Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  We even heard a fun story about a couple of meth dealers who called the cops after getting paid with a big stack of bad money, some printed only on one side. Ends up, they got booked for dealing drugs, and the counterfeiters never got caught.

  I started off the script with an anchor lead in talking about how counterfeiting sounded like an exotic crime, but was really quite common.

  ((SOPHIE CU))

  IN FACT, THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS

  OF PHONY MONEY IS PASSED

  AROUND THE TWIN CITIES MOST

  WEEKS.

  RILEY SPARTZ EXPLAINS WHY

  COUNTERFEITING IS BECOMING

  A BIGGER PROBLEM AND HOW TO

  TELL WHAT’S REAL AND WHAT’S

  NOT.

  But I was most proud of my standup.

  ((RILEY STANDUP))

  IN THE OLD DAYS OF

  COUNTERFEITING, THE CRIME

  REQUIRED A REAL INVESTMENT . . .

  WITH PROFESSIONAL PRINTERS

  AND PHOTOGRAPHERS. NOWADAYS,

  ANYONE WITH A SCANNER AND

  COLOR PRINTER CAN MAKE BOGUS

  BILLS LIKE THESE.

  To dress up the video, I demonstrated the ease of counterfeiting by scanning real twenties and printing a phony page right before the eyes of the viewers. Malik shot the standup wide, then reshot it tight on the action and edited sequences together. At the end, I held the fake money toward the camera lens making it look close-up.

  “Cute.” While Noreen pretended to share my enthusiasm for the counterfeiting story, what she really wanted was to know what progress I’d made on the pet custody story we’d discussed earlier and how soon that could air.

  “My gut tells me viewers haven’t tired of it,” she said.

  The divorce file of Keith and Barbara Avise documented a complicated legal battle over their pet dog, Buddy. I had talked to family court judges and attorneys about such custody decisions and briefed Noreen on what I thought we could broadcast.

  Noreen deemed the story “promotable”—her highest praise. “What’s holding things up? Grab a photographer tomorrow and start shooting.”

  I slept better that night than in a long time. No bad dreams. No second thoughts. No phone calls.

  Two men in dark suits and sunglasses were standing outside the station next to a black sedan with government plates when I got to work. I looked at the pair curiously, wondering whether a VIP with heavy security was due for an interview at Channel 3. Then one of the men approached me, flashing a badge.

  “Secret Service. Are you Riley Spartz?”

  “I think you know I am.” Otherwise why would they be waiting here? Maybe they’d come to thank me for last night’s story educating viewers about money.

  “You’re under arrest,” one of them said, as the other opened the back door of their vehicle. Each grabbed one of my arms, lifting me off the sidewalk, all the better to fling me into their backseat.

  “What are you talking about?” I yelled, shaking myself loose. My tush hit the curb and my foot kicked the door shut.

  “Counterfeiting.” The taller one loomed over me.

  “What are you talking about?” I repeated. I thought it was all a gag and didn’t take them seriously.

  “We have video of the evidence.”

  I refused to come peacefully, insisting instead on speaking with my attorney.

  “Time for that later,” the bossy one said. “When we get downtown.”

  He tried to pull me up from the sidewalk while his buddy opened the door again. I shifted away, keeping my butt glued to the concrete, and my fingers across the keyboard of my cellphone.

  URGENT. SEND MILES OUTSIDE ASAP. I texted Ozzie because I knew he constantly monitored his line.

  WHAT’S UP?

  UNDER ARREST. GET CAMERA. STOP WASTING TIME.

  Noreen would be plenty disappointed in me if I let myself be taken into custody right outside the station without a camera present.

  “I have to let my boss know where I’m going,” I told the other fed as he tried to pry my phone away.

  Just then Malik came through the door and hoisted a camera to his shoulder. His presence stalled the action until the arrival of Miles Lewis, the station media lawyer, seconds later.

  Miles mustered enough indignation to ask, “What seems to be the bother here?”

