Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead

by Bubany, Midge;

  Next call: Silas Hill, Grady’s roommate. I could hear the explosive sounds of video games in the background. Do these kids do anything else? He remembered me. I suppose it’s not every day a deputy and a sheriff show up at your door.

  I asked Silas if he was certain Zabrina stayed all night the Thursday before Zabrina’s grandmother was killed.

  “Uhhh, yeah,” he said. The game sounds continued. “Would you mind pausing the game?” The sound ceased.

  “Did Grady and Zabrina go upstairs together that night?”

  No answer. He could be playing with the sound muted.

  “Silas, what time did they go upstairs?”

  “About ten, I think.”

  “Did you see him go to work that evening?”

  “Um, yeah, but I didn’t talk to him again until about six o’clock on Friday night, when Zabrina and her friends came over. He was in his room all afternoon.”

  “Did Zabrina stay overnight on Friday?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, man, thank you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if this is important, but I heard Grady arguing with someone on the phone. I remembered it after you left that day. He sounded really mad. I’ve never heard him speak to anyone like that. He’s usually so soft spoken.”

  “When was this?”

  “I think it was around the time Zabrina got shot. I couldn’t exactly hear what he said, though, so it’s probably not helpful.”

  “Probably not, but that’s the kind of the thing that could be important, so thanks.”

  I called Oliver Bakken, our county attorney, and told him my suspicions about Grady.

  “I doubt you have enough to convince a judge to sign a search warrant. So I’d hold off until you have more.”

  Then I checked Facebook. Grady didn’t have a page, but Zabrina did and she had no privacy screen, therefore, I could see the photos of herself with her friends and her constant companion, Budweiser.

  AROUND TWO O’CLOCK, I drove by Grady’s. The empty parking lot, the quiet streets, and no one answering the door indicated the students had finished finals and had gone home for winter break. I drove to Blasidell in the off chance Grady went to his grandparents’ home. His burgundy Mazda was nowhere in sight, but I knocked on their door anyway. When Mrs. LaMere answered the door, I asked if she knew where he was.

  “I haven’t seem him since the first of the month.”

  “Will he come home for the holidays?”

  “He usually does.”

  “Are you aware he quit his job at Rainbow?”

  A look of confusion crossed her face. “He needed that job. He must have taken a different one, then.” “Do you still have my card?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you hear from Grady, would you let me know? I have some questions for him.”

  I heard her say, “Oh, dear,” through the closed door.

  OUT OF CURIOSITY, I LOOKED up where Grady’s parents were housed. Maybe he visited them. Orton LaMere was at Lino Lakes Correction Facility; his mother was in Shakopee. I phoned Lino Lakes—they said Grady LaMere wasn’t on Orton’s visitor’s list. However, a corrections officer at Shakopee said Grady had regular weekly visits with his mother. I had nothing else to do, so I made arrangements to interview Brenda LaMere to gain more insight on her son. The CO suggested I speak with Fawn Donato, Brenda LaMere’s cellmate, as well, because Fawn had asked for a new roommate and might be willing to talk.

  FAWN APPEARED TO BE in her forties, thin, and of average height. She wore what Minnesota inmates wore: ill-fitting jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Her light-brown hair hung limply past her slumped shoulders. She wore some sort of makeshift eyeliner, probably from a regular pencil. If you saw Fawn on the street, you wouldn’t peg her as an inmate. One bad decision, a moment of losing control, and people find themselves in jail, and possibly prison, like Fawn.

  I introduced myself and told her I was investigating a homicide I was sure she had nothing to do with.

  “How long have you bunked with Brenda LaMere?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Only a few months, but it seems like decades.”

  “Sounds like you’re not happy with the arrangement.”

  “She’s tiresome . . . and delusional. She just talks and talks about stuff that’s never going to happen.”

  “Like?”

  “Like when she gets out she’s gonna live in a mansion.” She gave me a faint smile.

  “Does she mention how that’s going to happen?”

