Black Friday

by Judy M. Kerr

MC sucked in a shaky breath and had herself a little sobfest.

  She wiped her face on her sleeve and grabbed the apron and yanked opened the trash bag. But she couldn’t part with the goofy gift. Instead she carefully rewrapped the pen inside the apron and set it aside to place in the box she had at home full of bits and pieces of Barb—birthday and anniversary cards, love notes she’d kept—all the little things over nineteen years that she’d almost tossed away, but decided to keep.

  Disheartened, but determined to get through the task, MC moved on to the garage, which held nothing more than cobwebs and chunks of melting snow that had plopped onto the floor from the wheel wells of the Subaru.

  MC had sold her Camry and kept Barb’s Subaru. She found Barb’s car somehow comforting, not to mention it handled much better in the snow than her Camry had.

  MC set the apron and its hidden secret on the backseat of the car. She tossed the bag of trash into the barrel outside the garage.

  Now on to more important tasks, like finding her lover’s murderer.

  She spent the afternoon reinterviewing the neighbors, who had nothing new to tell her. Gladys Crandell invited her to stay for dinner, but MC declined and fled like the devil was chasing her. Spending long periods of time with Gladys was enough to make MC’s gremlins start grumbling for a dose of the Goose.

  To round out the mostly unsuccessful interviews, she stopped at Mr. Dogwalker’s (a/k/a Doug Freelander, a dean at Highland Park High School) house. This was the first time she’d caught him at home.

  He’d allowed her inside, but was adamant he had no more info than what Gladys had told her, then he started questioning her. All the while his damn shih tzu wouldn’t stop yipping.

  Why was she interviewing people? Weren’t the police supposed to handle the investigation? He intimated he wasn’t comfortable talking to her and mentioned maybe he should check with the detective to make sure it was okay.

  MC felt a flush heating up her face and flashed him a grim smile as she thanked him for his time. What an uptight asshole.

  She went home and dove into the bottle to drown out the demoralizing misery of the day. No closer to any answers.

  Perhaps not surprising, that night her nightmare made a second appearance. In the nightmare, she searched for Barb, but she was lost and couldn’t get to Barb in time. Two gunshots exploded and then MC awakened, bathed in sweat and hyperventilating.

  Chapter Twemty-One

  Monday, January 5

  MC was the first to arrive at work on the Monday after New Year’s Day. She sat in the office and reviewed the notes from the latest round of interviews of her old neighbors.

  What she really needed was to know who had killed Barb.

  MC was consumed by the need to resolve the case and frustrated by Detective Sharpe’s inability to catch the culprit or culprits.

  She glanced at the time in the corner of her computer screen. 7:11 a.m. Eight would be a respectable time to call Sharpe.

  She pushed the notebook aside and pulled up a file on a revenue investigation Jamie had assigned to her before the holiday. Her attention wandered toward the green notebook staring at her from the corner of her desk. She scooted the notebook back in front of her.

  The ping of a calendar reminder roused her from her deep reverie. MC had a meeting with Jamie scheduled for nine-thirty to discuss the status of her assignments.

  She decided to wing it. Instead of preparing a solid update for Jamie, she wanted to go through her notes on Barb’s case and call Detective Sharpe.

  Before she could give it any more thought, and though it was not quite eight, she picked up the desk phone and punched in his number. The phone on the other end rang four times, then went to voicemail. After the standard greeting, she left a message: “Detective Sharpe. Good morning. This is MC McCall. Would you please call me at your earliest convenience?” She left both her work phone and her cell phone numbers.

  She dropped the handset back onto the base and paged through her notes. Head in her hands she read every word on every page, including both occurrences of the horrid dream. When she got to the last page, she returned to the first and read it all one more time.

  Her head throbbed, and her tongue stuck to her palate, like a bug to flypaper. She’d give anything for an icy pick-me-up. Instead she swallowed a couple aspirin and went in search of another cup of coffee.

  “Morning.” Cam came into the hall from the entrance bundled in an olive drab parka, scarf, and black knit hat.

