Black Friday

by Judy M. Kerr

  “Yes.” Thomson scowled. “Come in.” He stood aside so they could pass.

  “We can talk in my office. This way.” Down the hall, Thomson opened a set of sliding wooden doors, exposing an office about the size of MC’s apartment.

  “Nice office,” MC said. “Maple?” She pointed at the built-in bookshelves behind the monstrous desk.

  “Did you come here to inquire about the design of my home, Inspector, uh, sorry. What was the name again?”

  “McCall, Inspector McCall.” The smell of money emanated from every surface in the room.

  Thomson settled in the leather executive chair behind his desk and motioned MC and Cam to less comfortable chairs across from him.

  MC sat in a brown leather chair on wheels and placed her feet firmly in place to avoid moving back and forth. She wondered how many people had betrayed their nervousness by rolling the chair around while sweating under Thomson’s scrutiny.

  Cam took the other chair and wheeled closer to the desk. He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and unbuttoned his coat, exposing his SIG Sauer in shoulder holster. “Mister Thomson, we’d like to talk to you about Arty Musselman.”

  MC opened her coat and prepared to take notes. She leaned back in the chair, waiting.

  Thomson eyeballed them. “Why are postal inspectors asking about Arty?” His voice was smooth as single malt scotch. “He’s been murdered. Isn’t murder the cops’ jurisdiction?”

  “When was the last time you saw Arty?” With his thumbnail, Cam scraped at a spot on the desktop.

  Thomson seemed transfixed by the movement of Cam’s thumb. “Would you mind not doing that?” He nodded his head at Cam’s hand.

  “Sorry.” Cam tapped on the desktop instead. “So? Arty?”

  “We had a meeting with Mike in Mike’s office on November seventeenth.” He looked directly at Cam without blinking.

  “How was the meeting? Everyone left on good terms?” Cam continued tapping on the desktop.

  “The meeting went fine. I’m sure you know what happened since then, which is why we’re here and not at Stennard Global Enterprises having this discussion.”

  Thomson narrowed his eyes and fixated on Cam’s finger movements. MC bit back a smile, pleased that her partner was getting the better of Mr. Sleek Businessman. She wondered if he was the type to blow up and yell. Or maybe he was a low simmering antagonist who didn’t get mad—he just got even.

  Thomson said, “I left before either Mike or Arty. The last time I saw Musselman was a few minutes before seven, when the meeting ended. I had a dinner engagement with my wife at seven-fifteen, so I left right away. Never saw Arty again. Poor guy.”

  MC studied Thomson’s face as he spoke. His eyes were dull, his voice flat, face like granite. The guy was one cold-ass character. Sociopath.

  Cam raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say ‘poor guy’?”

  “For the obvious reason, Inspector. Arty’s dead, isn’t he? I regret the fate that befell Arty. He, Mike, and I have known each other since college, almost thirty years.”

  MC noted he didn’t say they’d been friends since college.

  Cam said, “You feel bad because Arty was killed. Did you notice anything suspicious when you left that night? See anyone lurking inside or outside the building?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. I took the elevator down to the lobby and left through the front door. Got in my car and drove away.”

  Cam asked, “Who do you think killed Arty? Did he have any enemies?”

  “Enemies? I don’t really know. Not that I know about. Maybe he had some secret gambling addiction and got in over his head. I can’t say I’m privy to goings-on in his personal life.”

  “What kind of vehicle do you drive?” MC asked.

  Thomson’s head swiveled slowly toward her, his blank unblinking gaze fixed on her, like he’d forgotten her presence. “Gray SUV. A BMW, X5.” He refocused on Cam.

  MC glanced at Cam, whose eyes were locked on Thomson. She asked, “Light gray? Dark gray?”

  “Metallic gray, to be precise.” He quirked one eyebrow at her. “I could show it to you if you’re interested in the exact shade.”

  “Thank you,” MC said. “We’ll examine the vehicle before we leave.”

  Cam resumed his questioning. “You left and came home?”

  “I went to meet my wife for a dinner engagement. She drove separately as I wasn’t certain how long our meeting would last.”

