by Judy M. Kerr
She settled at the kitchen table with her laptop and notebooks. A pearlescent finger of moonlight reached toward the windowpane only to be squeezed out by a fist of darkness. MC felt insulated and alone. She took a healthy gulp from her glass. The vodka slipped like quicksilver down her throat, tendrils of warmth sliding into her veins.
Another slug made her grimace, but she drained the glass. She pushed the computer away and went to the freezer for a refill, then pulled her work notebook in front of her.
MC sipped her drink and flicked through the pages until she got to the notes on Klein’s interview from earlier in the day. She backtracked to the night she and Cam had followed Klein to his meeting at Johnson Boat and RV Storage. She skimmed the pages once, then a second time.
Glass in hand, halfway to her mouth, it finally hit her. Small. White. SUV.
She poured the remaining finger of vodka down her gullet and pawed open her “Life after Barb” notebook where she’d recorded highlights from the evening’s confabs with Hank and Gladys.
The words blurred.
She blinked several times to focus.
Small. White. SUV.
There had to be thousands of compact white SUVs in the Twin Cities area, though.
In red ink she wrote: SUV—cross reference with Arty’s case also having a white SUV involved.
She needed a refill in order to better process the information. The clear thin liquid poured like water into her glass. Mesmerizing. At the halfway mark she halted the flow, reconsidered, and filled the glass to about three-quarters, then recapped the bottle.
MC grabbed her green notebook and a pen and flipped the kitchen light off, headed for the bedroom.
Back pressed against the headboard, she drank and tried to re-read her notes as drips dotted the page. She wiped her sleeve over the sides of the glass and realized there was no condensation on the glass.
The droplets were her tears.
She finished her drink, turned out the light, and crawled under the covers, wishing she’d wake up from the nightmare and everything would be normal again.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, December 23
Out of the shower, she felt halfway alive. She dressed and ignored breakfast, instead deciding a quick check of email and a dose of antacid to cure the hangover nausea were about all her system could handle at the moment.
The online news was helpful. They’d gotten their search warrants for Stennard and Thomson’s residences and vehicles.
Score!
She checked in with Jamie. He was in much better spirits after hearing the news. Next she sent a quick text to Cam suggesting they meet up at the FBI command center.
That done, she retreated to her room to make the bed and spotted the green notebook splayed face down on the floor. The empty glass was shoved against the base of the lamp on her nightstand.
What a night. She scooped up the notebook and tried to press the crinkles out of a couple of bent pages, then picked up the glass and headed to the kitchen. She fully intended to put the glass in the sink. Instead she paused in front of the fridge, hand gripping the plastic handle of the freezer. A tiny voice inside coaxed her to pull the door open. One quickie.
Her phone chimed. She pulled it from a side pocket. Text from Cam. Jesus Christ, she thought. Did he have ESP or what?
I can swing by and pick you up if you don’t want to drive.
She swore under her breath. The last thing she needed was jovial Cam so early. Thanks, but I have some stuff I need to do after work so I’ll drive.
Cam answered right away. Okay. See you there. Get some coffee into your bad self so you’re not grumpy. LOL
Her fingers flew over the screen. Smart ass.
Truth be told, she felt relieved he’d interrupted her. She’d been close to grabbing a Grey Goose eye-opener.
Grief, a sharp pain, drilled her to the core. She fought through it and packed up before the dark voice convinced her to take a dive.
Shoring up her resolve, MC stopped at Flannel and procured a cup of dark roast while deftly dodging questions from Meg and Dara. She hugged them and promised to call later, then she was on the road to Wayzata.
The task force members assigned to carry out the search warrants were from the FBI and the US Postal Inspection Service, the group split into two teams. MC and Cam, Agents Andrews and Ferndale, along with two other FBI agents MC didn’t know, were the six-person team taking on Gavin Thomson’s house. MC rode with Cam from the command center. They drove up the wide swath of driveway in front of the Thomson manor. “Odd. The sidewalk to the door hasn’t been cleaned off. Don’t rich folks have someone for that?”
