The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6)

by Mike Markel

  Finding Krista and Christopher James Barrow would be tomorrow’s job.

  Tonight, like almost every other night, I’d check in with my AA group. I like the eight o’clock sob session run by a woman named Sarah. I don’t know her last name—or the last names of any of the other drunks I spend the hour with—and I never see any of them outside the basement of the community center.

  I haven’t said anything in the group for several months, and I don’t intend to. For me, AA is damage control for badly damaged people. When I listen to the other drinkers tell their sad stories about how they’ve screwed up their lives—and other people’s lives—I realize I’m not the biggest fuckup in town. Of course, that’s not much of a hurdle. It’s like placing the bar on the ground and then stepping over it. So I don’t feel a rush of victory endorphins. That’s one thing I’ve learned as a recovering drunk: Being able to live my life without hurting anyone takes a lot of effort, but there’s no reason to be all that proud of yourself. After all, you weren’t supposed to hurt other people in the first place.

  Next morning, I pulled into headquarters at 7:58 and made it to my desk at eight sharp. Ryan was already at his computer, looking something up. We said our good mornings. Ryan always gives me a big smile. At 7:58 in the morning.

  “What are you up to?” I said to him. We don’t have a relationship where he asks me what I want to do next. He just does his research, and answers my question when I ask him what he’s doing.

  “Looking up Krista’s apartment on the map.”

  “Want to head out there now? If that’s where she’s staying, good chance she’ll be in.”

  “I guess.” He paused a moment. “Just trying to figure out what was going on.” His chair creaked as he leaned back. “If she was living at Virginia Rinaldi’s place, it was either because they were in some sort of relationship or because she was trying to lay low so her pimp couldn’t find her, right?”

  I thought about it a second. “That makes sense.”

  “And maybe the pimp finds her. He goes to Virginia’s house, kills her.”

  “Yeah. That could be what happened.”

  “But we’re not considering another scenario: Krista and the pimp kill Virginia together. She tells him where Virginia is, he comes over—alone or with some muscle—and they kill her.”

  “Motive?”

  “Not sure.” He shook his head. “Krista and Virginia got into it Monday night. Krista storms off. One way or another, she and the pimp come back to Virginia’s place. The argument turns into a fight. Virginia’s dead.”

  “All we know about Virginia so far is that she was real good at pissing people off. She could humiliate you or threaten you. Whatever. I’m sure there’s lots of ways she could have pissed off Krista—or Christopher James Barrow. Maybe that’s what happened: Virginia finally pissed off the wrong person.”

  Ryan looked frustrated, like he wanted to nail down the motive. “So how are we going—”

  My cell rang. I pulled it from my bag and read the screen. It was Mary Dawson, the dean of students at Central Montana. I held up my finger to tell Ryan I wanted to take the call. “Hello, Dean Dawson. What’s up?” I hit Speaker.

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up on something. I just got a call from President Billingham. He asked me to pass this on to you. There’s going to be a rally of some sort here on campus this afternoon. One o’clock.”

  “Okay, what’s it about?”

  “Still quite sketchy, but we know it was called by this group called Students for Decency and Morality.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Who’re they?”

  “We don’t know that much about them. They’re not officially registered as a campus organization, so we don’t have any good information about how many of them there are. There used to be this group on campus, called InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. But they got derecognized—”

  “What was that word?”

  “They got derecognized. It’s happened at a number of colleges and universities across the county. It means they’re no longer recognized as an official organization by the school.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Well, that depends on who you ask. The university’s position is that they discriminate—they require that students have a certain set of beliefs if they want to join. Their position is that the university wants to wipe out religious expression, that it’s absurd to say that a student organization that exists to promote Christianity can’t require members to hold those beliefs.”

  “So what’s the big deal? The group isn’t recognized. The university isn’t forbidding students from joining, right?”

  “No, not at all. Students can join. But the university can’t support the organization. Which means that the group doesn’t get a stipend for its operations. They can’t meet on campus without paying to use the rooms. They aren’t invited to the student fairs, where most groups do their recruiting.”

  “All right, so this old group morphs into this new group, Students for Decency and Morality, right?”

  “That’s right. They’re a lot more aggressive in their outreach. They’re a family-values organization. Very conservative. Anti-abortion. Anti-gay marriage. Anti-LGBT.”

  “What’s the occasion for the rally?”

  “It’s Virginia Rinaldi. Based on some tweets and Facebook posts they’ve put out since last night, I think they’re planning to put pressure on the university not to replace her with someone else who doesn’t represent Montana values.”

  “Thirty-six hours after she dies?”

  “They’re probably going to say a few polite things about her before they get into why she was wrong for Central Montana State. Then they’re going to make some sort of big announcement.”

  “What about?”

  “They’re not saying. The tweets say, ‘Stay tuned for a big announcement.’”

  “Everybody’s in show business.” I sighed. “This group have a ringleader?”

  “It’s definitely Richard Albright. He’s the one who writes all the letters to the editor of the school paper.”

  “Can you give me a quick sketch of him?”