  “And where was this dinner?” Cam asked. “What does your wife drive?”

  “Dinner was to be at CoV restaurant, on the shores of Lake Minnetonka. You should stop in sometime. They serve a great prime rib and the grilled salmon isn’t half bad.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I’m ever in the neighborhood. If we ask at the restaurant, they’ll vouch for you and your wife?”

  “Actually, I’d intended to meet my wife. However, she called me as I was driving and told me she’d come down with a migraine and wanted to stay home. Told me to pick up some takeout for myself because she was taking some meds, which would knock her out for the night.”

  Cam kept tap-tap-tapping his fingertip on the desk without taking his eyes off Thomson. “The dinner at CoV never happened? What did you do next?”

  “I drove to Katsana’s Thai in Plymouth. Bought an order of beef curry and their Three Special Egg Rolls. I came home and ate by myself in the media room and watched a basketball game on ESPN. Not the Timberwolves. Can’t remember who was playing, but you should be able to Google it.”

  Thomson’s smug tone wasn’t lost on MC. She despised this type of guy, a captain of industry who thought he was better than everyone else.

  Cam asked, “Do you have proof of the time you were at the Thai restaurant?”

  “Not really. I paid cash for the food. The whole order was less than twenty bucks.”

  “Anyone see you?” Cam asked, still tap-tap-tapping. “Your wife? Kids? Anyone?”

  “My wife was in bed. I told you she had a migraine. We don’t have kids, and the housekeeper was away visiting her sister. So no, no one saw me. What are you getting at? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  MC said, “We’re piecing together Arty’s last hours. Who saw what and when. If you feel the need to have your attorney present, we can certainly take this discussion somewhere more official and Mirandize you. I’m certain the local police department would have an interview room we could use.”

  “Who’s running this show, you or her?” Thomson hooked a thumb toward MC as he faced Cam.

  “Mister Thomson, we’re both here to find out what we can about the death of your friend. I’d think you’d want to cooperate. Now, shall we move this show, as my partner said? Or continue our discussion here?”

  MC said, “Maybe you have something to hide.”

  Thomson glared. “No need to Mirandize me or to change locations. We’ll continue the discourse here. No one else saw me. I checked on my wife after I ate. She was asleep with one of those mask things on.” He waved a hand around his eyes. “To keep out light. I slept in one of the other bedrooms, which is a common practice when she has one of her headaches.” He stood. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work to do.”

  “Work? Really?” MC asked. “Stennard is pretty much shut down. I’m surprised you have work to do.”

  “My work is none of your concern, Detective.”

  MC said, “Inspector.”

  “Whatever. I’ll see you out.” He waved for them to precede him.

  MC stopped at the front doorway. “You mentioned we could see your vehicle.”

  “Wait outside the garage. I’ll open the door from the inside and meet you.” He held the front door open and closed it firmly behind them.

  “What are the chances he’ll open the garage?” MC pulled up her collar against the blustery mid-day wind.

  “What’s he got to lose? He’ll let us in.”

  As if on cue, the door on the first garage bay began rolling
upwards. MC said, “Not a sound. Good equipment.”

  Thomson stood next to a mid-size gray SUV parked nose-out with the BMW logo on the hood. “Here you go.”

  MC stepped in out of the wind. “Nice.”

  She glanced to the next stall and noticed a white Volvo SUV and in a third stall, a sleek black sporty Porsche. Mid-life crisis car?

  “The Volvo is my wife’s and the Porsche I drive during the non-winter months. I don’t like to get sand and salt all over it. Besides, this baby is safer to drive in snow and ice.” He patted the front fender of the BMW.

  “I’m sure,” MC said. “Thank you for your time, Mister Thomson.” She handed him a business card. “Please contact us if you think of anything that may help us.”

  Cam also handed him a card. “Have a good day.”

  MC and Cam climbed back into their crappy Impala. Thomson stood inside the garage watching them. Cam executed a three-point turn, headed down the driveway, and glanced in the rearview mirror. “He’s only now closing the door. He’s way too chill for my taste.”