  “Are you off to duty in Alaska or what?” MC asked. “And do you need to be so jovial so early?” She sipped the mug of coffee in her hand, desperately wishing she had something stronger to bolster her.

  “Happy new year to you, too.” Cam smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Ah, shit. She’d have Cam dogging her too if she wasn’t careful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off, I’ve got another headache. Lack of sleep. And I just tried calling Sharpe at SPPD and as usual I had to leave a voicemail. I can’t believe after more than a month they have nothing. What the hell, Cam? I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer, but when is something going to break?” She slumped against the hallway wall.

  “You’ve every right to want Barb’s case solved. I can’t even imagine what I’d be like if Jane—”

  She waved a hand. She didn’t want his pity. “I want him to listen to what I’ve learned from some of the neighbors. I swear Sharpe’s avoiding me, like the plague.”

  “You’ve been talking to the neighbors? When have you had any time? Between the Stennard thing, Arty’s murder, not to mention your other assignments, you’ve been balls to the walls for weeks. No wonder you’re not getting any sleep. Burning the candle at both ends isn’t a great idea.”

  “I have more time now since the Stennard investigation is finished. All we need to do is help get the files together for the US Attorney before trial. As gratifying as it is to nail Stennard and Thomson, I’m still pissed over not being able to find the accomplice on Arty’s murder.”

  “But that’s not our bailiwick. We gotta let the FBI do their job. You deserve a lot of credit for helping nail Stennard for killing Arty. They were focused on Klein, so kudos to you for getting them to see the light. But we have plenty going on right here.”

  “Spoken like a true leader-in-the-making.” She tried to smile, but her face muscles refused to cooperate. “Jamie gave me a revenue investigation before the holiday. I haven’t even cracked the file, and I have a meeting with him this morning.”

  “If I can help say the word.” Cam unzipped his jacket and pulled the cap from his head, leaving his sandy brown hair standing on end.

  She contemplated the offer. If she got Cam to help out then she could slip out of the office and pay Sharpe a visit at SPPD. He’d have to talk to her if she showed up in person.

  “I appreciate the offer. I’ll get back to you after my meeting with Jamie. In the meantime, you may want to take a comb to that hair. You’ve got the Alfalfa hair style going on.”

  “Alfalfa? What?”

  “From the old-timey show, The Little Rascals?” He appeared to be puzzled.

  She said, “I guess the extent of your TV oldies knowledge only includes The Wild Wild West.”

  His gaze remained blank.

  “Never mind. I’ll catch you after my meeting.”

  MC felt a twinge of guilt over even considering dumping work on her already over-burdened co-worker, but when she caught sight of the green notebook in the middle of her desk, the feeling was soon replaced by a grim determination.

  MC got through the meeting with Jamie without incident other than the bad news that Crapper may return to work in a month. He expressed concern over her ability to keep up with work. Asked if she needed more time off. Assured her she could talk to him whenever she needed to, but because they were down a couple people due to vacations and a vacancy, he counted on her pulling her weight.

  Meaning, he would be supportive up to the po
int where it negatively impacted him or others in the office.

  She assured him she could handle the workload before her mind wandered to what she’d say to Sharpe. Right after Jamie ended the meeting, she gathered her stuff and let Chelsea know she was going out in the field for a few hours.

  She drove to Saint Paul, parked in the public lot next to SPPD headquarters, and grabbed the green notebook from her bag. At the front desk she told the officer she was there to meet with Detective Sharpe.

  The young officer instructed her to have a seat while he contacted Sharpe. MC felt like her life was a kite being whipped around on a frenetic wind. Then she was yanked back down to earth by a muffled voice. “Inspector McCall?”

  MC stood. “Yes.”

  The officer said, “I’ll take you back to see Detective Sharpe now.”

  MC followed him through the now-familiar tangle of hallways, unbuttoning her coat as she went. The stale, heavy air felt suffocating.

  The cop left her in a tiny interview room. A box of tissues sat on the middle of the table.

