Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead

by Bubany, Midge;

  “Cop stuff. Hey, I was thinking about you last week.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why?”

  “Came across some friends of yours—drunk underaged kids from Dexter Lake. They were out in the worst storm of the season—so far, anyway—and ended up in the ditch. And guess what? They mentioned your name.”

  “A lot of kids want to say they’re my friend. So, who’s yours?”

  He made a distinct point of checking Patrice out.

  “Sheriff Clinton, this smartass is Jack Whitman’s grandson.”

  “I see,” she said as she stared at him for a few seconds. “We’re looking for your roommate Grady LaMere and his girlfriend, Zabrina Bennett. Have you seen them?” Patrice asked.

  “No, ma’am. Not since last night,” Zach said. “How ’bout you guys?” He looked to his roommates.

  They shook their heads.

  “May I have your names?” I asked.

  I recorded their names and phone numbers in my notebook. Silas Hill was the redhead, and Mark Nelson was the athletic kid playing video games with Zach. With a couple of questions, we found out Zach, Silas, and Mark had lived together for two years, and with Grady since last June. Mark said he met him in a math class, and when one of their roommates flunked out and went back to Fargo, Mark called Grady because he knew he was looking for a place to live.

  “Is he in class or working today?” I asked.

  Silas had his hands in his pockets of his baggy jeans. He made a face. “I think he only works at night.”

  “Where?” Patrice asked.

  “Beats me,” Zach said.

  “He works at some vet clinic,” Mark said.

  “What else do you know about him?” I asked.

  “He’s neat. His bed’s always made,” Mark said.

  Zach snorted, like it was a bad thing.

  “Don’t you youngsters talk to each other?” I asked.

  The young men eyed each other, then shrugged in unison.

  “May we check his room? Perhaps he’s asleep,” Patrice said.

  “Sure, go ahead.” Silas said.

  “Is this about the shootings?” Zach asked.

  “We need to talk to him about something else, so if you know how to get hold of him, I’d do it now. Tell him to contact me ASAP,” she said.

  Silas showed us to second floor. At first glance, the brown carpeted runner up the center of the wood stairs appeared to be multicolored, but it was just loaded with lint. The same brown carpet ran down the hallway, and hadn’t seen a vacuum in years. The doors to three of the bedrooms were open, and the rooms were as trashed as the living room. The door to the fourth room was closed. Silas pointed to it. “That’s Grady’s.”

  Patrice knocked then turned the knob slowly. She stepped in, and I stood in the doorway. The room was orderly—not a single item of clothing or a wet towel lay on the floor. It could have been mine. I’d always been neat like that.

  “Do you need me?” Silas asked.

  “No,” Patrice said.

  He turned around and descended the stairs.

  The room held a full-size bed, desk, and dresser, on the top on which was a five-by-seven framed photo of Zabrina standing next to a tree—looked like a senior picture. I meandered over to his desk, where only a University of Minnesota coffee mug held a few pencils and black Bic pens. A backpack lay between the desk and the bed. I unzipped the pack, used a finger to spread it open. Textbooks and notebooks. Patrice opened the closet door. Dark-blue towels neatly stacked alongside a few sweaters on the top shelf of his closet.

  Patrice said, “Holy cow, this kid is unusually tidy. He doesn’t have many clothes, does he?”

  “No.”

  The longer we were in the room, the more uneasy I became. This illegal search could get us in big trouble.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  But instead of moving out, she pulled out her phone and punched in a number and asked for Detective Ryan.

  “William, this is Patrice Clinton. We checked out Zabrina’s boyfriend’s place. Neither are here. I suggest a BOLO on their vehicles.”

  She disconnected, then said, “He’s going to hold off. Let’s find his parents’ placed.”

  Just then music came from a desk drawer. I moved in and pulled the drawer open to find last year’s iPhone playing Pink’s “Don’t Leave Me.”

  “Answer it,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said into the phone.

  “Hey, man, this is Silas. Glad I got hold of you. The cops are here looking for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What do you want me to tell them?”

