Through the Grinder

by Cleo Coyle

  I stiffened. The idea of someone being crushed accidentally under the wheels of a ten ton sanitation truck was bad enough—hearing Quinn confirm it was no accident gave me an unnatural chill.

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  Quinn nodded. “We have two witnesses. The assistant manager at a nearby bar came in early to clean up. Heard a woman scream the word ‘no’ and glanced out the window just in time to see Ms. McNeil fall under the truck’s wheels.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you say McNeil?”

  Quinn reached into his pocket and drew out a dog-eared leather-covered rectangular note pad.

  “Sally McNeil, a.k.a. ‘Sahara’ McNeil. West Tenth Street, apartment number—”

  “I know the name,” I said.

  Quinn closed his pad. “You want to tell me how you know her? Regular customer?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her here before, but it was more than that. She came here last Saturday night for our Cappuccino Connection.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see her leave alone.”

  “No. She left with a…mutual friend.”

  Quinn sat up. “Male or female?”

  “A man,” I replied. “An old college friend of hers…I understand.”

  “His name?”

  “Bruce Bowman. But I don’t think—”

  It was Quinn’s turn to blink. “You know Bruce Bowman?” His tone was even but his eyes were hard. I suddenly felt like one of his collars sitting under an interrogation room spotlight.

  “I just met him…during this last Cappuccino Connection,” I stammered, smoothing my khaki slacks compulsively now.

  “Did you meet Bowman professionally, as the manager of this place?”

  “Well, actually, I participated in the Cappuccino thing, too…just because, you know, Joy wanted to do it and I wanted to screen the men who’d signed up…screen them for my daughter, but then—”

  “But then you made a date with Bowman yourself?”

  Though Quinn was wearing his detective hat, his questions were getting far too personal.

  “The Cappuccino Connection is just a neighborhood social introduction group,” I told him defensively. “It’s run by a local church. Bruce Bowman was there, Joy was there, too. And everybody meets everybody for a couple of minutes. It’s all innocent fun…”

  Quinn gave me a look he probably gave pickpockets who claimed they had “absolutely no idea” how that woman’s wallet and credit cards got inside their coat. “The reason I ask,” he finally said, “is because Bowman’s name has turned up during my background checks of two women: the late Valerie Lathem and the late Inga Berg.”

  “How is Bruce connected?”

  “Bruce…” repeated Quinn, leaning slightly forward.

  I shrank back in my seat, suddenly feeling like Alice after she’d eaten the mushroom.

  Quinn continued. “Mr. Bowman dated Valerie Lathem for about three weeks in October. They met through her job at an executive travel agency.”

  “And Inga Berg?”

  Quinn paused and took another sip of coffee, a lengthy one. He set the cup down and observed me long enough to make my palms sweat.

  “What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. But if you or your daughter is considering a date with Mr. Bowman, consider this first: Bowman was involved with Inga Berg for a short time. Starting in late October and ending at the beginning of November, just before Ms. Berg’s death. This relationship with Ms. Berg was sexual. And Ms. Berg was not always discrete in her encounters.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘not always discrete.’” I said, not sure I wanted to know either.

  “One of the tenants in Ms. Berg’s buildings saw Ms. Berg having sex in her brand new sports utility vehicle on the rooftop parking lot a few days before she died. Now, why the hell she chose to mess around in her car when she had a nice cozy bed in her apartment five floors below is a mystery to me—unless you want to factor in Ms. Berg having a particularly interesting kink.”

  I didn’t believe it. “You’re not saying it was Bruce in the car with her?”

  “We don’t know that,” Quinn replied. “The tenant didn’t see the man’s face. I’m just saying it’s possible, if she was into this sort of behavior, and he was involved with her sexually, that it could have happened. I have Ms. Berg’s phone records, and she called his number the day before this incident occurred. Unfortunately our witness can’t remember much beyond naked bodies flailing around.”

  “Well, then, you don’t know it was Bruce,” I said.