  Before too long, the door opened and Sharpe entered, closing the door firmly behind him. Dressed in pressed suit pants and a blue shirt with the cuffs rolled to expose hairy wrists, he seemed sharper than she remembered from a month earlier when she likened him to the bumbling TV detective Colombo.

  He pulled a pack of gum from his trousers and stuck a white square into his mouth before sitting in the other chair.

  “This not smoking business is giving my jaw a workout.” He chomped on the gum. “So, Inspector McCall, how are you doing?”

  MC wished she’d had the foresight to remove her coat before sitting down. How was she doing? Her life was a never-ending maze of shadow-filled days. What good would come of this visit? Sharpe would think her unhinged. Maybe even be worried enough to contact Jamie and let him know she was teetering on the edge.

  “Inspector?” Sharpe leaned forward and touched the back of her hand.

  MC lurched backward.

  “Sorry!” He held up both hands. “I thought you were about to faint or something.”

  “I’m fine.” McCall get your shit together. She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping the tweak of pain would give her focus. “Have you made any progress?” MC paged through her notebook, finding the entry she needed. “I may have some info you aren’t aware of, or maybe you are, and you can enlighten me.” She grasped the notepad firmly in both hands.

  “MC—may I call you MC?”

  She nodded.

  “MC, I empathize with your situation. I can’t imagine how you must feel, but unfortunately, I don’t have any details to share with you.”

  “Nothing?”

  Sharpe’s voice was soft. “Truly. Nothing. I wish I could tell you that I had a hot lead. Anything. So far we’ve got a whole lot of nothing.”

  MC pushed forward. “I’ve spoken with several neighbors and learned a compact white SUV was seen that morning. The car came by after the 9-1-1 call but before the first officer arrived on the scene.” She angled her notes toward him and pointed to the words as if they were the key to unlocking answers to the investigation.

  Sharpe tilted his head to read the notes before leaning back in his seat. “I admire your determination. I assure you we’re doing everything in our power to catch whomever committed this heinous act. You should get on with your life, hard as it may be.” He pursed his lips as if considering whether to say more, but remained silent.

  MC stowed the notebook in her coat, biting back her frustration. She was using substantial mental bandwidth and depleting her system. Now was the time to be strong. Not give in to overwhelming guilt. “Right. Thanks for your time.”

  Sharpe placed a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry we haven’t made progress. I’m sorry for many things. But you going rogue and hunting for suspects won’t help either of us. In fact, you could be placing yourself in danger.”

  “If the incident was a burglary gone bad, what danger would I be in? If the mob contracted out for a hit, then I’d buy your theory, but I believe the odds lean more toward some meth-fueled idiot who was surprised when Barb came home. They panicked and shot her. I find that more plausible. Don’t you?”

  Sharpe sighed. “I can see we’ll not agree on the issue of your safety.” He stood, ending the discussion.

  MC stood. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” Sharpe’s ever-present banalities did nothing to satiate her. In fact, they only fueled her anger. But anger was better than guilt. Anger could lead to action whereas guilt was passive.

  Sharpe got to the door first and opened it. “Please feel free to call me. I caution you to be careful. We really can’t be certain who we’re dealing with.”

  “Thanks for your concern.” MC fought to keep her voice from shaking. She refused to show him how rattled she was. She pivoted and stepped from the room and collided with an officer coming down the hallway.

  “Sorry!” She glanced at a sturdy woman who was about her own height, her hair a short tawny-colored afro. She seemed vaguely familiar. MC read the name tag over the officer’s chest pocket, “I apologize, Officer Reece.”

  “No problem,” Reece said. “I should’ve been paying attention, too.” She flashed a one-hundred-watt smile. “Hey, Sarge.”

  “Reece, what brings you to Homicide?” Sharpe asked.

  MC thought she might know the woman, but couldn’t place her. She had the most intense emerald-colored eyes. Her skin a smooth coffee and cream hue.

  She broke into their exchange, “Have we met before?” she asked Reece.

  Reece tilted her head. “I’m not sure. Where do you work?”

