Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead

After a few moments of silence, Tamika said, “I don’t think Russell’s our killer.”

  “Would you please interview him further and then verify he was in Oregon for the past six days?”

  She nodded. “Of course. Anything else?” She seemed to have had an attitude adjustment.

  “Try and get hold of Edward King, the attorney who guest hosted the day Fischer’s wife called in to the radio show. I have his information in a file.”

  SINCE I WAS ANXIOUS to find out how the ballistics test turned out on Fischer’s Ruger, right after breakfast I texted Martha Gill.

  She immediately returned a text, telling me ballistics weren’t a match and Fischer had been released.

  “What now?” I texted.

  Martha asked if I’d meet her at Starbucks, and gave me directions for a store a block from the government center.

  AS I WALKED INTO STARBUCKS, I took in the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. I caught sight of Martha sitting alone at a table for two.

  I bought a coffee and sat across from her.

  “No luck with the Ruger, eh?”

  “We were so sure it was him,” she said, “and we have no other leads at this point.”

  “I know the feeling. Zabrina’s father arrived from Oregon.”

  “Did you interview him?”

  “We’re giving him some time with his daughter first. I know we can’t rely on gut instinct, but I don’t think he’s responsible. Tamika is checking out his whereabouts for our case. He runs a bed and breakfast, so it’ll be easy enough to check out. His guests would be witnesses.”

  “I don’t get why anyone would want to kill the girl. Do you?”

  “No, I sure don’t.”

  “We’ve looked through Justine’s financials and cell phone records,” Martha continued. “I don’t think she had much of a social life.”

  “Neither did her mother.”

  “The few calls on her cell phone were mostly to or from her mother and daughter. Looks like all the business calls were made from the home phone. When are you going back home?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Dang. I wanted you to come to my place for dinner tonight . . . to pay you back for the lunch you bought me. Can’t I change your mind?”

  Uh-oh. “No, sorry. I have to get back.”

  “Okay.” She looked disappointed. “Lunch, then? I could pick something up.”

  “Martha, I have someone. And I’ve always been a one-woman-guy.”

  “Lucky woman. Well, can’t blame a gal for trying.”

  My phone rang. Patrice. “Cal? Where are you?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Damn it. I can’t get hold of anyone at the house. Have you talked to Tamika recently?”

  “No, but she was going to be making some calls. Zabrina’s dad showed up, so she’s probably with him.”

  “But why isn’t anyone, including Sarah, answering their phones?”

  “I don’t know, but I can be at Logan in ten minutes if need be.”

  “Good, go.”

  “Are you finished with your meeting with the attorney?”

  “Soon. I’ll be there ASAP.”

  And given an excuse to get out of there, I took it. That entire conversation with Martha could have been handled by phone. Besides, Patrice had succeeded in amping my level of concern. Why wasn’t anyone answering their phones? Shit.

  18

  I MADE IT BACK TO THE DONOVAN residence before Patrice did. Bennett’s rental car was not in the driveway, and no one answered the doorbell. With a gloved hand, I turned the knob of the door to find it unlocked. I entered cautiously. All was quiet.

  Finding no one on the first floor, I made my way upstairs, checking rooms as I approached Zabrina’s. The girl’s bedroom was unoccupied, the bed unmade. I glanced into the bathroom, spotting Tamika lying in a heap by the claw-foot tub.

  I rushed in and knelt down. I looked her over. No wounds or blood. I felt for a pulse. Found it. I touched her shoulder. “Tamika? Are you okay?”

  She opened her eyes and said, “The devil isn’t red. She’s green.”

  “What?”

  Patrice rushed in the room. “Where’s Zabrina?” she shouted. “What’s Tamika doing on the floor?”

  “I found her like this. She’s not making sense.”

  Patrice knelt beside her. “Tamika, where’s Zabrina?”

  Tamika tried sitting. Her hand flew to the back of her head. “Woo. My head hurts.”