  The Secret Service team explained that I was guilty of counterfeiting for copying money on camera in my story that aired last night.

  “Guilty?” Miles said the word in his legal scorn tone.

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Well, technically, I can’t believe your agency actually has time for jokes like this. Say what you need to say and let’s finish up here.”

  As a compromise to hauling me off to jail, they agreed to settle for confiscating the paper money I printed for the standup. I wasn’t sure where the pages even were, and envisioned having to crawl through the Dumpster in the alley behind the station.

  The Secret Service team followed us into the building to observe. After leafing through my desk and several wastepaper baskets, I came up with a handful of copy pages of twenty-dollar bills.

  “Is this all, Ms. Spartz?” one of them asked.

  “You can’t possibly claim these could pass as counterfeit,” Miles said. “They’re only printed on one side. And it’s cheap copy paper.”

  They ignored Miles to lecture me about crime and punishment. “Are you sure this is all?”

  I had no idea how many copies I’d made. I have a reputation of having to shoot multiple standups just to get a decent one. So there could have been lots more.

  But Miles assured them they had the complete set, offered mea culpas, and agreed to call if any more should turn up.

  “Why wasn’t this story run by me?” Miles asked, after the men in black left. He was supposed to review any stories that might have possible legal entanglements.

  “Because I didn’t think there were any legal issues. We weren’t defaming anybody. These guys got more dangerous crooks to chase than me.”

  After this, Miles told me, I needed to send all my scripts to him before air.

  CHAPTER 43

  I know. I know,” I told Noreen as she too came up to scold me about the money printing mess. “I don’t need to hear more.”

  I reminded her that if she wanted the pet custody feature finished, I had to start working on it pronto.

  At the end of the day, she loved the script and wanted to hold pet custody a couple of days to promote the story before a big network audience.

  ((SOPHIE BOX W/BUDDY))

  BY NOW MANY OF YOU ARE

  FAMILIAR WITH THE STORY OF

  BUDDY, THE DOG WHO DIED AFTER

  BEING LEFT IN A HOT CAR.

  WHAT YOU MAY NOT KNOW IS THAT

  BUDDY CAME FROM A BROKEN

  HOME. REPORTER RILEY SPARTZ

  HAS MORE.

  Buddy’s situation was unusual. Because pets are considered property, not family, courts typically don’t assign visitation. But in their affidavits, both spouses said they’d rather share Buddy than see him given to the other outright. So the judge approved a week-by-week custody arrangement.

  ((JUDGE SOT))

  PET CUSTODY CAN CAUSE

  EMOTIONAL TURMOIL BUT COURTS

  ARE BACKLOGGED AND CAN’T MAKE

  THAT A HUGE PRIORITY.

  My story explained how the court looks at whether an animal was purchased during the marriage; who handled the chores of feeding, walking, and vet visits; if children are involved; or whether one party has a fenced yard and the other a tiny apartment.

  But the piece was missing one element.

  In most cases, I never voluntarily give up a slice of any story I deem mine. But when it came to Keith Avise, I wasn’t sure he would agree to answer my questions, or that I would be comfortable interviewing him. Besides being a journalist, when it came to him, I was both a witness to and victim of his various transgressions.

 
“I’m not sure my objectivity could go unchallenged,” I told Noreen.

  My boss startled me by suggesting someone else should handle that part of the story.

  “You stick to the nuts and bolts of the issue. I’ll get someone else to interview Buddy’s family as a sidebar.”

  I was so gleeful at ducking that assignment, I didn’t bother asking, who? But I should have. Because that might have made a big difference later on.

  “Hey, Riley, Fargo wants a word about your angel killer,” Ozzie yelled out to me from the assignment desk.

  “What about it?” He was talking about our network affiliate in Fargo, North Dakota. Television market rank 120, compared to Minneapolis–St. Paul at number 15.

  “They think they might have one.”

  “A killer?”

  “A murder.”

