Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead

by Bubany, Midge;

  “I need to know where you were on December eleventh and twelfth, the night when Zabrina’s grandmother was killed.”

  He blinked his eyes in confusion. “Um, a lot of places—at school, my apartment, work.”

  “Write down where you were and who may have seen you, in chronological order—to the best of your ability.”

  “Seriously? Am I a suspect or something?”

  “Not if you can prove to me why you couldn’t have committed Sonya’s murder.”

  The muscles around his eyes tightened. People don’t like to be suspects. I walked over to the printer, pulled a piece of paper from the tray, grabbed a pen from a container on the desk, and handed them to him.

  “Use the desk in here.”

  I went back to the living room to officially ask Patrice if I had her permission to search the house for Tamika’s firearm.

  “Of course.”

  Then I asked Zabrina if I could search her car.

  “Why?” she asked. “And where’s Grady?”

  “He’s doing something for me.”

  “What?” She started making her way out of the room.

  Patrice put her hand up. “Nope. Stay here until Deputy Sheehan is done searching.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, and plopped down on the love seat.

  “Do I have your permission?”

  Big attitudinal sigh. “Yeees.” I was starting not to like this girl.

  AFTER I CONDUCTED THE CAR search and didn’t find Tamika’s firearm, I glanced in on Grady, who was busy writing. Although he seemed like a nice kid, he was one of the few who had motive to kill Zabrina’s mother and grandmother. His pregnant girlfriend was now one wealthy young woman. But he had no idea what he was in for if he married this girl.

  AFTER I FINISHED my unsuccessful quest to find Tamika’s Smith & Wesson, Grady found me. He handed me a chronological accounting by the hour of where he’d been and who may have seen him. I thanked him, then told Patrice I was stopping at the hospital before heading back home.

  “Take Tamika’s things with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “With Tamika down, I’m gonna need more hours from Spanky and Crosby,” I said.

  “Fine. Just find Sonya’s killer.” She enunciated each word like it was a sentence of its own.

  “That’s. The. Goal,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes but let it pass.

  Just before I opened the front door with Tamika’s bag in tow, Sarah rushed over and handed me a white paper box and a manilla file folder.

  “When I left, Tamika was working on these papers in this file.”

  “Thanks. What’s in the box?”

  “Chicken salad sandwiches and a slice of key lime pie—for your lunch.”

  “Thank you, how kind.” It was an awkward moment.

  Once in my vehicle, I called Clara to tell her I’d be home in time for dinner, then drove downtown. What a strange set of circumstances: Someone knocked out my partner, she had no memory, her firearm was missing, and I still had no idea who killed Sonya Donovan. My next step was to check on Grady’s alibi. If it panned out, which I suspected it would, I had no idea what to try next.

  22

  AFTER CONSIDERING THE CHOICES in the hospital gift shop, I bought Tamika a modest vase of pink and white flowers the clerk called “lovely alstroemeria,” then headed up to her room.

  I hadn’t expected to see Adriana Valero sitting next to Anton Frank. He got up from his chair to give me a man-hug: short duration, ending with pat on the back and a “Hey, man.” The stress showed in his closely set, dark eyes. He rolled Tamika’s luggage off to the side.

  “Her purse is inside the luggage,” I told him.

  “Thanks. She asked for her phone.”

  I nodded and looked toward the empty bed. “Where’s our patient?” I asked.

  “She’s getting a CT scan.”

  I pointed to Anton’s newly grown facial hair. “Nice beard,” I said.

  The short boxed beard, the black-framed eyeglasses, and tweed sweater gave him the look of a distinguished professor, rather than a mechanic and gas station owner.

  “Thanks,” he said, touching his hairy chin. I turned my attention to Adriana. “We meet again,” I said, clever devil that I am.

  “Yes,” she said, giving me a weak smile. She uncrossed her long legs to rise, but instead of coming to give me a hug, she took the vase from me, saying, “I’ll put these on the window ledge.”

  She set the vase next to two massive bouquets: one of red and white roses and the other a colorful mixed floral arrangement like the one I’d rejected because it was forty bucks more.

  Anton retrieved a chair from the other side of the room and motioned for me to have a seat. He sat between Adriana and me as if to shield us from one another. She must have said something to him.

  “So tell me what happened,” Anton said, crossing one arm over his abdomen, propping an elbow on his fist, placing his fingers on his chin as he waited for an explanation of how I let his beloved get clunked on the back of the head.

  “I found her out cold on the bathroom floor.”

  “She doesn’t remember anything.”

  “We don’t really know whether she was hit or she fell.”

  “What about the girl she was guarding?” Anton pressed.

  “She was gone for a few hours but came home after a shopping trip. She says Tamika allowed her to go shopping, which I highly doubt. She also said Tamika was fine when she left the house. Whatever the explanation, we can’t ignore the implications of her missing firearm.”

  “Perhaps Tamika did trust her,” Adriana said.

  “She was supposed to be guarding Zabrina—you know she takes things like that seriously. I found the front door unlocked, so it’s possible someone else came in.”