  “That I left my phone in my room.”

  There was pause, followed by a click.

  I put the phone back in the drawer because it would have been illegal to take a look at it. Besides, it had a coded lock.

  “One of his roommates,” I said.

  “Why did they leave their phones home?” she asked.

  “They obviously didn’t want to be tracked.”

  “Let’s go,” Patrice said.

  As we descended the stairs, Silas looked up and said, “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Have you ever known him to leave his phone behind?”

  He shrugged and said, “I don’t know, man.”

  “If you see or hear from him, call me immediately. Here’s my card.”

  He took the card, examined it, flicked it between his fingers for a second, nodded once, then put it in his wallet. I threw a couple more on the table. I’d had very few people actually call me after I’d given them my card, but you never knew. As I exited the room, I glanced back to see Zach pull out his phone. Who was he calling?

  I let Patrice drive, so I could use my iPad to find Grady’s parents’ address. I quickly found one for a Lloyd LaMere on the 4700 block of Blaisdell. I put it in the GPS. It directed us across the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and south to Lake Street.

  I was able to reach Zabrina’s roommate. “Autumn, this is Deputy Sheehan.”

  “Oh, hi. Have you found Zabrina yet?”

  “No, but if you speak with her, would you please tell her to call Patrice?”

  “Okay.”

  When I hung up, Patrice said, “It almost sounds like you think she went willingly.”

  “We don’t know she didn’t.”

  Patrice shot me a dirty look. “Don’t forget your partner was clubbed over the noggin and her S & W is missing.”

  My cell phone rang. Shannon.

  “Hi, how are you,” I asked.

  “I’m fine. I called to ask if I should pick up the twins since you’re still out of town.”

  Zing! “I’m coming home later today, but I’m fine if you want to drop by to see them.”

  “As long as you’re on your way, I won’t. How’re things going?”

  “Not well. Tamika’s in the hospital. We found her unconscious on the floor with a goose egg on the back of her head, and Zabrina, who she was supposed to be guarding, is missing, and so is Tamika’s firearm.”

  “Oh, wow. Is Tamika going to be okay?”

  “I think so, but she was talking crazy when I found her. Told me the devil didn’t wear red, she wore green.”

  Shannon giggled, then said, “That’s not really funny, is it?”

  “No. She can’t remember anything and puked over the bed railing.”

  “Not a good sign with a head injury. Are you with her now?”

  “No, we’re looking for Zabrina. Have you heard anything about your biopsy?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call you when I know something. And if you end up staying down in Minneapolis, call me and I’ll get the kids.”

  “I’m coming home.”

  20

  I SUGGESTED TO PATRICE we stop at the Logan residence before we headed over to Grady’s parents’ home to make sure the kids hadn’t returned in our absence or that there hadn’t been a burglary before or after Tamika was clobbered. When deaths were announced in the ob
ituaries, families might become a target of burglars who watch and wait for the opportunity to break into the grieving family’s house.

  Patrice conducted a hurried search of places where she knew valuables were kept and rapidly came to the conclusion that nothing had been stolen or disturbed. When I asked if she was sure, she placed her hands on her hips and delivered me a look that would make small children pee their pants.

  “Just trying to do my job, Patrice.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Minutes later, Patrice and I stood on the icy front steps of Lloyd LaMere’s small two-story home located in the middle of the block. As soon as Patrice hit the doorbell, it set off the yipping of small dogs, which grew louder as they moved closer.

  “I hate small dogs,” Patrice said.

  “Someone’s home. I see the television flickering. Wonder if they can hear the doorbell over the TV blasting.”

  The LaMeres had a storm door with the screen still in it. Through a translucent curtain on the inside door, I saw movement. The door opened, and a small elderly woman with silver ringlets and kind eyes stared at us. Patrice flashed her badge and said, “Mrs. LaMere?”

  The woman placed a hand on the appliquéd poodle on her sweatshirt. With a sweet smile, she said, “Yes?”

  “Hello. I’m Sheriff Patrice Clinton from Birch County. This is my detective, Cal Sheehan. Do you know Grady LaMere?”