  I took the call at my desk and learned that a couple months earlier, Bonnie Brang had been beaten to death and left on the blacktop driveway of her fenced house on the outskirts of town. The station covered the homicide as big news. Still no arrests. But after the police had cleared the scene, the local reporter shot a standup in front of the open gate, and where the body had lain, a chalk outline could be seen.

  “Until I saw your story, I just figured the cops made it. Now I’m not so sure. And they won’t talk.”

  He emailed me the news link and as I watched the video, I saw that the outline resembled the one drawn around Kate. “What did the victim do for a living?”

  “A waitress.”

  My murder map gained a star at Fargo, North Dakota, along with a photo of the victim. This latest case had more in common with the others than Kate. Staying objective, I could see Kate was the least attractive of the dead. The others were blond waitresses. From smaller cities. Madison was market rank 85 and Ames shared Des Moines’s TV market at number 71.

  If the homicides were the work of the same killer—and the chalk outlines inferred that scenario—it suggested the maniac’s motive might have shifted.

  The map was quite visual, and as a television reporter I prefer laying out my investigations in charts, graphics, and pictures. That technique helps me tell the story to viewers and see for myself where the case might be heading.

  Some serial killers select their victims from the same geographic area, terrorizing a single city. Others enjoy traveling and staying undetected. Each of these homicides happened in cities more than two hundred miles from Minneapolis. All different states—Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, North Dakota—another technique for a smart thug to evade attention.

  But that observation was fairly obvious. I didn’t need a custom map to calculate distance and borders. What really struck me was the shape of the murderer’s route.

  I traced a line between the slayings and saw the Black Angel appear before me. Let Minneapolis be her head. Ames, her feet. Fargo, the top wing tip. Madison, the lower wing. The killer was leaving an even more subtle signature than his chalk outline. The big picture.

  I paged Noreen on the overhead speaker, asking her to come to my office.

  She tilted her head and squinted her eyes at my wall. “I see what you mean, Riley, but don’t you think that’s stretching things a bit for crazy? Even for a serial killer?”

  I reminded her about the wild college student about a decade earlier who planted pipe bombs in mailboxes across the Midwest in a path shaped like a giant smiley face.

  “I’m not saying psychopaths make sense, Noreen. I’m just saying we have another murder that fits and we ought to build a graphic for tonight’s newscast. Think exclusive.”

  So she did.

  ((SOPHIE CU))

  CHANNEL 3 HAS LEARNED THAT A

  FOURTH HOMICIDE—THIS TIME IN

  FARGO, NORTH DAKOTA—MIGHT

  BE TIED TO THE ANGEL OF DEATH

  KILLER.

  RILEY SPARTZ IS FIRST WITH THE

  DETAILS.

  ((RILEY TRACK))

  THE BODY OF A WOMAN

  MURDERED IN FARGO WAS

  ALSO FOUND WITH A CHALK

  OUTLINE THAT RESEMBLED THE

  SILHOUETTE OF AN INFAMOUS

  BLACK ANGEL STATUE IN IOWA.

  ((RILEY GRAPHIC))

  AND WHEN WE LINED UP THE

  FOUR CITIES WHERE THE KILLINGS

  HAPPENED . . . THIS IS WHAT YOU

  SEE.

  Then we froze the video of the Black Angel and dissolved in the four Midwest cities simultaneously. The statue’s head, feet, and wing tips matched perfectly—and that shape spooked me.

  CHAPTER 44

  He deemed his progress acceptable.

  Through patient observation, he’d learned that Riley Spartz typically left through the back door of Channel 3 at the end of the day. She bought monthly underground parking at a small hotel near the station. While no specific space was reserved, now that he knew she drove a gray Toyota, it was a simple matter for him to keep vigil on the street, watching for her car to exit.

  The wild-card factor was the unpredictability of her shift. He must remain flexible. Once he discovered where she lived, he could plan around his schedule.