  “Was anything missing? Beside her firearm?” Adriana asked. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “It may have been something not easily detected, like a document.” “You should be the detective.”

  She rolled her eyes and was about to comment when Tamika was wheeled in. We watched two technicians help her back into her bed.

  “How’d it go, Puddin’ Pop?” Anton said, moving to his wife’s bedside. “The stuff they gave me made me feel like I had to pee.” “So, look who’s here,” Anton said.

  Tamika smiled and said, “Hi, when did you two drive down?” We three shared “uh-oh” looks.

  Anton patted her hand. “Oh, sweetie, you know Adriana is down in Minneapolis living with her mother.”

  Tamika batted her eyelashes. “I know that.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “My head hurts and I’m nauseated, but other than that I’m dandy as candy. Right, Anton?”

  “Right.” He kissed her hand. I should take lessons from Anton.

  “Cal says the girl who disappeared came back home,” Anton said.

  “What girl?” she asked.

  Anton lowered his face to meet hers and kissed her on the nose. “Are you hungry?”

  She stuck her tongue out. “Bleh. No, but I’m so tired.”

  “Close your eyes and rest, my darling,” he said.

  The doctor came in to speak with Anton, so Adriana and I left and walked to the family lounge. We sat in chairs perpendicular to each other.

  “This is not good. She can’t even remember we’re not together,” Adriana said.

  “She’s just confused right now. Things will get better . . . I hope, anyway.”

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. We both started to speak at once.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “I’m heading home in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” She stared at her hands, rather than me, and picked at a scrape in her bright red fingernail polish. I wanted to make a snarky comment about her underwear model, but refrained. A lengthy silence ensued. I finally stood and muttered that I should get going. I stuck my head in Tamika’s room to see if the
doctor was gone. He was.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked.

  Anton’s voice trembled as he said, “She has what he called moderate traumatic brain injury . . . because she was out for a longer time and is confused.” He took a deep breath.

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “He says her memory should return, but he can’t predict when because it varies greatly in patients. The good signs are she has no vision or hearing problems, her speech is good, and her limbs seem unaffected. They want to keep her here for at least a couple days. I could stay in her hotel room. Is the key in her purse?”

  “We checked out this morning. She was going to stay to guard Zabrina and drive back up with Patrice.”

  Anton frowned. “She hadn’t told me.”

  “It was a last-minute deal.”

  ONCE ON THE ROAD, I called to give Patrice an update on Tamika. “How’s everything at Logan?”

  “Russell and I are discussing what should happen next with Zabrina. We’re going to ask her to postpone marriage until after the baby is born. I’m hoping she’ll either end the pregnancy or the relationship.”

  “I have a feeling the more you push her, the more she’ll move in the opposite direction,” I said.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Where’s the happy couple now?” I asked.

  “Upstairs. We’re not worried about her getting pregnant . . . anymore.” She snickered. “But he is not sleeping over.”

  “I thought his car was in the shop. How can he leave?”

  “Well, he’s not using the Miata,” Patrice said.

  “Well, good luck with all that.”

  “I’ll be coming up as soon as I settle things here,” Patrice said.

  “When might that be?” I asked.

  “Memorial service for both is next Tuesday, so I’m hoping Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “See you then,” I said.

  “If I don’t see you before you testify in your friend’s trial, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The trial that I dreaded.

  ON THE DRIVE, I RECEIVED a call from Leslie Rouch.

  “The DNA results are back. I thought you’d want to know right away that someone else’s DNA was on the sheets in the hamper and basically all over the house.”

  “Whose?”

  “Waldo D. Clinton’s.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “I believe you do. He’s Sheriff Clinton’s husband.”

  “Her husband’s name is David.”

  “David is his middle name. He was in the system because of a DUI conviction in 2011.”

  “Jesus, this is not what I expected to hear.”

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK, Waldo David Clinton would either be at home or at Birch County Community College, where he worked in the business department. I tried reaching him at the college first and was told he’d already left, so I drove directly to the Clinton home on Island Lake.

  The house lights were on when I rang the doorbell. David appeared at the door still dressed in a business suit.

  “Cal? What’s wrong? Is it Patrice?”

  “She’s fine. May I come in?”

  “Of course. I’m having a cocktail. Join me?”

  “No, thanks.”

  We sat in the great room, where he had a fire going and sixties music blasting.

  He turned down the music and said, “So what’s up?” He tossed me a big smile. His hand was shaking so much the ice rattled in the glass. He set it down on a coaster.

  “You had to know I’d eventually come and talk to you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Waldo D. Clinton’s DNA is all over Sonya’s house.”

  His head dropped as he buried his face with his hands. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does Patrice know?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Damn it. Okay, all right. I was at Sonya’s.”

  “When?”

  “Just the once.” “The date?”

  “The day before Patrice found her. Oh, my God, this is bad.”

  “I’m going to need you to come in for questioning.”

  “You don’t think I killed her, do you?”

  “I don’t think anything right now.”

  “Does Patrice have to find out?”

  “Oh, yeah, and I suggest you tell her ASAP.”

  He shook his head. “How am I going to find the words?”

