by Terry Odell
Gordon had been hearing that a lot. And, so far, everyone had given him the same story. Marianna Spellman might not have been loved, but she wasn’t hated, and nobody knew—or was willing to name—anyone who might have wanted to harm her or her career.
“What about medications? Did she take any prescriptions routinely?”
“Not that I know of. She didn’t like doctors. She preferred the health food, vitamin, and supplement routine.”
Which agreed with what Solomon said he’d found in her room. “What about a laptop? Did she have one? Would she have brought it with her?”
“She had one of the new two-in-ones. She complained about the smaller keyboard, but for road trips, it was easier to deal with.”
“Make? Model?” Gordon asked. Would help if they knew what to look for.
A momentary silence. “Um … I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to those kinds of details. She showed it to me once, right after she got it. In the office, she uses her computer, and I couldn’t tell you what kind that is, either.”
“Anything you remember that would help us identify the tablet? Color? A logo? Anything?”
“I remember she was stoked because she could write on it with a stylus. And … wait. Blue. The keyboard part was light blue. I wish I could tell you more.”
Gordon recalled Marianna using the tablet at their meeting at Daily Bread. He hadn’t paid attention to make, model, or anything else, either. Cell phones and tablets had become so commonplace, he tended to take them for granted.
“That’s a help, Mr. Ryan. Another question. Did she mention a Yolanda Orozco?”
“Who?”
Gordon repeated the name. “She was the wardrobe manager on the project.”
“Ah, right. Do you think she killed Marianna?”
“I doubt it. She was taken to the hospital for a heart condition.”
“You think there’s a connection between what happened to her and what happened to Marianna? I’m sure Marianna didn’t have a heart condition,” Ryan said.
Gordon jotted a note, then returned to the conversation. “The coroner will be able to verify that tomorrow.”
“They’re doing an autopsy? Oh, ick.”
“We can learn a lot that way.”
Further questions proved fruitless. Although he’d tried to be helpful, Neil Ryan was upset, and the more questions Gordon asked, the more distraught the man became.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Ryan. You’ve been helpful.” Gordon gave him his number. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
He spent a few minutes with Google, searching for two-in-one computers. New, blue keyboard, and it used a stylus. He found one or two possibilities, high-end, but he assumed that’s what Marianna would have wanted. Worth a few bucks to someone, but he couldn’t buy stealing it as a motive for murder.
What else could he do tonight? He was out of questions to ask until he found out what the poison—if it was a poison—was.
He’d do better to be fresh when Colfax and Solomon showed up in the morning. And, if he left now, he might catch Angie before she went to bed. He took a few minutes to organize his notes, jot down brainstorming points for tomorrow, and head to the war room to take one last, long look at the whiteboard. Sometimes the best ideas came when you weren’t thinking about them, but it helped to get them into your subconscious.
Under Laptop, he added the two computer models he’d found. Before leaving, he stopped by Dispatch. “If anything breaks, call my cell.”
“Roger that, Chief,” Tessa said.
The night was clear, the air was crisp, and he opted to walk to Angie’s.
Lights were off at Daily Bread and on in Angie’s apartment. Good. That meant the movie people had gone to their lodgings, and Angie was still up.
He took the back stairs, waving his fingers for Angie’s security camera, although he still had his doubts that she bothered activating it half the time. He tapped on the door. Because he had a key didn’t mean he used it to barge in if Angie was home. He guessed that meant there were still lines he didn’t feel comfortable crossing. What that said about where they were in their relationship was something he wasn’t going to think about now. Especially when Angie came to the door wearing the lapis pendant and earrings he’d given her. And nothing else.
Gordon got up with Angie the next morning, loose and rested, despite the 4:30 alarm. After showering, shaving, and putting on his uniform, he followed the aromas of coffee and cinnamon downstairs. He sat, taking rationed sips of his allotted cup of fully leaded coffee, while Angie took the first batch of cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
They hadn’t talked much last night—not that he’d minded. No brilliant insights about the case had popped into his mind, either.