  “He’s a junior, but he’s forty-one years old. Studying pre-engineering. Mediocre grades. He likes to say he’s a reformed sinner.”

  “Great. He’s proud he used to be a bad guy. I’ll see if we can run down some of his sins. Do you know if he’s a Montana native?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. He went to high school in Nevada twenty years ago. Transferred from a community college in Nevada a year ago.”

  “But he’s officially in good academic standing? No disciplinary infractions or anything?”

  “He’s officially okay. That’s all I can say in his defense.”

  “All right, we’ll see what we can learn about him. You know if any other groups are gonna show up?”

  “We’re monitoring a couple of hashtags about Virginia’s death. Seems the Women’s Coalition is planning to attend.”

  “Are they the opposite of Albright’s group?”

  “Good way to put it. They’re a loose bunch of groups that focus on things like campus daycare, rape-awareness and prevention, Planned Parenthood. They work with immigrant groups to help the women set up cooperatives to make handicrafts and learn English. They encourage female students to form chapters of professional organizations. You know, Women in Engineering, Women in Accounting. That sort of thing.”

  “Okay, I got it. So they’re fans of Virginia Rinaldi.”

  “I’m not saying all of them knew her or even liked her, but they all would be on her side of the culture wars, yes.”

  “Have you notified the Campus Substation about the rally?”

  “No, I wanted to go straight to Rawlings PD to let you know. If you think your Substation personnel can handle it, that’s your call. But if you want to bring in some other people, too, that’s fine with us.”

  “All right, thanks very much, Dean Dawson, for the heads-up. I’m gonna bring thi
s to my chief right now, see how he wants to handle it. We’ll coordinate with the Campus Substation.”

  “Will you let me know if there’s anything you need me to do?”

  “You bet. Thanks again.”

  I ended the call. Ryan and I hurried down to the chief’s office. His gatekeeper, Margaret, told us he’d stepped out for a second and asked us to wait. We sat in his outer office.

  I turned to Ryan. “Seem odd to you that this Richard Albright guy can put together a rally this fast?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head. “If he’s any good with social media, he could’ve assembled a flash mob within an hour of the news broadcast at five last night.”

  “And if he knew Virginia was dead before anyone else …”

  Ryan smiled at me. “And if he knew when and how she was going to die …”

  “If I tossed her down the stairs, I’d get out in front of it by setting up a rally about how bad she was.”

  “Hiding in plain sight?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

  The chief walked into his outer office. “You want me?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan and I stood.

  He invited us into his office and we sat. “Before we start,” he said, “about the call that came in to check out the vic’s house? Untraceable. It’s a burner.”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  “What have you got for me?” the chief said.

  I explained what Mary Dawson had just told us about the rally. The chief hit some keys on his keyboard and stared at the screen. His expression was grim. “Trying to see if the Campus Substation has anything else going on they need to attend to.” A moment later he spoke. “We’ve got four uniforms on duty. Think I’ll put on two more.” He looked up at me. “That work for you?”

  “That’d be good. Thanks.”

  “You want to go over, too?”

  I looked over at Ryan, who nodded. “I think we should.”

  Ryan said, “One other thing you might be able to help us with. The guy who organized this thing—a student named Richard Albright. He came to town only a year ago. Karen and I’ll look him up in our system, but he appears to be a Nevada native. You might have better luck getting the Nevada state police to talk to you.” The chief used to be the number-two guy in Sacramento.

  Chief Murtaugh nodded, made a note on his pad, and shifted in his chair. “How’s the case going?”

  “We don’t have the lab work or forensics yet. But we’ve identified the woman living with the vic. She’s a local prostitute. We’re gonna try to locate her this morning.”

  He looked puzzled. “You figure out the relationship between the two?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Pimp who runs her is named Christopher James Barrow.” I paused to see if the chief knew the guy, but he shook his head no. “Maybe they had a falling out and she was trying to lay low.”

  “I’ll work on this Richard Albright and get back to you, okay?”

  “Great.” Ryan and I stood. “Thanks.”

  We headed out of the chief’s office and back to our desks in the bullpen.

  Ryan said, “That call to check out Virginia’s house? It could have been Krista. She’d have a burner.”

  “So would a stoner neighbor wondering why the lights were on all night.” I paused. “Let’s see if Richard Albright is in the system.”

  Ryan nodded and went online. He tapped away for a few seconds.

  “Albright done any sinning in Montana?” I said.

  Ryan looked up at me and smiled. “You know, Karen, we’re all sinners.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of that, and I’m at the front of the line. But if you go around telling everyone you’re a sinner, you’re bragging. What you should do, when you get caught, or you figure out you’re screwing someone over—just stop doing it. Try to fix the damage and think about how you can avoid doing it again. Then shut up about it.”

  “That’s a very orthodox Christian position.”

  I looked at him. “You making fun of me?”

  “Not at all. You just explained it perfectly. When you said Albright was bragging, you nailed it. Do you know the official term for the sin he’s committing now?”

  “Being an asshole?”

  “Pride. The sinniest of the sins.”