  “Let me see.” She turned her head to reveal a gash and a goose egg the size of, well, a goose egg.

  “And Zabrina’s gone. Damn it all to hell.” Patrice called 911 and requested an Amber Alert for Zabrina. She answered a series of questions, then hung up. “The dispatcher said she’s too old for an Amber Alert, but they’d send someone over.”

  I couldn’t believe Patrice ignored Tamika’s need for medical aid. I picked up my phone and dialed 911 again to tell them we had a deputy who had been knocked unconscious and needed an ambulance. Patrice let out a puff of air, her face registering recognition that she’d screwed up. She closed the toilet lid and sat down.

  “Where’s Sarah?” I asked.

  “How the hell would I know? I just got here.”

  “Russell was here when I left. The Taurus he rented was gone when I got back, so he and Zabrina must be together.”

  “If that’s true, why won’t she answer her phone? And if you thought that, why did you just let me call 911?”

  I pointed to Tamika.

  “Oh, what was I thinking?” She tapped her head. “Why were you downtown?” “I met with Detective Gill. She wanted to tell me Cyrus Fischer was released—there was no ballistics match.”

  “Son of a bitch.” She abruptly left the room. “What’s your name?” I asked Tamika.

  “Tamika Frank.”

  “Good. Who’s the president?”

  “Obama.”

  “What year is it?”

  “2010.” She was a few years off. Not so good.

  Patrice came back in full uniform. She gave me a look. “And why aren’t you in uniform, by the way?” she asked.

  “I didn’t bring any.”

  She shook her head and stood over Tamika. “You should have stayed here, too. Neither one of you seems to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

  Rather than argue, I said, “I’m going down for some ice for Tamika’s head.”

  When I returned upstairs, Patrice had at least covered Tamika with a blanket. However, instead of attending her, she was looking on a white iPhone.

  “Zabrina wouldn’t leave without her cell phone,” she said.

  “Is that hers?”

  Her finger swiped the display surface several times. “Yes. These kids constantly text.”

  “What are her recent calls?”

  “Nothing this morning.”

  By the time the MPD squad arrived and the ambulance had come and gone, Sarah had returned. I met her in the kitchen. I took the two Lunds and Byerly’s grocery bags from her and put them on the counter.

  “Why are there patrol cars in the driveway?” she said with a look of concern.

  “Zabrina’s gone, and my partner was just taken to the hospital with a giant goose egg on the back of her head. I found her unconscious in Zabrina’s bathroom.”

  “Oh, golly. What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know, and Tamika’s talking gobbledygook.”

  “That sounds serious.”

  I nodded. “Do you have Russell’s number?”

  “I can locate it.”

  “Thanks. I better call Tamika’s husband.”

  RUSSELL WASN’T ANSWERING his phone, and because it appeared Tamika had been attacked, Patrice was pressuring the Minneapolis PD sergeant on scene to put out a BOLO for Russell’s car since Zabrina was too old for an Amber Alert. Patrice shot me a dirty look when I suggested they call Bennett’s sister in Blaine first.

  A few minutes later, I started dia
ling Gill, thought better of it, then called Ryan to apprise him of the situation.

  “I just heard your partner was knocked out and the kid’s gone? Oh, wait . . . They just located Russell Bennett at his sister’s in Blaine.”

  “Was Zabrina with him?”

  “No. He said she’s probably with her boyfriend.”

  19

  I WANTED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL, but Patrice insisted we first drive downtown, where Russell Bennett had been taken for questioning. “How did your meeting with the attorney go?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, Zabrina’s inheritance goes into a trust fund, of which she has no control until she’s thirty. I’ll manage it and transfer funds for her expenses as needed—college and what not.”

  “What’s the kid worth?”

  “Millions. All Sonya’s assets went to Justine and because she’s deceased, everything now goes to Zabrina.”

  “So she owns both homes.”

  “Yes, but at her age, she can’t be expected to maintain either one. We’ll sell them.”

