by Kylie Brant
“This isn’t good. This isn’t good.” Juan was mumbling almost incoherently.
“So there was a kid. Big deal. We need to be focused on the here and now. Juicy was Jack’s associate, right? I say we scoop him up and put the screws to that motherfucker. He probably iced Jack to keep the profits all to himself.”
“It doesn’t fly.” Hans was finally speaking but he wasn’t saying anything Johnny wanted to hear. “You’re ignorin’ what’s right in front of your face. If it were the partners, why the hell would they go after Sean and Johnson? Those two were no longer in it. It makes no sense.”
“He got Johnson and Sean?” Juan bolted upward, pushed on Jonas to move him from the booth. “You should have told us that, Johnny. You had no call to keep that between the two of you.”
Jonas’s lips looked cracked and dried, and his grin was horrible to see. “You can’t avoid it. None of us can avoid judgment day. It’s inevitable.”
“I’m getting the hell out of here.” Juan was babbling now. Jonas showed no signs of moving so he began crawling over the table to exit the booth. “Going in and taking vacation. Or sick leave. Whatever. Then I’m taking my kids and getting the hell out of the city.”
Shit. The only thing missing from the scene was a giant flushing sound because Johnny could see everything he’d ever worked for being sucked away. Jonas and Juan were so crazed right now that if they did ever happen to get questioned in connection with the murders, they’d have immediate diarrhea of the mouth and take everyone down with them.
“Maybe that’s good, Juan.” He looked at Hans for confirmation. But the older man was frowning and contemplating the scarred tabletop. “A little time away sure as hell isn’t going to hurt anything. Take a couple weeks off to visit relatives and maybe when you come back it will be all over.”
The idea had enough merit that he was wishing he had some leave accumulated. But Johnny didn’t believe in saving vacation and sick leave for a rainy day. If he didn’t feel like going in that day, he damn well stayed home. He couldn’t scrape together more than forty-eight hours if he tried. And with the damned Internal Affairs assholes breathing down his neck, he had to be a model employee until the excessive-use investigation was deemed a bunch of shit and closed.
Juan nodded, backed up, and settled back in his seat, visibly calmer. Even a bit abashed now that he had a plan. “Yeah, I will. I have my kids to think about, you know?” He looked at Jonas. “You should go, too. You look like you need the break.”
Jonas just kept smiling that weird-ass smile. “There’s no avoiding the demon when the demon lives in us all.”
Johnny lunged across the table and grabbed the other man by the tie. Twisted it around his fist. “Shut the fuck up. Jesus, are you crazy? You want someone reporting you to Psych, is that it? Then you’d have an excuse to blab to your heart’s content, wouldn’t you? You’re just waiting for a chance to spill your guts.”
“That’s enough.” There was a hum of temper in his ears. It drowned out the voice at his side. But the hand biting into his arm was more difficult to ignore. He cast a sullen look at Hans, loosened his hold on Jonas. Sank back down into his seat.
“Jonas, go home and get some rest. You look like shit.” Hans’s words were spoken in a kindly tone. “Juan, take some time with your kids. We’ll keep you posted on things here.”
The relief on the man’s broad face was obvious. “Thanks, Hans. I don’t want to be running out on the group, but there’s no sense in us waiting around like sitting ducks, right?”
Hans and Johnny waited until the other two had gone. Neither of them moved.
“Jonas is full of shit. This isn’t the work of no kid.” It didn’t add up. He hadn’t seen Tory since they’d burned her place down. She’d gotten the hint and taken off, the kid with her. “Tell you what, I’m going to do a little research on Tory Baltes. Maybe the crazy bitch got some wild hair to pay us back after all these years.”
“Makes as much sense as anything else in this mess,” Hans muttered. He looked Johnny right in the eye. “If I were you, I’d be extra careful. The way I remember things, when her place was torched, you were the one who lit the match.”