  His first try, he lost her on the way home when she zipped through the stoplight off the 46th Street exit ramp, leaving him stuck behind two other vehicles. But he was able to see that she turned east. The next night, because he knew her route off the freeway, he was in a better position to chase. He passed ahead of her to drive through the stoplight first, then followed her for a few minutes toward Lake Nokomis.

  He had expected a more affluent neighborhood with better security. He wished she had an attached garage, but he could make do. He had before. He was content to watch her shape pass in front of the windows until he was certain where her bedroom was located, and that she owned no dog.

  He would make no move tonight, in case a neighbor had noted his vehicle, but more important, to allow himself anticipation time. He wouldn’t have the inconvenience of tailing her from work. Now he could just show up, perhaps waiting in the covered porch of the house for sale next door. His surveillance convinced him it was uninhabited.

  Back at his apartment, he switched on Channel 3’s late news, hoping to watch Riley Spartz on the television screen and fantasize about their encounter to come. When she showed the Black Angel murder map, he knew he had to act soon.

  CHAPTER 45

  The ringing phone roused me at just after midnight.

  “Hello?” Ten seconds later I was alert enough to recognize Laura on the line, crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m at Kate’s,” she sobbed. “I’m freaking out.”

  “Laura, what are you doing there?”

  “I was trying to stay overnight, Riley. The motel was getting so expensive. I told myself to just fall sleep and not think about what happened to her. Except that’s all I can think about.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I can’t believe you even thought you could make that work.”

  “I’m afraid to be alone here, Riley. Can you come over?”

  Alone or not, I sure wouldn’t want to sleep in a murder house in the dark. So I offered her my couch.

  “Really? You don’t mind?”

  “Once a roommate, always a roommate.” I gave her my address, and twenty minutes later she was at the door holding a suitcase.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She kept repeating herself as I got her settled on the hide-a-bed in my home office.

  “It’s no problem,” I assured her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Right now cash is tight. I spent a lot on the plane and hotel and rental car. I’ve switched to Kate’s car now, and I’m fine driving that. But I can’t live in her house.”

  “I understand, Laura.” As she rambled, I heated up enough hot chocolate for two, hoping we could both get a few hours sleep before I had to be at work.

  “I’m meeting with Kate’s attorney tomorrow morning,” she said. “Her estate won’t be settled
for months, but he’s seeing if I can get an advance on my inheritance to cover all the expenses.”

  Her attorney. Of course. I gave myself a mental kick for not thinking of it myself. From the time I’d theorized a connection between Kate’s writing and her murder, I’d guessed the killer would be someone who knew Kate Warner was also Desiree Fleur. Kate’s attorney would certainly have known her alias.

  “Would you like me to go with you, Laura?”

  “Oh, would you? Lawyers make me nervous.”

  No trouble, I assured her. And then I suggested we get some sleep.

  Peter Marsden was a probate and tax attorney for one of Minnesota’s largest law firms. Working among more than four hundred lawyers would allow him to stay under the radar of curious colleagues.

  His office was four blocks from Channel 3, so I gave Laura a spare key to my place and told her to follow me downtown. Marsden escorted us into a conference room of dark wood furniture and landscape oil paintings, a more suitable setting for briefing CEOs than us.

  He and I had never met, probably because none of his clients had ever made news before. But he immediately recognized me, and warned Laura about the perils of getting too close to the media.

  “I’m here as a friend, not a reporter,” I assured him. “I want to support Laura.” I tried making both of them feel at ease. “As far as I’m concerned, this meeting’s off the record.”

  Still suspicious, Marsden frowned at me. “How many days old is this camaraderie of yours? Laura, you’ve been under enormous stress. As your sister’s attorney, I consider it my professional responsibility to point out that you might be mistaking manipulation for friendship.”

  He was all lawyer. I’d never want to face him during a deposition—or in a courtroom. And I wondered if his attack on me was to protect Laura or to isolate her. I’d expected him to be the kind of attorney who was good with numbers, not words. He was smooth, but was he also a killer?