  “We also found a ripped-up note addressed to Inga in the rooftop garbage can,” said Quinn. “We know it was put there on the night of Ms. Berg’s death because all older garbage had been emptied a few hours prior. The note was an invitation to come up to the rooftop lot and meet someone by her car for a “special surprise” of some sort. Given what we’ve uncovered, it’s not hard to guess what Ms. Berg thought she was getting—quite different from what she actually got. Or maybe the same, depending on your use of vernacular.”

  I frowned. Why was it that Quinn’s gallows humor always reared its ugly head when I least felt like laughing?

  “Have you analyzed the handwriting?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t handwritten—and, of course, you’d expect it of a note like that, a supposedly casual and personal note. The person who wrote that note to Inga used a Hewlett Packard DeskJet, a small computer printer, model…” Quinn checked his notebook. “Model 840C. The lab is still working on identifying factors in the stationery’s composition.”

  “And you’re sure Inga’s death wasn’t a suicide—and Valerie Lathem’s, too, for that matter?”

  “I was never convinced Ms. Lathem’s death was a suicide. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to produce enough evidence to convince my captain otherwise, but in the case of Inga Berg there is enough physical and circumstantial evidence to warrant further investigation.”

  “But wasn’t Inga dating a lot of men? She told me herself that she was. With her it was almost a point of pride. Why pin it on Bruce?”

  “Just how well do you know Bruce?”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time with him since we met last week, and I feel I know him well enough to say I think you’re barking up the wrong suspect’s tree.”

  Quinn just gave me that infuriating cop stare of his.

  Thank goodness I wasn’t guilty of anything—I mean, here I sat, innocent as an Easter lamb and still I was quaking as if Quinn were accusing me of these alleged murders. Suddenly, I felt as though I were closeted in a confessional with the toughest priest in the diocese.

  “Clare, the note was signed.”

  “How?”

  “With a B.”

  I shook my head. “That still doesn’t tie it to Bruce beyond a shadow of a doubt and you know it. What about your second witness to the death of Sahara McNeil? What did that person see?”

  “Nothing, like the bartender. A dental hygienist in a first floor apartment was getting ready to go to work. She heard the scream. She also heard someone running on the sidewalk. But by the time she got her window open enough to stick her head out and look down the street, the person doing the running had vanished around the corner.”

  Quinn gulped more coffee, then drained his entire cup.

  “There’s a third witness, but less convincing. The driver of the sanitation truck heard the victim scream, too, and claimed she flew in front of the truck like she was pushed. But any judge would say he’s just covering his ass.”

  Quinn stood up. So did I.

  “I’ll still speak with your employee…Best was it?”

  “Esther.”

  “Esther Best. But I thank you. You’ve given me more to go on than I expected.”

  I crossed the office and stood in front of him.

  “Just why did you come by today, Mike?” I asked. “You haven’t been here in two weeks. Why today?”

 
; “Been busy,” said Quinn. “And I actually came by to follow up on some notations in Ms. McNeil’s date book. She’d written down the address of the Village Blend along with last Saturday’s date and a time. It was a long shot, but you came through with the explanation—your Singles group—and an even bigger lead.”

  “Bruce.”

  Quinn nodded. “With your help, I’ve now linked Mr. Bowman to three suspicious deaths. One death could be happenstance. Two might be construed as a coincidence—although you know what I always say about coincidence.”

  “I know, in your business you don’t think there are any. But, Mike, you’re reaching and you know it.”

  “Three deaths, Clare? In my book, that’s not a reach. And if I’m right, the violence is only going to escalate.”

  “How?”

  “Look, the killer’s working out what looks to me like a lot of rage. These women may have been killed as a result of a disappointment or perceived betrayal. Or it could be the killer just snaps based on a trigger. With Inga, there was a note left behind that confounds the issue.”

  “How does the note confound the issue of rage?”