“You’ve got no call coming around asking questions about Ro. Acting like he was some sort of criminal.” Nora Parker sniffed indignantly and dabbed at her damp eyes with a tissue. Both of her chins quivered, and mascara was smeared in streaks beneath her eyes. Risa had never been able to figure out women who didn’t use waterproof mascara. Did they like looking like raccoons?
“We’re not accusing your husband of anything, ma’am.” Her tone was respectful but firm. “Something has to link the victims together. We think it might be an outside job they all held.” Not that there was anyone to verify that for Sherman Tull. His ex still hadn’t been located. But it was a question they’d be putting to Randolph’s estranged wife when she was questioned, as well.
“I . . .” The woman twisted the Kleenex between pudgy hands. “I just can’t help you. Roland never talked about another job. But he was gone a lot, at odd hours when he wasn’t on the late shift. Sometimes I know he was with friends. Just out with the guys. But others . . .” She raised tear-drenched eyes, the lids crusted with blue shadow. “I thought maybe he had a woman on the side. He always denied it. But a part of me wondered.” Nate’s cell rang then, and he got up and moved away to answer it.
“What about when he retired?”
The other woman drew another tissue from the box and blew noisily. “What about it?”
“Surely he was home more. You retired at the same time?”
Nora nodded uncertainly. Risa gave her a reassuring smile. “So you know how he passed the hours. Who he spent them with. Easier to keep track of each other when you’re both home full-time.”
“He’d turned into a homebody. We both did.” Nora nodded determinedly. “We were making plans of maybe a vacation to take. A cruise, we were thinking. Right before he . . .”
And once again they’d circled away from the topic of the outside job.
Nate came back, slipping the cell in his pocket. “Ms. Parker, that phone call was from my captain. There are some questions about your and Roland’s finances.”
Nora’s eyes grew wide. “Questions? From who? Our finances are our own business. I don’t see what they have to do with you.”
“You recently bought beachfront property in Florida. After you buried your husband.”
It took effort for Risa to keep from reacting. The information was news to her. The warrant for the victims’ financials must have come through, and Eduardo would have taken a look at them.
The tears were flowing in earnest now, and Nora’s large bosom was heaving. “Ro had insurance,” she sobbed. More tissues were sacrificed to her tears. “And I can’t bear to be in the house without him. There are just too many memories.”
“Our information shows that the price of the property you bought was over a million dollars.” Nate’s tone was hard. “Your husband didn’t carry that much insurance.”
The tears stopped as suddenly as if someone had turned off a faucet. “How dare you come here and interrogate me! Why haven’t you caught his killer yet? It’s all over the news. Another detective has been killed. Go do your jobs and stop the murderer before someone else dies.”
“That’s what we’re trying to do,” Risa said evenly. “But our job is just made harder when people aren’t honest with us. Like you. Now.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Nora insisted, and dabbed at her tear ravaged makeup. “I didn’t want to talk about it because he said the department didn’t like it when officers moonlighted. It didn’t take that much of his time. An evening a week maybe. Sometimes a while on the weekends.”
“What was the second job, Nora?”
“Protection, he said.” She raised her gaze to look at them hopefully. “I figured maybe he filled in on the security detail sometimes for a celebrity or local politician.”
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��Because the money was good?”
The woman blew her nose noisily before answering Risa’s question. “I never knew how good because Roland always took care of it. I never saw bankbooks or anything until after he died, and I found the one to that overseas bank.” Her eyes filled again. “He always said it was our retirement nest egg.”
There was a charge in the air at the briefing that afternoon. Mark Randolph’s death, coming just days after Christiansen’s, lent the meeting a sense of urgency.
“The offender may have a criminal history,” Risa told the silent group when it was her turn to speak. “We know he’s adept at changing VINs and circumventing security. We’ll resubmit the ViCAP with those details, see if we can find any intersections with kidnappings.” They’d already struck out a couple times on the manner in which he killed his victims. Which made her think his criminal background perhaps included car theft and burglary, but not homicide.