Angie moved the cinnamon rolls to cooling racks and put the next trays into the oven, then sat across the counter from him. She reached over and rested a hand atop one of his. “What’s your day looking like?”
“Meeting with Ed Solomon and Tyler Colfax at six. Maybe we’ll come up with something we haven’t thought of yet. What about you? What’s up with the movie making?”
Although Angie had become more discreet in what she discussed since they’d been together, Gordon knew nothing would have gotten past her.
“Mr. Dawson was busy on the phone with the studio people. A lot. They’re hoping they can get the street scenes shot today. He said that since most of their equipment was already set up on the street, it shouldn’t be off-limits, and I heard him mention schmoozing the mayor.”
“Which means the mayor will undoubtedly be calling me very soon to tell me it’s in the best interest of Mapleton to let them continue shooting.”
She fixed her puppy-dog expression on him. “You must have all the clues you need. The crime scene people were around for ages. And,” she added, “if the production people are here, you can keep a better eye on them, right?”
She did have a point, even though her motives were clearly personal. “I’ll run it by Ed and Colfax at our meeting this morning.”
“Great. I’ll pack up those cinnamon rolls for the station.”
He finished his coffee, then helped her put the pink boxes together. “It’s the least I can do,” he said as he folded and inserted tabs into slots.
“You’re very good at that,” Angie said. From her hooded eyes and sultry tone, Gordon was fairly certain she wasn’t talking about his box construction skills.
Once the boxes were filled with the aromatic sugary treats, he took Angie in his arms. She rested her head against his chest, and he ran his fingers through her short blonde hair. “You take it easy today,” he said.
“I’d rather be busy,” she said, pulling away and gazing at him with sparkling blue eyes. She ran a fingertip down his jaw. “Let me know what you decide about the filming.”
“I will.” And he’d damn well make his decision based on good police work, and not those riveting blue eyes.
He carried the boxes to the station, their warmth and cinnamon aroma in perfect harmony with the crisp fall air. As he balanced the boxes on his hip while he unlocked his door, he got the expected buzz of his phone. Another beautiful autumn day interrupted with a call from the mayor.
Before dealing with it, Gordon took the boxes to the breakroom. The smell of scorched coffee threatened to negate that of the rolls. He dumped the half inch of sludge from the pot and rinsed it out. He could make a fresh pot, but there were people who were in charge of that, and he’d let the duty officer know it was time for another mention of breakroom etiquette. He took a platter from a cabinet, placed three rolls on it, and headed for his office. When he got there, Solomon was sitting in the visitor chair, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. A file folder lay on the desk in front of him.
“You’re early,” Gordon said.
“Can’t have the big city cops think we’re slackers.”
“Or, you wanted first crack at a cinnamon roll.”
“T
here is that.” Solomon reached out, but Gordon swerved and held the platter out of reach. “Not until we’re officially underway.”
“Spoilsport. I could go down to the breakroom and have one of those, too.”
Gordon didn’t bother asking how Solomon knew there were more in the breakroom. Angie knew everything that transpired at Daily Bread, and Ed Solomon was her equivalent at the station.
“Seriously,” Solomon said, “I came in early to talk about the Deadbeat Dad Killer.”
Not that Gordon didn’t want to listen to Solomon’s theories, but … he didn’t want to listen to them now. “After I return this call.”
Look at you. Choosing Mayor McKenna over Ed?
Gordon verified that his hunch had been correct, and that it was the mayor texting him. At least the man had the decency to refrain from interrupting with actual phone calls in these early morning hours. Gordon sat at his desk, powered on his computer, and reached for the phone.
“Mayor. What can I do for you?” As if he didn’t know.
“I wanted to discuss the resumption of filming. As I understand it, you have all the evidence you need, so there’s no reason to tell the crew they can’t continue today.”
