John studied her for a moment. “You’re intrigued. Are you disappointed this isn’t your case?”
Jo felt a sheepish grin creep across her lips. “Well, no, not exactly. It’s just that I’ve been following this in the news lately, so it’s an interesting topic. I wonder what your patient found….” John was right; Jo was more than just a little curious about Frisco’s case. Her nimble mind sorted through scenarios, based on what she had read in the newspapers.
Jo was stirred out of her musings when she felt John’s weight shift off the bed. He removed his sweatshirt, and draped it across the chair in the corner. “Well, my job is to make sure the kid recovers. With any luck, he’ll be able to answer those questions himself.”
John moved back to the side of the bed. “Scoot over. I’m climbing in with you.” He let out a loud yawn. “God, I’m exhausted.”
She obliged as he slipped off his shoes. He crawled in next to her and turned her around, so her back was against his chest. She felt the weight of his arm settle around her waist as he pulled her closer. Grateful her bout of queasiness had abated, she sighed in contentment.
Tugging at his shirt, she said, “Aren’t you going to undress? You’re still wearing your street clothes.”
“Nah, I was kind of hoping you’d help me with that later.” He nuzzled her neck and she felt her pulse race. She knew he needed sleep, but she was definitely looking forward to “later”.
After a moment or two, Jo said, “This is my idea of a perfect Sunday morning.”
She felt his warm breath on the back of her neck as he stifled another yawn. He replied, “Mine, too, although I wish I had some energy. I’d really love to….”
Waiting for him to finish his sentence, Jo felt him relax against her and soon she could feel the deep rise and fall of his chest against her back. She sighed and closed her eyes.
***
Jo awoke a second time that morning, this time to her cell’s ringtone. Worried it would wake up John, she snapped fully awake, carefully slid out of his embrace and snatched the phone off the nightstand.
Jo felt a flash of irritation when she saw her boss’s number on the screen of her smartphone. She answered the call with a whispered, “Hang on a minute, will you?” Before he had a chance to respond, she moved into the hallway, carefully closing the door behind her.
Resuming the phone call, she said, “Good morning, Tom. You do know it is Sunday, right? Traditionally a day off from work.”
Jo heard the deep chuckle of Tom Gunderson in her ear. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t stand by tradition, since this isn’t a social call.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that. What’s up?”
“The St. Paul PD called me bright and early this morning. They need our help with the investigation of a shooting of a twenty-one year-old college student, near the St. Paul campus of the University. Also found dead at the scene were his male roommate and a young woman.”
“Why bring us in on a local murder case?”
“It looks like the investigation will spread outside their jurisdiction. The kid was shot in the head, but survived. We can’t talk to him yet, but his mother said something about him working on a documentary of some sort…”
Her heart pounded as she recalled her earlier conversations with John about his patient. “Wait. Are you talking about Detective Mike Frisco’s case? John was the surgeon and ran into Frisco. So, they are serious about investigating the fracking angle?”
Jo heard Tom’s gasp of surprise. “You already heard about that, huh?”
“Frisco mentioned it to John. This could take us into other parts of Minnesota and North Dakota, correct?”
“You got it. Right now, the documentary is just one of the angles they are looking at, but it’s the strongest so far. They want the Bureau involved now, before it spills into a broader geographical area. Of course, I thought of you, since you and Frisco have worked so well together in the past. He’s at the crime scene now.”
Jotting down the address Tom rattled off, Jo remembered John’s earlier teasing that she envied Frisco’s involvement in the case. That’ll teach me to watch what I wish for.
She glanced at the closed door of her bedroom and thought about John sleeping on the other side. Feeling exhausted and wishing she was still dozing next to him, Jo blew out a puff of
air. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Seven
Downtown Minneapolis/Turners Bend
September
CHIP RETRIEVED HIS CAR from the body shop where his window had been replaced. He knew he should head straight home, but he had two stops he wanted to make, first back to the bookstore to check on Gary and Pat and to see if they had any news about Finnegan’s murder. Then he wanted to visit Maureen, Finnegan’s widow, to offer his condolences and help.
He parked in one of ONCE UPON A CRIME’s three parking spots in the alley. He elbowed his way through the crowd of people standing on the steps outside the doorway, much to the irritation of those in the line that snaked down the sidewalk.
Gary was behind the check-out counter ringing up sales with a harried look on his face. Chip gave him a wave and mouthed “Pat?” Gary nodded to the back of the store.
Chip found Pat in the back hall storeroom, unpacking a case of books. “Holy mackerel, Pat. What’s going on?”
She jumped and emitted a little yelp. “Sorry, Chip, guess I’m a little edgy. It’s one thing to have a store full of books about murder and an entirely different thing to find a dead body in your store. Being back in business has me freaked. It didn’t take forensics long to finish, and they said we could re-open the store. I don’t think they found any prints or clues.”
She loaded a stack of books into her arms. “To your question, it seems we are a hot tourist site today. Lots of crime scene gawkers, but at least most of them have the decency to buy a book. We’ve almost sold all of Finnegan’s books we stocked for the signing and lots of your books, too.”