  “Out of curiosity, was anyone else named in the will?”

  “I was in Justine’s.”

  I stared at her, but she avoided eye contact.

  “When Zabrina was a baby, Justine asked me if I would be Zabrina’s guardian in the event something should happen to her. I was to get a salary for taking on the responsibility of raising another child through college age, but I wasn’t aware of the sizable sum.”

  “Mind if I ask how much?”

  “Yes, I do mind.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. It must be quite substantial if she wouldn’t tell me. “So Russell Bennett gets nothing?”

  “Not a thing. Why should he?”

  “Did you know he was gay?”

  “Of course. That’s why they got the divorce. He told Justine he wanted a three-way, and she finally agreed, thinking they needed something to spark up their sex life. Russell brought a man home, and Justine said when she realized they were really into each other, she got out of bed, and they didn’t seem to notice. She questioned him that night. He admitted he thought he was gay, and that’s when she asked for the divorce.”

  “He seems like a loving father.”

  “He may love Zabrina, but he seldom makes the effort to see her. So what does that tell you?”

  “Do you feel he’s back to seek out Zabrina’s affection for her money?”

  “Well, like that’s going to happen. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get one damn cent. Trust me on that one.”

  PATRICE AND I WALKED into the interview room where Russell Bennett had been placed.

  “Patrice,” he said, standing and moving toward her with his arms outstretched. Patrice froze. Then she crossed her arms. “Right now, I don’t know whether to smack or hug you.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Where the hell is Zabrina?”

  “I don’t know. She said she had an appointment to get ready for and to come back for dinner tonight.”

  “What kind of appointment?”

  “I assumed a doctor’s.”

  “It’s not until tomorrow. Where was Deputy Frank when you left?”

  “She was at the dining room table making calls.”

  “Did you have plans for Zabrina?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like taking-her-to-Oregon plans?”

  He looked confused. “No, why? Did she say that?”

  “No.” Patrice addressed me. “Cal, give Grady a call. See if he came to get her. And if not, call her girlfriends.”

  “And one of the kids knocked out Tamika?”

  She grimaced. “Damn it.”

  A look of concern washed across Bennett’s face. “The big deputy was knocked out?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, what the hell happened to my daughter? Did someone abduct her?”

  THE POLICE QUESTIONED not only Russell Bennett, but his sister and her husband, and asked the Grand Rapids Police Department to question Bennett’s family. The reports came back the same: Russell had planned to spend a week with his sister in Blaine, so he could spend time with Zabrina in Minneapolis, then he’d drive to Grand Rapids, with or without his daughter, to see his parents. Russell said it never occurred to him to have Zabrina come and live with him in Oregon because her life was here, and Patrice would do a good job with her, that she was like a second mother to his daughter. He sounded convincing, and much like someone who didn’t want the responsibility of a young-adult child.

  Zabrina’s friends were eventually tracked down. No one had heard from her since last evening, which was odd to me, but her phone activity proved it.

  Bennett was released, and Patrice and I drove to the hospital to see Tamika. She was sitting up in bed drinking cranberry juice when we walked into her private room.

  “Hey, girl, how are you doing?” I asked.

  She gave us a bizarre smile. “Goooood. Where am I?”

  “You’re at Hennepin County Medical Center.”

  “They’re real nice here. I like these drugs they’re giving me.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Everything.” She blinked a few times.

  “Did you fall?” I asked.

  “Or did someone hit you?” Patrice asked.

  “Huh?”

  A nurse came in to check her vitals. “How is she doing?” Patrice asked.

  “She’s much better than when she first came in. She has a CAT scan scheduled in a half hour.”

  “How long will she be here?” I asked.

  “Depends. A day or two for observation, for sure.”

  “She’s having trouble with her memory. When will it come back?” Patrice asked.

  “That all varies so much with head traumas. It’s a very good sign she’s so alert now. Has her husband been contacted?” she asked.

  “Yes, he’s on his way from Prairie Falls,” I said.

