by Judy M. Kerr
Oldfield stood. “Good plan. McCall and White, I’ve checked with Chrapkowski and Sanchez and you’re both cleared to assist. Sanchez also said he’d arrange for use of one the Postal Service’s three-quarter-ton trucks to transport boxes. I appreciate the spirit of cooperation from all agencies involved.”
He fixed his gaze on each of the attendees around the table. “For now, I’d like Young and Trinh to search employee records for this Wooly and also the phone numbers from Musselman’s cell. McCall and White, I’d like you to find that damn USB drive. Braun will continue to coordinate the search. And you two,” he pointed at Ferndale and Andrews “re-interview Klein. Hopefully something or someone will crawl out from under the proverbial rock and shed some light on what happened with our star witness.”
The meeting over, everyone dispersed to work their assigned duties. MC and Cam hustled out to the car and headed back to the office.
MC kept her office door closed until about one o’clock. By then the hungry bear hibernating in her stomach woke and roared. She donned her coat and shoved her wallet into a pocket. Like a kid wanting to avoid the playground bully, she opened her door and checked the hallway in both directions before leaving. No sign of Roland Chrapkowski.
“Thank god,” she mumbled, and hurried down the hall toward Reception. She poked her head into the tiny room serving as Chelsea Gray’s office. “Hey, Chels, I’m running out to grab lunch. Can I bring you anything?”
Chelsea turned from her computer screen and tucked a stray strand behind one ear. “Hey, MC. Nah, I’m good. I had a salad earlier, but thanks for the offer.”
“Okay. Be back in a few.”
The afternoon tasted of bitter cold and a fast-approaching winter. Thanksgiving was only a week away. She picked up her food and returned to the office to eat a bowl of potato soup and a handful of cellophane-wrapped soda crackers. With a large dark roast coffee in hand, she composed an email to Barb between slurps and sips. Their schedules didn’t allow for texting or phone conversations during the work day, so email was the default mode of communication.
She let Barb know she’d be home at her normal time the next two days, but then dropped the bomb about having to work on Saturday. She softened the blow by emphasizing she’d mostly be packing and moving boxes of files, nothing remotely dangerous. She reassured Barb the workday probably wouldn’t interfere with their dinner and movie plans with Dara and Meg.
Task completed, she finished off her soup and set to work scanning and uploading the final work papers on a couple cases, closing them out.
She hoped those might keep Chrapkowski at bay for at least a day, maybe longer. MC grimaced, and the recently ingested food roiled and gurgled in her gut. She reviewed the material on the Stennard case, then called Cam.
“Hey,” MC said when Cam picked up, “is now a good time to chat about the Stennard case?”
“Sure. Be right there.”
Within seconds Cam appeared. “Time flies. Can’t believe how much backlog I had on some of my stuff.” He stretched and yawned. “Talking about it makes me weary. How about you? Did the big kahuna leave you in peace?”
“I’ve not seen or heard from He Who Shall Remain Nameless. I don’t want to jinx my good fortune. Got a couple things done, and damn it feels good. Clearing cases helps clear my head. Now I feel ready to focus on Arty.”
Cam slid into one of her visitor’s chairs. He pushed it back so he could straighten his legs out. “Let’s rehash what we’ve got.”
They reviewed the information from tailing Len Klein the night Arty disappeared including the rendezvous he had with the two miscreants in the boat storage lot.
MC said, “Klein meeting with the two goons on the same night Arty disappears, the same night he’s murdered, seems like a big coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Cam said, “The more I think about it, I don’t see Klein as Arty’s doer. Seems unlikely he’d show up back at the scene. That would be ballsy.”
“Klein seems stealthy. Black Ops background probably. Yeah, less likely to be anywhere near the scene of a crime he’s committed.”
Cam said, “Let’s go with Klein isn’t the killer. Then who?”
MC thought back to Klein’s clandestine meeting. “One of the two characters Klein met? They seemed like lowlifes. But quiet guy didn’t strike me as having the fortitude or wherewithal to kill someone. The one called Wooly, though, he had a short fuse. He was riled up on the phone.” She’d overheard the Wooly guy mention a phone. If he’d not talked about a phone would she even be trying to make a connection between him and Arty?