A pause told Gordon there was more. “Sir?”
“I’m sure nothing would come of it, but Mr. Dawson said that the studio could very well file a lawsuit regarding the extra expenses any delays would cause them. I’d rather not have to find out.”
“Understood,” Gordon said.
“Very good,” McKenna said. “If you let them get back to work, they’ll only have lost one day, and after the publicity from the press conference, they’ll probably more than make up for their losses with increased box office revenues.”
And Mapleton will come out bright, shiny, and smelling like a rose. Gordon sniffed. Or like a cinnamon roll.
“I should have an answer for you later this morning,” Gordon said. “I’m meeting with Tyler Colfax, who’s a top notch county homicide detective. And, the pathologist is conducting his autopsy today. While I agree that it makes sense to have everyone within reach in Mapleton,” thanks, Angie for that one, “I want to confirm that we’re not missing anything that would shed a bad light on our city.”
Nothing like piling on the BS, and using the mayor’s words to get what you want.
Gordon noticed Solomon’s smirk and flipped him off.
“What time might I expect your decision?” the mayor asked. “Need I remind you that officially, there has been no crime committed other than petty vandalism to an RV belonging to the production company. Even if it should turn out to be more, the studio has their own security people to handle it, and it shouldn’t be a Mapleton issue at all. I’m not pleased with all the time and energy you’re wasting on this potentially needless investigation.”
Did he think the Village was its own separate jurisdiction? Those vehicles were parked in Mapleton.
Gordon kept his tone level. “I would imagine we’ll have reached a conclusion by eight. I don’t know when the coroner is doing the autopsy, but if his findings show a natural or accidental death, we should be back to business as usual across the board.”
Gordon waited, wondering if the mayor was going to say anything about Yolanda Orozco. Nothing. So, the man’s grapevine hadn’t caught that one? More kudos to Gordon’s team for keeping that one off the radar. Mayor McKenna wasn’t as obsessed as Mayor Alexander had been with following scanners and having spies all over the community.
“I’ll keep you updated,” Gordon said, then hung up before the mayor could think of anything else to say.
Solomon waved his hand in the air. “My turn? My turn?”
Gordon sighed. “Yes, Ed? Do you have something for show and tell?”
Solomon put on his serious face. “I’d been cross-referencing locations. I agree that it wouldn’t be unusual to find deaths in the destinations Paula’s Places blogged about, and I also agree that her blog posts don’t coincide with her actual visits to those locations. But that bugged me, because it seems to fit in with trying to draw attention away from the fact she was in all those places.”
“Hang on,” Gordon said. “Didn’t we agree that we can’t even be sure Paula is the only one who posts these blogs to the site? So it doesn’t even have to be her who visits.”
“Yes, we did. But that’s not my point. It’s not the blog, it’s the comments.”
Gordon’s interest piqued. Something new. “What about the comments?”
“I’m seeing repeats of comments.”
“That’s not unusual. A lot of people who follow blogs like to leave comments.”
“Yeah, but I’m seeing the identical comments on a lot of posts, but they’re not made by the same person.” He opened the file folder and handed Gordon a bunch of what appeared to be screen shots of a website.
“What am I looking for?” Gordon asked.
Solomon crossed behind Gordon and tapped the first sheet. “See. Here, ‘Bored in Bama’ wants to know if Paula’s Places will review Bakersfield, California.” He moved that sheet aside and pointed at the next. “This one has the exact same wording, but about Marshalltown, Iowa.”
Gordon read the entries. I love what you do on this blog. I hope you’ll come to Bakersfield. He scanned several more sheets. Again, the same words, but for different cities. “Seems innocuous enough. Pretty generic wording. Nothing sends up a red flag for me.”
“Which is probably why I didn’t notice it until now,” Solomon said. “I’m getting hinky vibes, although I think you’re right. Thought I’d throw it on the table, get your take. And seeing it again, with the input of a respected colleague kind of erases the hinkiness.”