  “Yes, what’s wrong?”

  “May we come in to ask you a few questions?”

  She hesitated but opened the door.

  Two white toy poodles with crusty eyes ran circles around Mrs. LaMere, continuing to bark shrilly. Patrice and I removed our shoes just inside the door. The dogs ran ahead a few feet, turned to give us hell for intruding into their territory, then repeated the behavior.

  An elderly gentleman wearing gray work pants and shirt, like my grandpa used to wear, was seated in a recliner with his back to us. He was watching Duck Dynasty. The volume was turned up so loud it would not be surprising if neighbors two houses down could hear Uncle Si’s conversation with Phil.

  The odor of urine overpowered the scented plug-ins I spotted in two different outlets. The two dogs must pee in the house, I thought with disgust.

  Knickknacks, mostly religious statues, filled two antique glassed-in cases along the left wall. Wedged between the cases was a print of Grace taken by Eric Enstrom in Bovey, Minnesota, in 1918. My Grandma Sylvia had a copy in her dining room.

  “Lloyd, we have company. It’s the cops. Turn down the TV.”

  “Huh?”

  She grabbed the remote from the edge of his chair and muted the television. “The cops are here.” Her voice carried a tone of frustration for having to repeat for the old man.

  He turned to face us and scowled. “What’s the problem now?”

  Both dogs jumped on the sofa to continue their blustering protest. Lloyd swiped at the dogs and yelled in a gravelly voice, “Shuddup!” They didn’t. Mrs. LeMere scooted them off the blue velveteen sofa, which faced the small boxy Sony TV. Suddenly the dogs jumped up onto Lloyd’s lap and settled in, satisfied their work was done.

  Patrice made introductions, and then I said, “We’re looking for Grady. He gave us your residence as his home address,” I said.

  “Oh, uh-huh,” she said. “He’s our grandson. He’s lived with us since he was a tot.”

  “When his folks got sent to the slammer,” Lloyd said.

  Aha.

  “What’s going on?” Lloyd asked.

  “We want to question him in the disappearance of his girlfriend,” Patrice said.

  The LaMeres exchanged looks.

  “Disappearance?” Lloyd asked.

  “Girlfriend?” Mrs. LaMere asked.

  “Zabrina Bennett,” I said. “We can’t seem to find her or your grandson. They’re probably at a movie or something.”

  Patrice flashed me a sharp look. I wasn’t convinced she’d been abducted—they could be anywhere having a good time and unaware we were frantically trying to locate them.

  “Have you spoken to Grady today, Mrs. LaMere?” Patrice asked.

  Lloyd scratched his chin. “When was he here last, Becky?”

  Becky?

  “A couple weeks ago, when he came to pick up his check.”

  “His check?” I asked.

  “We give him a monthly allowance so he doesn’t have to borrow money. He goes to the University of Minnesota and holds down two jobs and that’s enough.”

  “Where does he work?” I asked.

  “At the Rainbow on Lake Street and Hawley’s Vet clinic in Robbinsdale,” Lloyd said. “That’s where we take these ankle biters.” He stroked the poodles in unison. One grunted, the other made a sound like a wild turkey.

  “Do you know his work schedule?” I asked Becky.

  “No.”

  “What does he do at the vet clinic?” I asked.

  Becky said, “He takes care of animals they house overnight, cleans cages, that kind of thing. He’s wanted to be a vet since he was a little boy. He used to pretend Penny was his patient. Remember that, Lloyd?”

  A nod from Lloyd.

  “She was our sweet little apricot poodle. He’d bandage her all up. That dog was unusually patient with him.” She smiled, immersed in the memories of the good old days.

  Lloyd nodded.

  “And what does he do at Rainbow?” Patrice asked.

  Becky said, “He stocks shelves at night. Lloyd got him that job.”

  Lloyd said, “That’s where I worked up until I retired. I worked for the Red Owl out on Highway Seven ’fore that.” “It’s kind of you to take Grady in,” I said. Lloyd said, “Well, whatcha gonna do?”