  “Because it points to premeditation. Yes, the killer may have used the note to lure Inga to the roof for sex only, then disposed of the note in the rooftop garbage after the encounter went bad—”

  “Went bad? You’re saying the killer snapped, went into a rage, and pushed her? Then picked up the note, threw it away, and fled?”

  “Maybe. Or the killer may have planned to murder Inga from the start, luring her to the roof with the promise of sex, then all of a sudden she’s airborne. Either way, the killer obviously fled the scene and got rid of any connection to the crime as soon as possible—specifically that note. Better to throw it away than be caught holding it, which was a distinct possibility if the killer had been seen coming down from the roof by a tenant and then was stopped, questioned, and searched by the police. It’s also probable the murderer assumed Inga’s death would be instantly ruled a suicide—just like Valerie Latham’s—and never expected us to search every inch of that rooftop and find that evidence. But we found it, which was a break for us. And a few hours ago it’s likely that same killer committed a murder in broad daylight in front of witnesses, which was another break for us. Now those witnesses didn’t give us much to go on, but it’s enough for us to treat Sahara McNeil’s death as a homicide instead of an accident, and I’m sure the murderer never thought that would happen either…It’s sloppy, it’s reckless, and I think this killer is unraveling. The next time, the killer may not worry about witnesses or evidence or trying to make it look like anything in particular. The next time, the killer may just compulsively want to kill first and worry about consequences later. And that’s when I’ll nail the son of a bitch.”

  “But another woman has to die first.”

  Quinn’s eyes met mine.

  “Stay away from him, Clare. Though I’ll grant you I can’t prove a thing yet, certainly nothing that would hold up in court, there is one fact that is indisputable: the women who get close to Bruce Bowman end up dead.”

  “But, Mike, it makes no sense. Bruce is an accomplished, successful, seemingly well-adjusted architect. What in the world would motivate him to murder these women?”

  “If I had to guess? I’d say the man’s looking for Ms. Right. And when she turns into Ms. Wrong in some way, he takes the disappointment very badly.”

  Quinn turned and reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said over his shoulder.

  And then he was gone.

  DAMN you, Quinn, I thought. Damn you and your messed-up marriage.

  I didn’t go back downstairs right away. I spent the next half hour pacing my office, trying to process everything Quinn had just told me—and my feelings about it…and my feelings about Bruce…and Quinn.

  I liked and respected Mike Quinn, but I couldn’t for a second believe what he was saying about Bruce. What I could believe, however, was that Quinn had become a bundle of raw nerves, operating on the edge. Obviously, the breakdown of his marriage was getting to him as much as his inability to find evidence to support his theory linking all of these supposed “push” murders of women.

  For a fleeting second I even considered maybe, on some remote level, this whole “stay away from Bruce” thing of Quinn’s was the twisted result of his feelings for me.

  He and I never dated, but we’d certainly flirted enough—and with his marriage going down the tubes, he might have been conflicted about the fact that I was out looking for a date instead of waiting around for him to make a decision about whether to break things off with his wife or work things out.

  Okay, so Quinn had been eyeing Bruce as a suspect even before he knew I’d met him—and before he found out about the Sahara McNeil connection. He’d said Bruce’s name had turned up on background checks for both Valerie Lathem and Inga Berg. But it sure seemed to me he’d upgraded Bruce’s suspect status the second he realized I was seeing him.

  I didn’t believe Quinn was a dishonest cop. In fact, in my opinion, Mike Quinn had the morals of a freaking Arthurian knight. (Notwithstanding my ex-husband’s assertions that no police officer could be trusted—an unfortunate result of Matt’s frequent experiences with corrupt officials in banana republics.)

  In any event, I certainly wanted to think Quinn would be the last cop in the world to frame a man, if for no other reason than the fact that he knew the real criminal was still out there.

  But if Bruce Bowman was a murderer, that sure didn’t say much for the process I’d used to screen my daughter’s dates.