Almost as if reading her thoughts Cam said, “We don’t know Wooly was talking about Arty’s phone. You only heard bits of his side of the convo.”
“True. But, again, I don’t believe in coincidences. He, or the caller, was flipping out about a phone.” MC sat back and percolated the facts.
“What are you thinking?” Cam asked.
MC said, “The phone. Maybe I’m too obsessed with the phone.”
Cam sat up in his chair. “Let’s call Ferndale and Andrews and see if they’ve interviewed Klein yet.”
When the agent answered the call, MC said, “Hi, Ferndale, McCall and White here. We’ve got you on speakerphone.”
“How’re you guys? I’ll put my phone on speaker so Andrews can listen, too. Got something good for us? Cuz we sure could use some good news.”
MC glanced across the desk at Cam. “We’re bothered by the fact Klein had a meeting at the same spot Arty’s body was dumped.” She reiterated all she’d heard of the conversation Wooly held via cell phone out of earshot of Klein and hoodie guy.
Silence filled the air followed by a muted rustling of paper. “Right. You mentioned the location was the same.”
MC said, “At first we thought it implicated Klein, but we reconsidered and decided he doesn’t seem the type to return to the scene of a crime he’s committed.”
“Umm . . . okay. Duly noted. We’ve got an interview scheduled with Klein tomorrow morning, but we’re not quite ready to write him off as the killer.”
Cam said, “Let us know if you get anything good?”
“Will do. And thanks for the share.”
MC hit the button to disconnect the call. “I doubt Klein will spill any beans, but we can always hope. I’m calling it a day. I’d like to go home and get dinner started.”
“Barb will faint from shock if she sees you cooking.” His blue eyes gleamed and two dimples appeared on either side of his smiling mouth.
“Funny. You should give it a shot sometime. Jane would probably welcome you taking a turn at kitchen duty.”
“Trust me, the last thing my family needs is me cooking. We’d all be at the emergency room with food poisoning.” He heaved himself out of the chair. “Have a great night. Tell Barb hello.”
MC stopped at Kowalski’s Market on the way home. She picked up a roasted chicken, a mixed greens salad, and some sautéed green beans. She tried to hurry home, fighting the glut of traffic, mumbling about morons learning how to drive in winter.
Once home, she changed into a faded sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants and set the dining room table with place mats, cloth napkins and a rainbow of Fiestaware plates, glasses and utensils. She put the chicken on a serving platter and stuck it in the oven to keep it warm. Then she dumped the salad and green beans in serving bowls.
5:21 p.m. Perfect. Barb would be home soon from her monthly faculty meeting, and everything was ready.
MC nabbed a can of beer from the fridge and wandered into the living room. She turned on the news, mostly to catch the weather, and opened the can. Tiny bubbles teased her nostrils as she sipped the cold beer.
There was no good news. The sports guy was predicting a Vikings loss in the upcoming Sunday game against the Packers. MC had given up on the Vikings years ago. She much preferred to invest her time and energy in following the Minnesota Lynx, the WNBA team that had garnered two championships in the
franchise’s fifteen-year existence.
“Hello.” Barb’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
MC abandoned the news and met Barb as she set her school bag on the table in the breakfast nook. “Hi, babe.” She kissed her and gave her a hug.
“That’s quite the greeting. And it smells like my grandma’s kitchen on Sunday afternoons.” Barb’s apple cheeks shone under the domed ceiling light.
“I’m not your grandma, but I’ve prepared a dinner fit for a queen.” MC pulled on an oven mitt and removed the bird. With a flourish, she presented it to Barb.
“Perfectly crisped and browned. Good job. I couldn’t have done it better myself.” Her eyes sparkled.
“You know I bought the Six Buck Cluck, right? I didn’t actually roast this fowl myself.”
“Of course. Even I couldn’t produce such a work of near perfection.”