  “Her son’s marrying a rich girl.”

  “She talked about the details?”

  “Brenda says the girl’s pregnant and they’re flying to Vegas. Would you believe she encouraged her son to get the girl pregnant? Who does that?” “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” She raised her brows and nodded. “I understand her son visits weekly.” “He has since I’ve known her.”

  “Does anyone else come to visit her?”

  “Her boyfriend.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rob . . . Quinlan, I think.”

  I recorded the name in my notebook. “Is she still married to Orton?”

  “Orton? I didn’t know his name. She calls him The Big Mistake, and I don’t know if they’re officially divorced.”

  “Has she ever mentioned a woman named Sonya Donovan?”

  “Yes, that’s the girl’s grandmother.”

  “I’m investigating her murder.”

  “She was murdered? Oh, my God.”

  “So she’s never mentioned it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll leave you my card. I’d appreciate your call if you hear something.”

  “Would I be a confidential informant?”

  “Not officially, and maybe we should keep our little talk a secret from Brenda.”

  “We better. I don’t want her slitting my throat in the night.” “No, we don’t want that.”

  BRENDA LAMERE NARROWED her small, widely spaced eyes as she sat with a thud in the chair across from me. Her spider tattoos, one on her cheek, one on her neck, and on both wrists, and her dishwater-blonde hair braided in cornrows added to her tough-girl appearance. She leaned back, crossing her arms over her belly bulge. She toted an extra thirty pounds on her short frame—too much prison food and too little exercise.

  She read the patch on my sleeve and said, “Birch County? Where’s that?” Her voice was low and husky.

  “Central Minnesota,” I said.

  “What’s Birch County want with little ol’ me?” she said, trying the flirty act.

  “I’m investigating the homicide of Sonya Donovan.”

  “Who?”

  “Your son’s girlfriend’s grandmother.”

  “Oh, her. I was busy in the prison kitchen at the time.” She gave out a raucous laugh, which led to a coughing fit.

  “What time was that?”

  She looked around, then said, “You have a cigarette?”

  “No, sorry. You’re avoiding my question. You said you were busy at the time of the homicide. What time was that?”

  “It was a joke. I work in the kitchen and am always there. Get it?”

  I nodded. “But you’ve heard about the murder?”

  “Yeah, sure. Grady told me his girlfriend’s mom was also killed in a drive-by. That’s so weird, right? Both of them?”

  “Your son likes the rich girls?”

  “Doesn’t every guy?”

  “Grady’s rich girlfriend is a freshman in college and now pregnant. It was part of the plan. Right?”

  “Why would he plan to knock up anyone at his age?”

  “To be rich without working for it?”

  “That’s an asshole thing to say. You don’t even know my son. He’s a straight-A student and trying to do the right thing by marrying the little cunt. I think we’re done here.”

  She got up and headed for the door.

  “Who’s Rob Quinlan?” I asked.<
br />
  She swiveled her head and glowered at me. I stood and towered over her. A little size intimidation sometimes worked with people like her. She was five-foot-three at most, but she glared up at me and said, “My private life is none of your fucking business, asshole.”

  Yeah, size didn’t intimidate this little pit bull. She stared at me for a few more seconds for added affect and kicked the door twice.

  I gave her a puzzled look and said, “Gosh, I can’t figure out what Grady does for money. He quit one of his jobs, cut hours on his part-time job. He continues to take his grandparents’ money for tuition, even though it appears they don’t have much to spare.”

  “How is this any of your business?” She pounded on the door. “Guard!”

  “So when did Robert first start coming to visit you? Does Orton know about you two?”

  She pounded on the door with both fists.

  “Is Rob taking care of your son for you?”

  The corrections officer stuck his head in and asked if I was done with her.

  “For now,” I said.

  She pushed her way out and gave me the finger behind her back.

  What a sweetheart.

  It was late afternoon and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I stopped for an early dinner at the Arizona Lounge and Grill on Canterbury Road, recommended by one of the corrections officers.