These homicides had been planned. They were special. Revenge a long time in the making.
“He’ll have Randolph’s car with him or hidden away.” Until the next victim, she thought, but didn’t say the words aloud.
Nate looked at Cass. “Where are we on that stolen plate report for a 2005 burgundy Chrysler and Christiansen’s 2010 Malibu?”
“Sixteen possibilities on the Malibu,” she responded. “We’ve gotten in touch with all but three of the owners. Eliminated four of the reports because the theft happened out of state. Twenty-seven for the Chrysler. Started a map of the areas where the owners first noticed they were gone, leaving out those who weren’t sure when it happened. Also have a list of the plates and associated VINs in case either car surfaces with a new ID.”
“Still don’t understand how it took so long for Parker’s car to register with impound,” Shroot grumbled.
“The VIN switch was expertly done,” Nate said. “Whoever this guy is, he either has the skills or access to someone who does. The plates and VIN matched up to a vehicle belonging to an elderly woman who had been hospitalized recently, so there was no reply to messages regarding the tow. Since she doesn’t use her vehicle often, she didn’t even realize her plates were missing. At any rate, I think Parker’s car may have been used to abduct Sherman Tull, as well. So we’re going back to the traffic cameras—” There was a collective groan from a few of the detectives. Nate gave a wry smile. “I know. But now that we have a vehicle to look for, let’s go back and check in increasing circles around the man’s house. See if that car showed up somewhere before it was dumped in the lot the night of Christiansen’s murder. Hoy and Mendall?”
“Yeah, yeah. Check the cameras,” Mendall said without enthusiasm.
Nate called on the rest of the teams, who submitted verbal and written reports on their assignments. “Brandau and Recker, canvass Christiansen’s neighbors again. See if anything has jogged their memories now that the shock has worn off.”
“Shroot,” he looked at the tall angular man. “The UNSUB had to have gotten to Randolph’s some way. Get a copy of the list for possible new plates on the Malibu and check streets around Randolph’s. I’m guessing he abandoned it nearby.”
“Alberts and Finnegan, we’ve got the victims’ financials.” Nate could feel the sudden tension emanating from his silent captain in the corner. He knew exactly what the man was thinking and chose his words carefully. “We’re checking on whether the men held outside jobs in their free time. Parker and Christiansen’s widows indicated their husbands did, although neither had a clear idea of what the job entailed. Maybe there’s a connection there. See if you can find anything that would help us figure out who or what they were working for.”
Next would come the more delicate job of approaching banks to ask whether the victims held lockboxes there. Tull at least had had a key in his desk drawer at home that looked like it would fit one. If the men were involved in something illegal, something that made them enough money to enable Nora Parker to pay a cool million for a house, they had to keep records of it somewhere. Even if they were savvy enough to stash it overseas, there had to be bankbooks like Parker’s widow had found. Statements. Records of some type.
And those were exactly the type of questions he’d be asking Mark Randolph’s estranged wife.
Cheryl Randolph was dry-eyed and full of questions when Nate and Risa walked into the interview room. She was dressed in a pale pink summer suit that might have been considered appropriate office wear if it hadn’t been for the plunging neckline on the white blouse beneath it, which showed her impressive cleavage off to advantage. Her artful blond curls looked like they’d been aided by a bottle, and there wasn’t a flicker of sorrow on her face for the man she was not yet divorced from.
“So I heard Mark was burned to death.” She looked queasy at the prospect. “Like those other cops. Is that true?”
“We believe he was a victim of the same killer, yes.” Risa tried to keep the irony from her next words. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
The woman blinked. “Oh. Thank you. Mark and I . . . Our divorce is almost final.”
And you moved on long ago, Risa thought. That was clear enough. She remained silent as Nate asked the woman questions about her relationship with her husband, her last communication with him, and the nature of that communication. For the first time, Cheryl Randolph showed a flicker of emotion.