Gordon didn’t respond to Solomon’s inflection of respected colleague. He knew there was no disrespect intended, but he did go heavy on the banter when they were alone. Solomon had more cop years under his belt, had no desire to move into Gordon’s position. And he was a damn good cop, one Gordon didn’t want to lose. For those reasons, Gordon feigned more interest than he felt. “I see the replies are the same, too.” Thanks for your interest. You can subscribe to my newsletter for more information.
“Before you ask, yes, I signed up,” Solomon said. “And, I followed the pattern and asked if she was going to visit Manitou Springs. I reckoned it wasn’t required that the potential victim live in the same place where the person who wants to hire the hit does. I wanted to compare, see if there might be two separate newsletters.”
A solid rapping at the back door cut their conversation short. Solomon gathered the papers and shoved them into the folder. Gordon got up to admit Colfax, who carried a cardboard tray with three designer coffees in one hand, two fat manila envelopes tucked under his other arm.
“I figured if you’ve got the cinnamon rolls, I should provide coffee. Although, it wasn’t you who provided the rolls, now, was it? I recall they’re the handiwork of one very cute blue-eyed blonde.” Colfax dropped the envelopes on the table and handed a coffee to Solomon, another, marked with a bold black D, to Gordon. “You know, word gets out you’re drinking unleaded, they might take away your badge.”
“And I’ll know who to come after for leaking such critical information,” Gordon said.
Colfax eyed the platter of cinnamon rolls. “So, we don’t get personal delivery from the chef. Too bad.” He slid the platter to the middle of the desk, snagged a roll and a napkin for himself, and settled into the second chair. Patting his slight paunch, he said, “Good thing I don't live in Mapleton or I might have to exercise.”
“Shall we get to work, gentlemen?” Gordon said. “No pressure, but the mayor is waiting to give the green light on the movie shoot.”
“Which is your call, isn’t it?” Colfax said.
Solomon reached for a roll. “Yeah, but we like to let the mayor be the good guy.”
Gordon gave them a minute to munch and sip before starting his summary. He reported his conversations with Ethan Lang and Neil Ryan fr
om the night before. “Aside from knowing that the tablet I saw Marianna Spellman using is part of a two-in-one, I haven’t found anything remotely resembling a motive to want her dead.”
“What’s the good news?” Colfax asked. “There’s always a positive.”
Gordon pondered that. “How about Yolanda Orozco is on the mend, and we haven’t found any other bodies?”
“Where I come from, a day without a body is a good day, indeed.” Colfax raised his coffee cup. “I took the liberty of lighting fires with the CSR techs, and I come bearing reports.”
Chapter 17
Reports. Data, Gordon thought. Data would be good. “Let’s have it.” He moved the empty platter aside.
Colfax opened the first envelope and extracted a sheaf of papers. Leafing through them, he set them in stacks on the desk. “These are from the break-in at the office RV, which is the location of an actual crime, unlike the wardrobe RV, which is still iffy.”
“Enough with the snide remarks, Colfax.” Gordon tapped his watch. “Tick, tick, tick.”
“Trying to keep things light,” Colfax said. “But have it your way. You’ve got your fingerprint reports. You’ve got an inventory of everything collected. You’ve got your trace evidence reports. And, my personal favorite, shoe impressions.”
Gordon reached for that stack, going through the photos. “Got some clear ones here. Any reason to think they belong to whoever broke in? It would be reasonable to expect our victim had people in and out of her RV over the normal course of a day, and we don’t know how often the place was cleaned. Or how thoroughly. Without more, we’re not going to have cause to examine everyone’s shoes.”
“True. I happen to think they’re cool,” Colfax said. His steel-blue eyes showed a glimmer of pride.
“Because you closed a major case with them,” Solomon added. “And you rarely miss a chance to mention it.”
Colfax shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll do the same if you ever find your Deadbeat Dad Killer. Assuming there is one.”