it would require Murray take a break from work, and he never stopped working.