“Ha ha. And to go along with our chicken, I also procured sautéed green beans and a brilliant mixed greens salad. I’ll set out the food while you hang up your coat. Can I get you something to drink?” MC asked over her shoulder.
Barb made her way down the hall toward the front closet. “A glass of wine would be awesome.”
“Red or white?”
“White’s great. I’m running upstairs to change.”
MC poured the wine and set the food out. She sipped her beer and watched the weather guy drone on about computer models indicating a huge snow storm headed their way for Thanksgiving night.
“How can they possibly know a week in advance what the weather will do?” Barb kissed the top of MC’s head as she passed behind her and took her seat at the table.
“I know, right? They love to ramp up the worry factor and nothing happens.” She held up a knife. “Wanna carve? I’m horrible at it.”
Barb made short work of carving the bird down to its carcass. “May I serve you some breast meat?” She waggled her eyebrows at MC suggestively.
“You are so funny. Yes, please.” She held up a cerulean blue plate.
MC scooped some salad on Barb’s plate. “How was your day? Did all the rugrats behave themselves?”
“The rugrats were darling. The adults, that’s another story. The faculty meeting wasn’t as productive as it should’ve been.” She cut some green beans in half and forked them into her mouth. “How about you?”
“My day was pretty good compared to some. I didn’t see Crapper, thank the goddess. The FBI is hitting the homicide investigation on all cylinders, with additional agents. Cam and I called them with some info this afternoon. Hopefully, they’ll find it useful.”
“I’m glad you aren’t in the thick of the murder. And I read your email about Saturday. Are you sure we won’t have to cancel with Dara and Meg?” Barb picked up her wine glass.
MC watched Barb prepare her cloak of disappointment. “I’m fairly certain we’ll be able to keep our date plans. There’s a boatload of people assigned to this search warrant, and it’s only one building. We’re starting at seven in the morning. I predict we finish by three, if not earlier.”
“That’d be great. We’d be able to do an earlier show and a late dinner. We’ll have more time to visit if we do dinner last.” Barb entwined her fingers with MC’s. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She lifted Barb’s hand and pressed a soft kiss into her palm. “Here’s to us and a nice uninterrupted evening out with our friends. She clinked her beer against Barb’s wine glass with a tiny ting. A happy sound.
Chapter Seven
Saturday, November 22
Barb mumbled, “Be careful today.”
“I will.” She kissed Barb’s soft, sleep-flushed cheek, gathered her clothes, and crept quietly out of the bedroom.
A quick shower and a cup of coffee later she was out the door, clad in navy sweatshirt, navy cargo pants, and black tactical boots.
The Inspection Service issued winter jackets, navy blue nylon with gold lettering across the back—US POSTAL INSPECTOR POLICE—which she threw into the back seat in case she needed it.
Brilliant sapphire skies held puffs of cottony clouds that floated lazily, unaware Father Winter was about to roar. The dashboard indicated the outdoor temp was thirty degrees.
Could be worse, MC thought. We could be in the middle of a blizzard or freezing rain.
She parked the Camry and met Cam at the company car. “Morning.”
“Morning.” He let forth a bear-sized yawn. “Sorry.” He shook his head to clear out the cobwebs.
“Not enough sleep last night? You and Jane paint the town red?”
“God, I wish. No, Hailey picked last night to wake up with a raging fever. When she’s sick she wants her dad. And she’s one stubborn two-year-old. I’ve been up since two.”
“A strong cup of coffee will get your motor running. We’ll stop on the way.”
En route, MC busied herself checking her work email on her phone. “Email from Ferndale.” She scanned the message. “Nothing new from Klein. He swears he went home Monday, no stops. Doesn’t know the boat storage business. Ferndale and Andrews told him they had witnesses placing him at the storage place and he clammed up. But his story didn’t change.”
“We shouldn’t have expected anything different. He won’t fold easily. If they could get enough to get a search warrant for his home, they might be able to find the briefcase.”
“Or not. He’s had plenty of time to get rid of any evidence—cover his tracks.” MC read on. “He’s unfazed by Arty’s departure from the here and now. Barely acknowledged the guy’s dead.”