  “He’s a sociopath. Through and through.” MC stared out the passenger window. “Geez, Louise the money out here.” She shook her head. “I don’t like him, Cam. My gut tells me he’s involved in Arty’s demise—or knows who is. We need to prove it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday, December 22

  MC scrubbed off the layer of fuzz coating her teeth and berated herself for drinking the night before. Her weakened psyche called bullshit, and the craving for a morning pick-me-up flared. A vision of the long-necked bottle stowed in the freezer loomed large, jeopardizing her resolve on getting to work clear-headed and on time.

  A hot shower started the blood flowing through the highways and byways inside her body. A good cuppa joe to kickstart her system was next on her list.

  After the shower, she flipped the coffeemaker on and returned to the bedroom to dress.

  Her attire since Barb’s funeral tended toward the dark. Navy. Black. Charcoal gray. She’d never been one to wear vibrant colors anyway, but she’d pushed all her bright-colored shirts to the back of the closet. Today she selected a black collared shirt to wear under a gray jacket.

  She eyed the empty glass lying on the nightstand and the green notebook next to it.

  “Life after Barb” was dark.

  Her mind sifted the bits and pieces of info on Barb’s murder. She needed to set those thoughts aside and get ready for work, but she knew even when she wasn’t consciously considering her partner’s death, the details were running in the background computer in her mind. Maybe that was part of the reason she felt slow-witted and foggy-headed at times.

  Evenings were reserved for reliving the memories, recording notes, and sometimes leaving messages for Detective Sharpe. She hadn’t forgotten her promise to hunt down the killer or killers and see justice was served. Sometimes her late-night notes were indecipherable, which didn’t help. And she still needed to interview the neighbors.

  MC shook herself out of her reverie. She was running late. She strapped on her shoulder holster, grabbed her coat and messenger bag off the coat tree, tossed in her two notebooks, and headed out. She realized she’d forgotten her gloves and her coffee. She’d make it without gloves, but coffee was essential if she hoped to survive the day. She backed out of the cramped lot and drove the few blocks to Flannel, bracing herself for an encounter with Dara and Meg. She’d been off the grid since the previous Wednesday.

  “Yo, MC,” Dara greeted her as she entered the shop, “you look like you got the squirts, but you’re squeezing hard to hold it in.”

  MC rolled her eyes at Dara’s disgusting reference. “And it’s a shock that you’re still in business despite the fact there are two Caribous within half a mile of this place.”

  Meg said, “We’ve missed you. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Busy. Work. The new apartment.” And poking into Barb’s murder, she didn’t add.

  Dara grabbed a twenty-ounce cup and filled it with the day’s brew. “Here ya go. A rough night, huh?”

  MC reached out a trembling hand to take the cup. “You know it. Rough, tough and never enough.”

  “If you’re interested, I’m attending a mee—”

  “I’m not interested, Dara. I don’t need to go to AA. I’m fine. Not everyone is an alcoholic. End of discussion. I’ve got to get to work.” She slopped coffee as she made several attempts to snap a plastic lid on the steaming cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Got the shakes I see,” Dara said. “I want to help you. I’m worried.”

  Meg wound an arm around Dara’s waist. “We love you, MC”

  “I know. I love you both, too.” MC busied herself dabbing at the spilled coffee on the counter, not meeting her friends’ eyes. “But I’m fine. Truly fine and now truly late. Gotta run.” MC flew out the door, away from the concern and the warmth of their love, back into the bitter cold void of her life.

  MC fought ice-coated roads out to the southwestern suburbs, not daring to take even one sip of her steaming coffee. Her teeth chattered together, and her hands clenched the steering wheel in a death grip during the stressful drive. Cathy Wurzer’s voice on MPR, Minnesota’s local public radio affiliate, was a familiar backdrop to her morning commute.

  She knew she’d been too harsh with Dara. Her friend possessed the biggest heart to go along with her big mouth. Meg and Dara were MC’s rocks now. They did their best to keep her on track, but her life was a gaping windy chasm of nothingness, something she didn’t think anyone could fully comprehend.