  “So a guy who says he’s a reformed sinner isn’t all that reformed.”

  “Have you considered a career in the church?” He offered me one of his big smiles.

  I pointed to his computer screen. “Isn’t it a sin to waste time?”

  “It’s called sloth.”

  But I did appreciate what Ryan was doing. He’s aware I’m a spiritual moron, so he slides in an encouraging word when he can.

  “So, is Richard Albright clean?”

  “In Montana.”

  “All right, let’s go talk to Krista.” I pointed to the file we got from Vice sitting on his desk. “You got her number?”

  “You want to tell her we’re coming?”

  “Just give me her number.” I fished in my leather bag and pulled out my cell as Ryan wrote it on a slip of paper.

  I dialed it. Someone picked up, didn’t say anything. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m with Pioneer Alarm, and we’re looking for fifty customers just like yourself—” She hung up.

  I looked at Ryan. “Krista would be happy to talk with us.”

  Chapter 12

  I pulled my detective’s shield from my bag and hung it around my neck. I rapped on the door to Krista’s apartment. It was a low-end two-story stucco development down by the Rawlings River. The first-floor tenants had ugly little cement patios, mostly cluttered with small barbeque grills, tables with mismatched lawn chairs, and plastic tricycles. Basket-weave wooden fences separated one patio from the next. Up on the second floor, tenants had tiny crap-crammed balconies.

  There was no response. I rapped again. This time I felt the vibration from a woman about Krista’s size approaching the door.

  “Who is it?” the woman’s voice said from inside. She had some kind of eastern European accent. The last two words came out together: “Who ist?”

  “Rawlings Police Department, Ms. Moranu. Open the door, please.”

  “What you want?”

  “Open the door, please.” I held my shield up so she could see it through the peephole.

  The deadbolt opened, then the door—just a few inches. She left the chain attached.

  “Ms. Moranu, my name is Detective Seagate. This is my partner, Detective Miner. We need to talk to you a few minutes. Open the door, please.”

  She removed the chain and opened the door warily. Her face was puffy with sleep, her red hair disheveled. She was frowning. “What you want?”

  “Can we come in?”

  She stepped back. All she had on over her thin frame were a dark T-shirt, no bra, and a pair of cutoff grey sweatpants. Ryan and I walked into a standard cheapo apartment, the kind that goes for six-fifty plus utilities. Nothing on the walls. Plastic blinds on the small windows. A ratty cloth couch and matching soft chair. A TV stand with a widescreen and a set of low-end speakers. Off to one side was a small kitchen with old white appliances and a small round dining table, big enough for two. Off to the other was the hall to the bedroom and the bath.

  This was obviously not her place of business.

  “We’re going to need a few minutes.” I used a stern voice. “You want to sit down?”

  She moved to the soft chair and sat, crossing her legs. Above her ankle was a small purple tattoo of a heart. She brushed her hair back behind her ears. Without invitation, Ryan and I walked over to the couch and sat.

  “I assume you’re aware that Virginia Rinaldi is dead. She died late Monday night.”

  “Don’t know who she is.”

  I paused. Over the years I’ve learned that cop-allergic people—thieves, hookers, wife-beaters, addicts—can take a while to dial in to the situation, particularly if they just woke up. It doesn’t mean they’re going to be a p
ain in the ass for the whole interview, and it doesn’t mean you need to confront them about it. Sometimes, it saves time to just keep going.

  I gave her a slightly pained expression to let her know I’d pretend the lie was momentary confusion. “We have witnesses put you in her house Monday night.”

  “I wasn’t at her house. Don’t know who she is.”

  I took a breath. “Fourteen people saw you there.”

  “Not me.”

  She wasn’t making it easy. “You were a guest speaker at Virginia Rinaldi’s class about a month ago.” I leaned in toward her. “What were you doing at her house Monday night?”

  “Not me.”

  Ryan stood up and took a few steps in her direction. “Ms. Moranu, you’re wasting our time. You know how this works. We’re trying to understand what happened to Virginia Rinaldi. Now, the fact that we’re here means we know you two knew each other. You understand me so far?”

  Krista just sat there, a blank look on her face, gazing off in the distance over Ryan’s shoulder.

  “We start the investigation by talking to the victim’s associates,” he said. “We ask some simple questions, see if the associate will tell us the truth. How do we know if you’re lying? Easy: We already know the answers to the questions. That’s a hint.” He moved a little bit closer to Krista, but she did not look at him. “We realize you’re a little scared, you don’t trust us. But since you haven’t been honest with us yet, we don’t trust you, either. And here’s the important point. If we don’t trust you, we’re going to look more closely at you. We’ll go harder on the prostitution, your residency status. We can follow up on all of it. That I can promise you.”

  Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him. She nodded slightly. I didn’t know exactly what the gesture meant, but at least it was something.

  “Let’s start the conversation over.” Ryan spoke in a low voice that I hadn’t heard him use before. He moved closer to her now. She could have reached out and touched his belt. I couldn’t tell whether he was really angry at her for wasting our time or was just playing bad cop. He’s quite a talented performer.