  “Why are his folks incarcerated?” I asked.

  “They got involved with the wrong people,” Becky said. She sighed and shook her head.

  “Drugs,” Lloyd growled.

  Whoop, there it is. “When?” I asked.

  Becky’s hand lifted to her chin. “Well, Grady was only five, so I guess it must be fifteen years already. I suppose his mother should be released this summer, but our Orton had some trouble. Some inmates picked on him and, well, he fought back, and they increased his sentence. Does that seem right to you?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” I said.

  “Would you mind if we look at Grady’s room?” Patrice asked.

  “What do you think, Lloyd?” Becky said.

  “I suppose it’s all right.”

  WE FOLLOWED MRS. LAMERE up a steep, narrow staircase to the second story, which consisted of a large single bedroom and a bathroom.

  She pointed to a photo on the wall of a young man in an army uniform. “That’s Orton. This was his room before it was Grady’s. I was told I could never have a child, but I got pregnant at forty-two. The doctor thought something would be wrong with him because I was of a certain age, but we prayed and prayed, and he was a perfect little boy.” She chuckled. “We fooled the doctors.”

  “What a wonderful story,” I said.

  Patrice tossed me an amused look. I wanted to keep Becky talking.

  “He joined the Army and was stationed at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. That’s where he met Brenda. She was born in the Ozarks and was looking for a husband to get her out of Missouri. When he was discharged, she followed him back up here. She got herself pregnant, and lucky for her, we raised Orton to be a responsible man. He married her. The economy was bad at the time, and they had a hard go of it. Guess they turned to selling drugs to make ends meet.”

  Yeah, that’s one option that’ll get you three hots and a cot.

  I surveyed the room. The furniture carried a layer of dust, but the place was orderly, like his current room at the house by the U. There was a poster of Kirby Puckett tacked on the wall, the edges frayed and curled. From the condition, I’d say it was most likely Orton’s, not Grady’s. But the books in the small bookshelf, including the entire Harry Potter and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo ser
ies, were his. An old Dell desktop computer sat on a small desk in the corner. The closet contained few items: a graduation gown, a couple of plaid shirts, a suit, and two pairs of dress pants. Boxes of Legos, an Atari game console, and a remote control car were stored on the upper shelf.

  “He’s always been as neat as a pin. You ever heard of a kid who put his toys away without being told?”

  Yeah, I was like that. “When did he move out?”

  “Two years ago, when he graduated.”

  “Who were his friends in high school?” Patrice asked.

  “He never brought any around. I think he was ashamed his parents were in prison.”

  “You didn’t find it unsettling not to know his friends?” Patrice asked, her voice full of self-righteousness.

  Becky tightened her lips and didn’t answer.

  “Did he play sports?” I asked, trying to regain a thread of rapport. “No, he wasn’t interested.”

  Before Patrice could jump back in, I pointed to the computer. “He liked working on the computer?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. He asked for one when he was a freshman in high school. Said it would be his Christmas and birthday presents for four years. Lloyd got a good deal on a used one, so we didn’t hold him to the bargain.”

  “What kind of student was he?”

  Becky’s chin lifted as she glared at Patrice. “He was always on the A honor roll. He’s a wonderful boy.” Abruptly, she turned and headed back down the stairs, and we followed.

  When back in the living room, I said, “Well, if he contacts you, could you give us a call? We want to make sure he and his girlfriend are all right.”

  “Well . . . now you’ve got me worried. When you find him, you tell him to call me.”

  I nodded.

  Patrice winced as we stood in the entry putting on our shoes. “Oh, for Chrissake,” she said. “One of those damn dogs peed on my boots.” She took a tissue from her pocket and began wiping it dry.

  I made a face, but was pleased they hadn’t pissed on mine.

  As Patrice stepped off the first step, her feet went out from under her. I caught her arm before she hit, but her foot turned at an odd angle. I kept hold as she took the next step. Her leg buckled.

  “Damn, I think I sprained my ankle.”