MC scoped out the area. “Has a deserted feel.” She exited the car, and the team hit the front door. “Has anyone thought about the plan of action if the Thomsons aren’t here?”
Ferndale said, “In that case, Oldfield instructed us to head over to the Stennard place.”
MC grumbled, “Great. Hope this isn’t a fucking waste of time.” She tromped through the snow to the door and pushed the doorbell. The chimes reverberated inside the cavernous house, adding to the sense of a place vacated. She checked her watch and half-turned toward the group of five huddled behind her. “Doesn’t appear promising.” She pounded on the door.
Cam stepped to the slim window to the left of the door and leaned forward, cupping his hands around his face. “I can’t see much besides murky shadows through the sheers.”
Behind them the door opened. “May I help you?” A gray-haired, stocky woman dressed in a double-breasted, short-sleeved, silvery-gray maid’s uniform stood with her hands folded in front of her.
MC glanced at Cam, eyebrows raised, and a smirk pulling her lips upwards. Facing the woman, she thought, The Brady Bunch. What was the maid’s name? Oh, yes. Alice. But Alice’s demeanor on TV was more welcoming than this unsmiling woman in real life.
Ferndale said, “Good morning, we’re law enforcement here to see Mister Thomson.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Thomson isn’t home.”
Ferndale persisted. “Is his wife available?”
“No, she isn’t here either.”
MC, annoyed, stepped up. “When do you expect them to return?”
“I cannot say for certain. May I ask what this is in regards to?”
MC’s patience was leaking out of her quicker than oil from a 1998 Chevrolet Lumina. “We need to speak to Mister Thomson. Why don’t we step inside and discuss this further?” MC took a step forward, feeling Ferndale and the others close behind her.
The woman, a couple inches shorter than MC, but solidly built, put her hands on her hips and blocked the doorway. “I need to see some identification.”
MC unbuttoned her coat to reveal her badge clipped to her belt, which also ensured that she gave the woman a peek at her holstered firearm. “I’m US Postal Inspector McCall. This is my partner, US Postal Inspector White, and the others are FBI agents.”
The woman’s brown eyes grew slightly wider before she appeared to gather her wits about her. She checked each of the group’s identification and allowed them entry to the towering foyer. “I don’t know what I can do for you.” Her voice echoed. “As I told you, the Thomsons are not here.”
MC focused on the maid. “May I ask your name and your relationship to the Thomsons?”
“My name is Ann. Ann Davis. I am the Thomsons’ housekeeper. Have been for over twenty years.”
MC did a double take at the name. “Ann Davis?”
“Yes. Like the actress who played Alice on The Brady Bunch. Don’t think I’ve not heard a few jokes during my life.” The woman crossed her arms, a stern gaze fixed on MC.
Truth is stranger than fiction. MC wrote down the info. Definitely not as personable as good ol’ Alice had been on the TV show.
“All right Alice—I mean Ann—we have a warrant to search the premises and any vehicles on the property.”
Ferndale moved forward with the paperwork and handed it t
o the maid, who fished a slim eyeglass case from a side pocket and placed a pair of reading glasses on her nose.
She examined the document and attempted to hand it back to the FBI agent.
“You keep it, ma’am. That’s the owner’s copy.”
“I don’t understand. Am I supposed to allow you to go through the house? And garage?”
Ferndale responded, “Yes. We’ll be conducting a thorough search and removing any items we believe are relevant. We’ll provide receipts for anything we remove.”
“Oh, goodness.” Ann fumbled with her glasses before regaining her composure. “I guess you have to do your job.” She turned and marched toward the rear of the house mumbling, crepe soles of her chunky black shoes squeaking on the tile floor.
Ferndale huddled up the team, and split up the search duties. “McCall and White take Thomson’s office.”
MC nodded. “Cam, I’ll meet you in there. I want to check on Ann. Her pallor would impress Dracula.”