  Sharpe cut in, “I need to get to a meeting. Reece, would you see Inspector McCall out?”

  “Sure, Sarge,” Reece said. She scrutinized MC, “Inspector?”

  “US Postal Inspector,” MC said.

  “I doubt we’ve worked together. Maybe we hang out in some of the same places outside of work?” A smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.

  MC’s gaydar pinged. “Maybe. Ever go to the Townhouse?”

  “Many times. Small world, eh? Kiara Reece. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands. “What’s up with you and Sharpe? The postal service and homicide don’t usually have much in common. Did someone go—”

  “Please, spare me the going postal comment. To answer your question, Sharpe and I aren’t working together, per se. He’s in charge of the investigation into my partner’s murder back in November.” MC was shocked she’d so easily spilled the information to a virtual stranger.

  “I’m sorry. Was it in the line of duty?”

  “Not my work partner.” MC felt dizzy. “I really should be going. I’ve got to get back to work.” Or better yet, grab a glass of something eighty proof.

  “I’m really sorry.” Reece touched MC’s coat sleeve. “Trust me, Sharpe is one of the best. If anyone will catch the bad guy, Victor Sharpe will. He’s always on point. Get it?”

  MC didn’t have it in her to laugh. “He doesn’t seem to be having much success,” MC said bitterly.

  “Sorry. Bad attempt at humor on my part. I’ll show you out.” Reece led MC to the entrance. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Thanks,” MC buttoned her coat and pulled on gloves. She hesitated, a hand on the glass door leading out. “Be careful what you offer, I may take you up on it.”

  “Anytime,” Reece said with a kind smile.

  MC went out into the windswept afternoon. The air burned her nasal passages and brought tears to her eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t the cold air.

  Damn.

  She needed a drink.

  Clouds hovered, like the underbelly of the Hindenburg, threatening to unleash a fury of white flakes.

  Sharpe was unmovable. Why couldn’t he see two heads were better than one?

  Back at her desk she added the Kiara Reece encounter to the green notebook. She wanted to remember the name. Maybe she
could get on the inside via Kiara. MC didn’t feel even a tiny smidgen of remorse over involving Officer Reece in her off-the-books probe into Barb’s murder.

  She got back to work, patently ignoring the email from Jamie asking about her progress on the revenue investigation. She should’ve gone out and made contact at Galaxy Printing, a mid-size mailer located in Chanhassen, a southwest Minneapolis suburb.

  She wrote a message to Cam asking him if he could do a quick call to the postmaster in Chanhassen and get some info about Galaxy. Her mouse hovered for a moment over the send button as a twinge of guilt over using Cam like a personal assistant pinged through her. Was she taking advantage of his generous nature? No doubt. But she had Barb to worry about. She was convinced Sharpe couldn’t possibly have the level of focus she had. Or maybe she was just plain feverish. She sent the email.

  MC wiped her forehead and noted a glossy sheen on the back of her hand. Maybe she was coming down with a virus. She had no time to be sick.

  Take a breath, MC.

  She thought she heard Barb’s voice. Behind her? She whipped her head around, glancing in all corners of the office. Nothing. Of course not. Jesus. Was she going crazy? The voice sure sounded like Barb’s. And that was one of the things Barb constantly told MC: “Take a breath, hon.”

  Maybe she should go home and medicate herself with a cool glass, or two, of the Goose. She peeked at the clock, almost four, she’d put in more than eight hours. She got ready to leave and opened the door to Jamie standing in front of her, hand poised to knock.

  “Shit.” MC was so surprised she put a hand to her chest.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you. You leaving?”

  “I am. Came in early, so thought I’d call it a day. Is there a problem?”

  “I hoped to get an update on Galaxy Printing and to let you know I’d heard from ASAC Oldfield on the Stennard and Musselman cases. Got a minute, or do you have to leave?”

  MC backed up and flipped on the light switch. “Come in.” She dropped her messenger bag behind the desk and sat in her chair. “So. Stennard?”