  I brought my laptop in with me to do research on Quinlan. He’d done time on burglary and drug convictions, but nothing in the last three years. I recorded his Burnsville address and the license plate number of his 2005 black Chevy Cavalier.

  After dinner, I plugged his address in the GPS, then drove to an apartment building off Highway 13 and 35 W. The large complex did not have a security entrance, and the apartments were off interior hallways.

  A short, round, gray-haired woman, somewhere north of sixty, opened the door to apartment 113. She pushed her eyeglasses up on her nose and looked up at me.

  “Are you Lenny?”

  My peacoat covered my uniform shirt, so I showed her my badge. “No, ma’am. I’m Deputy Cal Sheehan from Birch County.”

  She didn’t seem surprised to see a deputy at her door, which was telling.

  “Is Rob home?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “When might you expect him?” I smiled.

  “I have no idea. He doesn’t tell me where he’s going.”

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  “How?”

  “Do you know Grady and Brenda LaMere?”

  She screwed up her nose. “No.”

  “They’re friends of Rob’s. Would you let him know I stopped by and would like to speak with him about Grady and Brenda?” I handed her my card. “He can reach me at this number.”

  She took the card and said, “Okay.” She closed the door in my face. The chances of Rob Quinlan calling me were zero to zilch.

  As I sat in my vehicle in the parking lot, I gave the Burnsville Police Department a call and had a chat with an Officer Michael Neuman. I let him know Quinlan was a person of interest in a homicide investigation in Birch County.

  “Heard about that one,” he said.

  “Do you know Quinlan? I may need your help in rounding him up.”

  “Sure. He’s been a frequent flyer, but he’s always been pretty cooperative. How long are you in town?”

  “I’m heading back tonight. I’ll be back down at some point.”

  “Just a second.”

  I was placed on hold and when Neuman came back, he said, “Quinlan currently works at the airport on the cleaning crew. I can give you the number of his employer.”

  “Thanks, that’d help.”

  The call to the company immediately diverted to a recording giving their office hours as eight to five, Monday through Friday. I drove by Grady’s apartment once more, then, concluding he wasn’t home, I made the two-hour drive to Prairie Falls. I was psyched with the information I’d gained about Grady, his mother’s plans, and the name of her boyfriend.

  25

  Tuesday, December 23

  IT WAS STILL DARK when my eyes popped open. My upcoming court appearance weighed heavily on my mind, and I had woken up several times during the night. I dressed and took Bullet for a quick walk. In an attempt to ease the jimjams, I worked out at the department gym. Close to eight o’clock, showered and shaved and dressed in my uniform, I left for Brainerd. I checked in at the courthouse, then waited in a small room. About nine fifteen, a Crow Wing County bailiff came to fetch me.

  “Cal, we’re ready for you,” he said.

  I stood.

  “How ya doing?” he asked.

  “All right, I guess.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I looked at him closely. “Ricky Kozar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You graduated a couple years after me.”

  “That’s right. Hey . . . I know Mike’s your good buddy, but he was always kind of a dick to Paul and me. Anyway, good luck in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  I avoided looking at the defense table and gallery where Hawk’s parents were sure to be seated. My eyes were trained on the court clerk, who swore me in, then shifted to Lowell Pennock, the county prosecutor, who was shuffling papers.

  Pennock had called a meeting with me shortly after they’d arrested Hawk to ask if I was up to the task of testifying against my friend. I said, as a sworn officer of the law, it was my duty to testify to the facts. A slow smile had grown. Just before I’d left the meeting, he suggested I would have been a good military officer. For a brief time, I’d considered joining the Air Force. My grandpa, a Vietnam vet, talked me out of it. Pennock himself was a retired JAG, hired as an assistant prosecutor with Crow Wing County, then four years later, ran against his boss and won. I did my research; I liked to know who was asking me questions.