The others dispersed to various parts of the mansion.
MC strolled down the hall past the living room, dining room, an office half the size of Gavin’s, and through the kitchen. Out the window, a four-season porch faced the wooded acreage behind the house.
No sign of Ann.
She noticed a couple doors on the far side of the kitchen and opened the first. A set of stairs led to the basement. The second opened into a hallway with two more doors, one open and the other closed.
She passed the first and discovered a laundry room the size of her living room. High-end stainless-steel front-loading washer and dryer lined one wall with a laundry tub the size of a bathtub at the end. On the other side of the room were racks for hanging wet clothes, an ironing board, and a thirty-two-inch flat screen television mounted high up on the wall. Built-in shelves housed a plethora of detergents, fabric softener, and a couple of irons. She supposed one could never have too many irons.
No sign of Ann.
MC continued down the hallway and stopped outside the closed door, hand raised to knock. She heard a voice.
Ann’s.
MC leaned closer and pressed her ear to the door.
“They’ve been here a few minutes. Asking all sorts of questions. I had to let them in, sir. One of them showed me papers, a warrant. Yes, I’m certain. The document gives them permission to search the house, garage, and vehicles. No sir, I only said you and Mrs. Thomson were not home. I didn’t mention you’re traveling.”
Traveling? Uh-oh. MC’s brain went into overdrive. Would Thomson flee the country? During the meeting with Arty, hadn’t Stennard mentioned being ready to abscond if things got bad? Maybe Thomson had decided to take flight, too.
She left Ann’s door and caught up with Cam in Thomson’s study. “I’ve got a hinky feeling.”
“About what?” Cam sat behind Thomson’s desk, several file folders in his hand. “Check out this setup. I swear the desk is about the size of a baby grand piano. Definitely the type of place worth keeping someone quiet about the scam you’re working so the cash flow stays steady.” He waved his free hand over the huge desk. “Give a guy a hard-on, if he were into this kind of gig.”
“Stop drooling,” MC said. “Listen.” She gave him the lowdown on the one-sided conversation she’d overheard.
“You think he’s in the wind?”
MC paced back and forth in front of the desk. “I think he knows how close we are to nailing him and Stennard for fraud, and I think he played a part in killing Arty. What I’m really worried about is whether he and the missus are on their way to some obscure country with non-traceable bank accounts loaded with money and no extradition. Fuck. We can’t let him get away.”
“Calm down.” Cam stood. “What if they’ve gone to visit family? It’s the holidays.”
“True. But my gut is telling me otherwise.” She took out her phone and called Oldfield. “Hey, it’s McCall. I’m wondering if you could have someone check flights for the Thomsons?” She filled him in on what she’d heard. “Thanks.”
She and Cam made quick work of Thomson’s office, boxing up documents from his desk and credenza. The bookshelves didn’t yield any secret panels or fake books storing secrets. MC figured that only happened in Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie novels.
The boxes of documents were transported to a secure location for the forensic accountants to dig through and analyze. Back at the command center, Cam and MC headed to their vehicles.
“I’m off until Friday,” Cam said.
“Why didn’t you take Friday, too?”
“You sound like Jane. I don’t want to lose the momentum on this case. And I have a couple other irons in the fire needing attention.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow and Friday,” MC said.
“What’re your plans for Christmas?”
“Dara and Meg have grand plans for me.” MC tried to smile, but failed. “I’ll do dinner with them and be back home early evening to decompress.”
“You’re welcome at our place both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Jane wanted me to remind you.” Cam scuffed at a chunk of snow hanging from the rear wheel well. “The kids would love to see you. So would Jane’s parents and mine.”
MC bit her bottom lip. The thought of so many people made her uneasy at best. “I appreciate your offer. But I don’t think I’m quite ready to deal with so many folks at one time. Too much, too soon.”
“I get it.” He hugged MC. “Take care. Call if you need anything.”
“Thanks. Give Jane and the kids huge hugs for me.” She slipped two envelopes from her coat pocket and gave them to Cam. “A little something for the kids.”