  “You just do. Come to the department tomorrow morning at eight.” I made my way to the door. “Have a nice night, Waldo.”

  WHEN I DROVE UP to my house, I noticed Christmas tree lights in the living room window. It was lucky I had forgotten to buy a tree. I pulled around Shannon’s Pilot parked by the garage. Bullet met me at the door, and I gave him a good loving up. The kids came running for their hugs and kisses. They’d been confined to the family room as the gate had been put up in the doorway, most assuredly to keep them away from the tree.

  “Who put up the tree?” I asked.

  “I bought it and Shannon helped me trim it while the children napped,” Clara said.

  “Thanks, Shannon.”

  “How’s Tamika?” Shannon asked. She leaned back on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand.

  Clara brought me a glass without asking, and I recounted what the doctor had said.

  “Gosh, that’s bum luck for Tamika. She’s just off leave and now injured again. Who has the kids?”

  “I don’t even know.”

  “Maybe Tamika’s parents came up.”

  “Where’s Luke?” I asked.

  “He’s on a sleepover at Josh Waxler’s.”

  “Josh on his soccer team?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “Yes. Um, I decided I would take you up on your offer of staying here while I recover from my surgery. If you’re still offering.”

  “Yes, absolutely. Do you know when that will be?”

  “No. I’m anxious to get it over with, so I’m taking the first available date.”

  Anxiety grabbed me by the throat, but I smiled and patted my ex-wife’s hand.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay over tonight . . . in the guest room.” Sure.

  After dinner, Clara helped me with the dishes while Shannon was upstairs bathing the Twinks.

  I went up and tucked them in, then told Shannon I had some work to do. She smiled and nodded and followed me downstairs. I stopped at the office at the front of the house, and she headed for the family room in the rear.

  I wrote out notes for my interview with Waldo Clinton. Waldo—no wonder he went by David. I didn’t believe his “it only happened once” claim. Then I began the paperwork for the Minneapolis trip. Close to ten, I stopped by to say goodnight to Shannon and Clara, who were watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Shannon was curled up under a blanket on the couch. I let Bullet out one more time, then sat down by Shannon’s feet.

  She said, “Since I’m having the twins for Christmas Eve, my folks wanted me to invite you to dinner and Christmas morning brunch.”

  It was her attempt at appeasing me for missing the best part of the holiday with the Twinks.

  “We’ll see.”

  When Shannon excused herself to go to the bathroom, Clara said, “You know you’re invited to our house for the whole holiday. My boys are coming home, and Dallas and I’d like you to meet them.”

  “Thanks. I’ll at least stop by.”

  Shannon returned. I said goodnight and headed up to bed. I heard the downstairs television playing late into the night. She must have been having trouble sleeping. Me too. I tossed and turned for several hours thinking how hard it was going to be for Patrice, who’d lost two friends, to learn her husband was screwing Sonya Donovan. Or did Patrice find out and do the deed herself? But she never would have been able to get Sonya back upstairs by herself. Perhaps a collusion between David and Patrice to gain control of the Donovan funds? Or w
as I just having crazy middle-of-the-night thoughts?

  23

  Saturday, December 20

  WHEN I CAME DOWNSTAIRS, Shannon asked what I was giving Clara for Christmas.

  “A gift certificate to a spa.”

  “Great idea. Put my name on it, too.”

  Get your own gift was on the tip of my tongue, then I remembered she had cancer, and I was thinking like an asshole.

  “Sure”.

  She then asked if she could take the kids a day early. I had a feeling she wanted to spend as much time with them as possible, so I agreed. I kissed my babies, then I gave Shannon a hug. She clung to me as I patted her back.

  “Everything is going to be fine, Shannon. Hear me?”

  She pulled away and said, “Go to work.” Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Damn cancer.

  I HAD RESERVED THE INTERVIEW room and arranged for Crosby to film. When I met Waldo David Clinton in the lobby, his usual confident swagger was gone. Once seated across from him at the small table in the interview room, I began by giving the case number and documenting his personal information. He was forty-eight, sixteen years younger than Sonya. Stupid shit.

  Waldo first met Sonya years ago at Justine and Russell’s wedding. She came on to him when he and Patrice had dinner with her at the Dexter house the Friday after Thanksgiving. While Justine and Patrice went for a walk, she jacked him off. He said he and Patrice had been having a difficult go of it . . . yada yada yada.

  “Do you want to revise the number of sexual encounters?”

  “Huh?”

  “Hand jobs count.”

  “Okay, then . . . three times. She gave me oral sex at the Christmas party.”

  “The sheriff department’s party?”

  “Yes, do you want details?” he said, lowering his head.

  “No”.

  “I assume you’re taping this. Is my wife going to see it?”

  “Up to her.”

  He covered his face with his hands. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  “Because you had been a guest at the Dexter house, any DNA of yours found there could have been innocent—except for your semen on her bed-sheets. Not so innocent.”

  “I assumed she’d wash the sheets.”

  “She didn’t do her own laundry. Besides, your DNA was taken from fingerprints all over her bedroom and bathroom. Did Patrice suspect you of having an affair?”