  Pennock straightened his broad shoulders. He ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair shorn in a buzz cut, then bid me a good morning in his rich, deep voice. He stayed seated and began by getting my long-term friendship with Michael Hawkinson on the table. Question by question my history with Hawk became part of the court record: how we had been childhood friends, had roomed together in college, and were the best men at each other’s weddings.

  During the questioning, I let my eyes inadvertently slip to the gallery to Hawk’s parents, Tom and Barb Hawkinson. Their contemptuous glares made me divert my eyes to Sydney Dirkson, a private investigator and Hawk’s cousin. She gave me a wink and a smile. We got to know each other when we were searching for him in Vegas. After Hawk’s arrest, she called to tell me she and her husband knew I did what I had to do. Remembering that call and seeing her single gesture of support calmed me. I turned my attention back to where it belonged—to Pennock.

  Most court cases moved at a snail’s pace. By the time we had recessed for a two-hour lunch, we hadn’t gotten to Hawk’s confession, and I had managed to avoid eye contact with him.

  I drove to McDonald’s on Washington and ordered a Big Mac and fries, which I hadn’t indulged in since I’d been with Dallas. She ate healthy, except she was addicted to cinnamon rolls, too.

  While I savored my lunch, I took out my notebook and studied my jottings. I circled Ed Lindgren’s name. He was the owner of the strip mall who was going to check the footage from the security cameras. My call was transferred to his secretary, Susan Knoll, who said Ed was on vacation in St. Thomas. I’d like to go to St. Thomas. Maybe when this case was over.

  She listened politely to my request, then said, “I’ll see what I can do. I know the electronics store next door to the vet’s office had security cameras installed after they had a break-in a few months ago. I’ll see what I can find. Give me the date.”

  I gave her the info she needed, then looked at my watch. I had an hour and a half before I was due back in court, so I drove to Westgate Mall and walked around. I decided I may as well buy Christmas gifts, even though I wasn’t in the mood, because
I never would be. I bought a remote helicopter for Luke, a chunky metal necklace and earring set for my mother, and a belt for Bobby Lopez. I was back at the courthouse by two o’clock.

  Once seated in the witness chair, I was reminded I was still under oath. A sudden burst of curiosity caused me to look at Hawk. He narrowed his eyes and mouthed, “Fuck you.” And with those kind words, my guilt was cured. As Ricky Kozar mentioned, Hawk could be a dick when he wanted to be. Maybe Paul’s ability to screw over his brother came from a deep-seated resentment of Hawk’s mistreatment of him when he was a kid.

  I WAS WARNED HAWK’S LAWYER, Arlo Strong, would be intimidating. He stood before me with a straight back and a stern expression and proceeded to drill me for a couple of hours. He stabbed a finger at me as he hammered me with questions about why I hadn’t taken Michael to the hospital the night he first came to me for help, and why I hadn’t notified the sheriff until the next morning. I responded that I wanted Hawk to relax and rest before he was subjected to the media storm that would ensue but neglected to mention I wanted to question him first. The interview I’d conducted at my house after I fed him beers and pizza was never entered into evidence because I later discovered he was lying about what had occurred.

  By four thirty that afternoon, I was excused. I stopped at Sally’s Salon and Spa and bought a five-hundred-dollar gift card for Clara. I’d also add a bonus to her check. And since I was instructed by Shannon to buy the twins the Santa gifts, I stopped at Target and filled a shopping cart with toys. I hauled everything inside the house and looked at the pile of gifts.

  “Aw, shit, now I’ve got to wrap them.”

  Dallas was going out for dinner with her office staff, so I ordered a pizza. About ten o’clock, I’d just finished wrapping everything when my home phone rang. Thinking it was Dallas saying goodnight, I picked up.

  “Hey, you prick, proud of yourself?” Hawk said.

  “You’re drunk.”

  I hung up. He called back. I pulled the plug on the phone. And now I was too pissed to sleep. I waited for my cell phone to ring, but it didn’t. I imagine his mobile was in evidence, and he didn’t remember my cell number.