  A horn honked behind her, and she saw the light had turned green. “How about practicing patience, asshole?” She restrained herself, barely, from flipping off the driver.

  Wind-whipped and coffee in hand, MC slunk into her office. She’d no sooner sat down when a sharp rap sounded on her door.

  “Come in,” MC said.

  Cam stuck his head inside. “Good morning.”

  “Is it?” she asked, blowing on her coffee before taking a sip. She wanted to ask if anyone had noted her tardiness, but she didn’t.

  Cam ignored her sarcasm and sat in a chair. “You feeling okay?”

  MC set her cup on the desk. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much. Got a bit of a headache this morning.”

  “Need some pain reliever? Maybe you should take a day. Talk to Jamie. I can cover for you.”

  “No.”

  Cam held up his hands.

  MC rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m in a foul mood because I was late. I forgot my coffee at home, so I stopped at Flannel and traffic was horrific. And on and on.”

  Cam, being the good friend he was, went along with her story. “Sounds frustrating. All I’m saying is ease into a routine. No need to jump into the deep end.”

  “But Cam, I do need to jump in the deep end. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll float away into oblivion. Work is exactly what I need. Doctor Zaulk cleared me, so it’s not like I’ve made a rash decision to come back.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just sayin’ . . . ”

  “I appreciate your concern. I won’t be a slug, promise. What’s on the agenda for today?” She powered up her computer and picked up her cup of coffee.

  Cam relaxed. “Diving right in, word has it that Klein is in custody.”

  MC stopped mid-sip, meeting Cam’s eyes over the top of her cup. “As in arrested? Since when?”

  “Arrested, but not charged yet, for Arty’s murder. About an hour ago.”

  “He didn’t kill Arty. I mean, he couldn’t have. Right?” She picked up the phone and dialed Agent Ferndale’s number. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”

  The call went to voicemail and MC left a message. She hung up and checked her email, finding a brief message informing the task force of Klein’s arrest in relation to Arty’s homicide.

  “What about Thomson?” MC wondered. “After our chat last week, I’m even more convin
ced he’s in this up to his eyeballs.” She read the brief email again.

  Cam spread his hands wide. “I dunno. We can keep hammering away at the guy. Maybe talk to his wife? Might be worth a shot.”

  “Good idea. But first I’d like to see if we can sit in on the FBI’s interview with Klein. Where are we on the post office box key?”

  “I haven’t heard back on the PO Box. Maybe we should bring Jamie in. He might be able to push postal management to respond. In the meantime, I’ve got some paperwork. Holler when you want to roll.” He stood, hesitating when MC grabbed her coffee. “You sure you’re okay? Your hand is shaking. You cold?”

  “Jitters from lack of sleep.” MC wouldn’t meet his eyes and took a gulp of coffee, thankful it had cooled enough that her mouth wasn’t scalded. “See? All better.”

  “You seem on edge.” Cam leaned against the desk.

  “I’m fine, Cam. Like I said, I’ve had trouble sleeping and last night was one of those nights. I woke with a headache, and the drive in was hellacious. Otherwise, I’m good to go.” She forced a smile. “How are Jane and the kids?” Redirection never hurt.

  “The kids are about out of their minds what with Christmas a few days away. All Santa all the time. Jane and I are barely holding it together.” He rolled his eyes. “I get tired listening to them. If only we could bottle their boundless energy.”

  “Truth. Barb loved teaching because of kids’ vivacity.” Barb coming home excited about how wonderful the kids were and how she loved their enthusiasm and genuineness flitted through MC’s head.

  “I get what she meant.” Cam cleared his throat. “We all miss her. You know we’re here for you.”

  “Thanks. I’m good. Swear.” She held her hand up, palm out. Her phone rang. Literally saved by the literal bell.

  “Inspector McCall. Hey, Ferndale.”

  MC held up a finger to stop Cam from leaving. “Thanks for returning my call. Cam and I are wondering if we could sit in on your interview with Klein, maybe ask a few questions ourselves.”

  Cam raised an eyebrow.