“Actually we argued on the phone just last week. This divorce is dragging out because Mark won’t agree to the financial split. He could be an as—He could be stubborn,” she amended. “And he was as cheap as the day was long. I had to explain every nickel I ever spent, even though I brought home a paycheck, too. I think that’s what got to me in the end. I just got tired of fighting about money all the time.”
“Was your husband having financial problems?” Risa put in.
The other woman grimaced. “The only problem Mark had with money is when he couldn’t hang on to his pennies long enough. He hated spending on anything. Unless it was something he wanted, of course.”
“Do you know if he worked a second job?”
She looked puzzled at Nate’s question. “A second job? How would he have managed that with the crazy hours you guys work?”
“So he didn’t mention putting in some time working security or protection or helping out a friend with their second job?”
Cheryl screwed up her brow, looked from Nate to Risa and back again. “He didn’t say a word about any of that. He wasn’t home a lot. He pulled overtime whenever he could, so we usually met each other coming and going. Once in a while he’d meet up with some friends for drinks or something. But to tell you the truth, I was busy with my own work, and we weren’t getting along for a while before we split. I just can’t be sure what he’d been up to recently. Can I ask you a question?” The words were addressed to Nate. Risa assumed when the woman leaned in confidingly, the gape in her blouse was for his benefit, as well.
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to be indelicate, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to talk to someone about this.” She moistened her lips and then curved them slowly. “Since we weren’t divorced yet . . . do you know if that means I’ll get Mark’s pension?”
“Ni-ice,” Risa drawled as they headed back to Nate’s office. “Seems doubly a shame that he was murdered. Being married to her should have qualified as suffering enough.”
“Hell of it is, unless he changed his will and the beneficiary on his pension, she’ll probably get everything. I’ll have Alberts and Finnegan search his house again, this time concentrating on any financial information he might have around. One thing is certain, he wasn’t regularly working overtime for extra money. The city pulled out all the stops for this task force, but we’re usually in a budget crunch. They discourage overtime, and she made it sound like he worked extra shifts, which is impossible.”
“So we have four victims who were doing ‘something’ in their spare time. We know that something equaled a big payoff for at least Parker.”
She and Nate reached out for the doorknob for his office in tandem. Her jacket gaped open. When she saw his gaze fix on her weapon, she let her hand drop to her side. Just the act of loading and strapping on her weapon had had her shaking the entire ride to work this morning. Probably would have had her jittery all day if she hadn’t had far worse to concentrate on.
The memory of the blackened form in the crumbling cellar spilled across her mind like a dark stain. There was nothing quite as torturous as “knowing” something and still being unable to prevent it. Because it was knowledge she shouldn’t have and couldn’t explain.
And in Mark Randolph’s case, it had come much too late.
“It’s been a long day after staying late last night.”
She sat down at her computer as Nate was talking. When he didn’t finish, she turned to look at him inquiringly.
He looked oddly ill at ease. “I’m just saying, if you want to call it a day, I don’t expect you to keep pace with the hours I’m putting in here.”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
He gave a purely masculine shrug and rounded his desk. “Just offering you an out. You seemed . . . on edge today.”
She stilled. Of course he would notice. Which meant that she wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her nerves as she would like to believe. She wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised when she offered him a shred of truth. “Raiker insists on his investigators being armed at all times.” Just talking about it had her palms dampening. “He cleared it with the commissioner when he offered him my services. I haven’t touched my weapon since my last case. In Minneapolis.”
His dark gaze met hers. She thought she couldn’t bear the question in his eyes. Found the understanding there somehow worse. “The one where you were wounded?”
“It ended badly,” she said bleakly. Badly. An innocuous word for a scene that had ended with several SWAT operatives wounded, two of them fatally. A five-year-old boy dead. And left Risa doubting she’d ever be able to bring herself to face another case again.