  “What’s for dinner?” Tamika asked.

  “I don’t know,” the nurse said, smiling. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Tamika, where did Zabrina go?” Patrice asked.

  “Zabrina?”

  “Was someone else at the house?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Her nurse returned and said, “Here’s your menu, honey. This is one funny lady. She must be a riot to work with.”

  “Yeah, a real riot,” I said.

  When the nurse left, I said, “Shit, Patrice, I don’t remember seeing Tamika’s firearm on her in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, crap. Where’re her things?”

  She went to the tiny closet in the room. She pulled a plastic bag out. Tamika’s ID, cell phone, clothing, and holster belt were accounted for.

  “Why didn’t we notice back at the house if her firearm was missing?”

  Just then Tamika said, “I don’t feel so—” and vomited over the bed railing.

  Patrice put her hand to her mouth and made a speedy retreat. I grabbed the call button to report. When the nurse entered, she took a look and called for housekeeping. She handed Tamika a receptacle and wrote on her chart.

  Patrice poked her head in the room and said, “Cal, let’s go.”

  I touched Tamika’s arm and said, “I’ll come back later to see how you’re doing.”

  Tamika didn’t look like she cared a rat’s ass what I did.

  Patrice was waiting in the hall. As we walked down to the elevator she said, “I don’t do well with vomit. Did you see the color of that stuff? Was it blood?”

  “I suspect it was cranberry juice. Patrice, was Zabrina’s car in the garage?”

  “Good God, I don’t even know. What’s wrong with us? Why didn’t we look?”

  “Call Sarah.”

  Patrice made the phone call asking Sarah to look in the garage for the car. After waiting a minute, she said, “Well, let’s hope so. We’ll see you later.” She hung up and turned to me. “The Miata’s gone. Sarah thinks she drove over to campus and doesn’t ev
en know we’re worried.”

  “You don’t think Zabrina knows Tamika was hit in the head in her bathroom?”

  “We don’t know for sure she was actually hit. And with what? Maybe she slipped and fell.”

  “But her weapon’s missing.”

  “Maybe it’s in her suitcase.”

  “She was wearing it when I brought her to the house this morning.”

  WE DROVE ALL AROUND the Hamline campus, but no red Miata, and Zabrina wasn’t in her dorm room.

  “Drive over to Grady’s,” Patrice barked.

  I handed her my notebook to locate the address. She read it off, then I had her put it into the GPS system. It directed me to 94, which was currently a parking lot, and we sat in traffic. I was directed to North 280 to University, then down University, separating off to Fourth Street when University became a one-way.

  I found a parking spot down the street from Grady LaMere’s house, which was typical college housing, complete with a soggy sofa on the front porch. We looked up and down the block and around the back for Grady’s burgundy Mazda and Zabrina’s red Miata, but neither was in sight. I knocked on the front door. Patrice was behind me.

  A big redheaded kid with pale skin and freckles answered the door with a Miller in hand. His beer belly muffin-topped over his waistband. We both flipped our badges open and simultaneously announced our names and positions. The kid stepped back and said, “Whoa, man. What’s up?”

  “May we come in?” Patrice asked.

  “Uh, what’s this about?”

  “Zabrina Bennett,” she said.

  He stepped to the side and swept an arm inward. We followed him to a living room smelling of marijuana, stale beer, and Doritos. Old pizza boxes, empty Miller beer cans, and chip bags were strewn everywhere.

  “You guys trying to attract vermin?” I asked.

  The kid laughed nervously.

  Two young men, with their backs to us, were on the couch facing the television and playing video games. Neither one bothered to look up until the freckled Dough Boy shouted, “Hey! Shut that off. The cops are here.”

  Both boys looked over their shoulders and their mouths dropped open. I was surprised to see who one of them was.

  “Well, Zach Whitman, as I live and breathe,” I said.

  He stood, a grin crossing his face. “Well, Deputy Cal. Whatcha doing down here in the big city?”