Cam stared at the gifts in his hand. “MC you didn’t have to—”
“Have a great holiday. I’ll see you in the office on Friday. And no checking email while you’re off. Be with your family.”
Cam jingled his keys. “Same goes for you—no checking email while you’re off.” He stopped in the open driver’s side door and faced MC. “Call, even if you just need to talk. I mean it.” He tapped a hand on the rooftop before disappearing inside the vehicle.
She watched Cam drive off, then climbed into her Subaru.
MC picked up the green Moleskin notebook from the passenger seat and flipped through the pages of notes, too many of which were rippled in spots from where late-night tears had fallen. Lots of notes, but nothing pointing her toward the assailant or assailants.
She slapped the notebook down on the seat and noticed the turkey drawing stuck between the seat and console. She pulled out the artwork, folded it, and stuck it in the green notebook. She felt a twinge of guilt over Emmy not getting her turkey back, but not enough to give up the tiny remnant of Barb’s life.
MC drove back to the office in the thickening traffic, a few stray snowflakes floating lazily from the ashen sky.
According to the weather report, another storm was barreling down from Canada with a promise of a fresh layer of snow for Christmas.
“Blech.” MC pushed buttons on the radio, searching for a station playing anything but holiday music. If she never heard “White Christmas” again it would be too soon.
Back at the office MC flung her coat over the back of a chair. She powered on her desktop computer and worked through a few emails on other assignments before hitting upon one from Agent Ferndale.
Ferndale and Andrews had interrogated Klein again. This time he’d coughed up the names of the two guys he’d met with on the night Arty was killed. Nick Wooler and Quentin Laird.
The FBI had put out BOLOs—be on the look out bulletins—on both men. They wanted to talk to them about their interaction with Klein, including dealing drugs. MC picked up the phone and dialed Ferndale’s number.
“Hi, this is McCall. Do you have a few minutes to elaborate on the Klein interview?”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“The names he gave you,” MC peered at the email on her computer screen, “How does he know these guys, Woole
r and Laird? Are they employees of Stennard Global Enterprises? I don’t recall hearing those names or seeing them on any documents up to now.” MC grabbed a pen and flipped her work notebook open to a fresh page.
“They aren’t official employees. I talked to Young and Trinh, and they’d dug through all the employee files. Cross-referenced employees hired through HR and those hired by Security. Funny thing is, Klein was the only Security employee on file.”
“Really? How do they get staff then?”
“Klein admitted he worked with local security firms and hired temp personnel, as needed. He also made it sound like Wooler and Laird were off the book extra help whenever Stennard had his infamous house parties. They obtained drugs, you know, ecstasy, pot, cocaine, whatever the flavor of the month was at the time, and handed it over to Klein for a hefty payment. Which, by the way, corresponds with the meeting you saw between him and the two guys. Klein also mentioned he’d used them as extra armed security to keep guests under control. And he’d allow them to drive security vehicles when he needed them to work.”
“How long has Klein known them?”
“He couldn’t pinpoint an exact date when he started using their services, so to speak. He thought it had been about two years give or take a few months.”
“What’s your take? You said they were allowed access to the security vehicles. Is it possible one, or both, of them were in a black Escalade? You think they have anything to do with Arty?”
“I asked if they had one of the Escalades the night Arty was killed. Klein said they’d never have been in one of the executive security vehicles. They’d only have used one of the compact SUVs, which are white Ford Escapes. He didn’t mention anything more about them than the drugs and extra muscle at the parties.”
“Very interesting.”
“Obviously, we’d like to talk to these two, but we haven’t been able to locate either one.”
Pages rustled in the background. “Laird’s mother is in a nursing home, but no one at the place has seen him since the day after Thanksgiving. The administrator said Quentin was a quiet guy who visited mom at least once a week and paid the monthly fees on time. She mentioned the last time he was in, he’d paid for six months and told them he’d mail in future payments.”