“Liar and a cold fish.”
“I didn’t detect any camaraderie between Arty and Klein, but you’d think when a coworker is killed there’d be some emotion.”
“No shit.”
“Oh, hey. This is interesting. They obtained records showing Klein owns a handgun and a couple of rifles. All legally purchased and registered. He’s a card-carrying member of the NRA and has a permit to carry concealed.”
“What type of handgun?”
“Nine-millimeter semi-auto. No thirty-eight-caliber revolver, which offed Arty, according to info Ferndale and Andrews received from the ME.”
“Shit.”
“Nailing Klein would’ve been too easy. Nothing about this case has been easy.” She scrolled to another email. “Agents Young and Trinh sent an update—they’ve gone over the current employee roster and didn’t find anyone with a name even close to Wooly or Worley.”
“Once we get these records hauled out and someone starts sifting through the crap, something is bound to rear its ugly head.”
“I hope you’re right.” MC pulled her notebook out and jotted some notes.
“Here we are.” Cam pulled into an empty slot in the employee parking area at the front of Stennard Global Enterprises.
MC eyed the lot. “It’s a veritable circus. Come one, come all to the really big show.”
A platoon of vehicles lined the lot. Several reporter types and camera people pressed as close to the front entrance as they could get, barely acknowledging the yellow and black plastic ribbon cordoning off a path from the front door to where the trucks were lined up to take on the boxes of documents.
MC said, “I wonder who tipped off the media. There must be five, six vans here. Every affiliate in the Twin Cities.”
They joined the FBI team milling around outside the front entrance. All wore blue jackets with “FBI” prominently displayed in giant yellow letters across their backs.
“Good morning,” Oldfield said. “Welcome to the zoo.”
“Morning.” Cam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Zoo seems fitting.”
Behind Oldfield the glass front door of the building flew open. Len Klein barreled through the line of agents from various agencies and local police departments. “What’s going on here?” Klein shouted.
He was dressed all in black—military style sweater, cargo pants, and combat boots. He folded thick arms across his chest and stood with his f
eet shoulder width apart to block forward progress of the waiting troops.
“Who’s in charge of this show?” Klein bellowed at one of the FBI agents nearby.
Voices hushed and Oldfield pivoted slowly to face the obnoxious asshole. “And you would be?”
“Len Klein, head of security. You’re trespassing on private property.”
“Good enough for me.” Oldfield nodded at Braun.
Braun stepped forward and handed a document to Klein. “Sir, this is a search warrant allowing us to remove any and all records associated with Stennard Global Enterprises and any subsidiaries. We’ll need every office door, file cabinet, and desk unlocked. Anything we feel is relevant will be boxed and removed from the premises.”
Klein’s mouth dropped open. He snatched the paper from Braun’s hand and flipped through the pages. “I’ll have to contact Mister Stennard and Mister Thomson before you can go in.”
“We won’t be waiting. You have the warrant, and we are now legally free to enter the building.” Oldfield waved the troops forward. “Let’s do this.”
The blue line surged ahead. MC, with Cam behind her, moved past Len Klein, who was sputtering and waving the search warrant around.
The press crammed closer to the cordoned-off area, cameras hoisted onto shoulders, microphones at the ready.
Inside the reception area, Oldfield gathered the troops. Braun produced a clipboard from which he read off names and assigned everyone specific rooms. Several stacks of folded boxes and rolls of packing tape sat on the reception counter. Each team grabbed boxes and tape and hurried off to their assigned areas.
Braun directed Cam and MC to the security office. MC grabbed the packing supplies, and they marched down the hallway behind the reception desk to the office.
The door was propped open.
“I’d have thought this would’ve been high tech.” She glanced around the ten-by-fifteen-foot room housing one desk and five vertical five-drawer file cabinets. All were standard cabinets in a drab taupe color. A safe the size of a mini fridge hunkered on the floor next to the desk. She dropped the boxes on the floor, pulled off her jacket, and tossed it on a chair next to the desk.