  Could I be misjudging men that badly? First mislabeling Mr. Mama’s Boy, now finding out “Mr. Right” is on Quinn’s list as “Mr. Dial M for—”

  No.

  No, no, no, no, no!

  Since Sunday evening, I’d laughed with the man. I’d kissed the man. And I’d spent long hours getting to know him. In my heart I knew Bruce Bowman was not a murderer. He wasn’t.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Clare,” Tucker called. “Your pride named Joy is here. And she’s brought a gentleman caller.”

  “Thanks, Tuck. I’ll be right down.”

  I smoothed my slacks again, tied my apron over my pink long-sleeved jersey, ran my fingers through my hair, and opened the office door.

  Downstairs, I spied my daughter near the counter. Curiously, I looked around, trying to find Joy’s mystery escort. Then I noticed a man was crouched down, examining the selection in the pastry display. Finally, he straightened up. He was tall, and his face was turned away from me.

  He said something to my daughter and Joy laughed.

  Then the man turned, and I saw his face.

  It was Bruce Bowman.

  THIRTEEN

  “HEY, Mom,” my daughter waved. “Guess who I ran into on the street after class?”

  “It was hard to miss her,” said Bruce, his smile dazzling. “Especially with that coat.”

  I nodded. Barely an hour ago I had unwittingly implicated this man in a series of murders to an exhausted New York detective. I was feeling a dozen different emotions—none of them remotely resembling delight. Nevertheless, I lifted the corners of my mouth in what I thought was a pretty game smile.

  “I hate this thing,” said Joy, unzipping the big bulky parka.

  “It keeps you warm, doesn’t it?” I reminded her tightly—and not for the first time.

  She frowned. “But, Mom, just look at it! The thing’s bright yellow with black stripes.”

  “Yellow’s the traditional color of rain slickers, isn’t it?” I pointed out.

  “This isn’t a rain slicker. It’s a way heinous too-puffy parka,” complained Joy.

  Bruce laughed. “It’s not that bad.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Joy, rolling her eyes. “I look like a pregnant bee.”

  My daughter hadn’t stopped complaining about the coat since I’d bought it fo
r her three weeks ago on the clearance rack at Filene’s. I knew Joy didn’t have the money for another coat—and I had yet to find the time to shop for anything else. So, for now, she was stuck with it.

  “Hang in there till Christmas, honey,” I said. “I’ll get you another.”

  “You know what my classmates do when I pass them on the street?”

  “No.”

  “They buzz.”

  “There’s a solution for that, you know,” said Bruce.

  “What?” asked Joy.

  “Well, doesn’t that thing come with a stinger?”

  “Just shut up,” she told him, punching his arm. “You’re not helping.”

  Bruce laughed.

  And my heart broke. How could a man who laughed so genuinely, who kissed so sweetly, and who acted so considerately be a murderer? How?

  Forget the fact that he also looked good enough to put in my pastry case. His own fleece-lined leather coat emphasized broad shoulders and tapered down to lean, jean-clad hips. Beneath it he wore a caramel cashmere sweater that matched his eyes. His face was rosy from the cold air and he exuded an air of confident high spirits.

  Since our Sunday night dinner, he’d been intensely busy with his various restoration jobs, checking on crews and projects during the day, and tied up with business dinners or official meetings at night. Yet every day this week he’d found ways to steal time away from his work schedule and stop in to see me—sometimes three times in one day.

  I’d take breaks when he stopped by, of course, and lead him up to the second floor, which we kept closed until evenings. He’d light a fire and we’d just relax and have coffee and talk for an hour or two before we’d both part for work again. We’d gotten to know each other better, and I was looking forward to our next official dinner date.

  I never imagined that when the moment finally arrived it would be under such bizarre and ambiguous circumstances.

  “So, what have the two of you been up to?” I asked Joy, trying to sound casual.

  “I told Bruce about that restaurant my friends want to open, and he drove me over to Brooklyn to see a great retail space that’s available.”