She shook her head and blew out a puff of breath. “Just seems wrong to be profiting from Finnegan’s murder. We’re donating the proceeds from his books to a fund for his family. Gary and I want to see his murder solved.”
Pat took a close look at Chip. “What in the heck happened to you?”
“Just a minor mishap. I’m fine.”
Chip worked his way to the back of the store and stood near the area where the writer’s body had lain. Pat had placed a draped table stacked with Finnegan’s books over the spot, but it couldn’t erase the scene from Chip’s memory. It gave him goose bumps. He bid the owners farewell, promising to return for a signing before the end of the year and walked back to his car, stopping to check for anything or anyone suspicious, reminding himself to be vigilant
He headed to Prospect Park and the address on Sharon Avenue he had found in the phone directory in his hotel room. He crossed the Mississippi and caught a glimpse of the new 35W bridge that had replaced the one that collapsed and killed thirteen people in 2007, then passed the University of Minnesota campus.
As he approached Prospect Park he saw a strange looking water tower with a top that looked like a witch’s hat, the landmark he was looking for. He exited the freeway and wound his way through the residential area stopping in front of a classic 1920s bungalow, a story-and-a-half stucco house with a dark green canvas awning over the front window. There was a toddler’s riding toy on the front walk. He double checked to make sure it was the Finnegan’s address.
He had not met Finnegan’s wife, but Patrick had frequently talked about his family. Seeing the bright yellow tricycle, it struck Chip that two little children would be without the father who adored them. He took a deep breath to steel himself for the visit, sighed and got out of the car.
***
Maureen Finnegan was an attractive thirty-something with short black hair and fair skin. She sat on a leather sofa, propped up by her parents on either side. Her eyes were puffy and blood-shot, and she clutched a soggy ti
ssue.
Chip greeted them and Maureen’s father introduced himself as David Edwards and his wife as Diane; they all shook hands. “What happened to you?” asked David Edwards. Chip again explained. His face felt hot and swollen, worse than the previous day. I must really look ghastly, he thought.
“The kids are at my sister’s, Chip; they’re too young to understand what’s going on, Sean is three and Abby is ten months,” said Maureen. “As soon as Patrick’s parents arrive from Boston, we have to go to the morgue and the funeral home.” Tears welled up in her eyes and her father put his arm around her; she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Maureen. This is an unimaginable tragedy. Patrick was a wonderful writer and I valued his friendship. I’ll miss him greatly.”
She broke down in soul-wrenching sobs. Crying women always got to Chip. Maureen’s sobs were on a whole new level for him. They were beyond heart-breaking; they were devastating. He was frozen, unable to decide what he could do or say to comfort her.
After her crying subsiding, she said, “My husband was looking forward to the signing with you, Chip. He admired your work.”
“It was mutual. I was impressed with how much research he did and how he could create so much suspense in his stories.” Chip took a business card from his wallet and gave it to her. “Please let me know if I can ever be of help.”
“Chip, Patrick seemed very agitated about his new book. He said he was on the trail of something disturbing, but I don’t know exactly what it was. He told me he was going to discuss it with you after your signing.”
“Did you mention that to the homicide detective?”
Maureen shook her head. “I just realized it could be important.”
“It might be. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Patrick? Anyone who had a grudge against him?”
“No, I can’t imagine who would do this to him. He was a good husband, a great father. All he wanted was to be an author, and his books were doing so well.”
“When did you last see him?”
“On Saturday morning. He left with his laptop to go to the Loft Literary Center in downtown Minneapolis. During the week I work and he stays at home with the kids. On weekends I take over with the kids, and he rents a little writer’s room at the Loft. Saturday he left at about 10:30 a.m., just like always. Sometimes when he was in what he called a zone, he’d write all day and far into the night. I didn’t worry until I woke yesterday morning and realized he hadn’t come home. I called the Loft, but it wasn’t open. I called his brother and a few friends to ask if he was there. When I couldn’t locate him, I called the police and Father Mike, our parish priest over at St. Francis of Cabrini.”
Chip politely refused an offer of coffee from Maureen’s mother and after again expressing his offer of help, departed and left for home with a deep yearning to be with his new family. He also made a mental note to call his own parents to check on their welfare and tell them he loved them.
***
Chip headed back to Turners Bend with mixed feelings. He wanted to stay and try to find out what Finnegan was on to, what he was about to share with him. But, he wanted to go home, too. He was concerned about his own safety but was having a hard time believing he was in any real danger, that he could possibly suffer the same fate as Patrick Finnegan. Still he was feeling vulnerable and kept looking in his rearview mirror checking for the black Escalade from the parking ramp. He didn’t see one, but somehow that failed to calm his nerves.
Just after he spotted the Welcome to Iowa sign he looked ahead at what appeared to be miles of orange cones. In the time he had been in Minneapolis the cones had been moved from the northbound lanes to the southbound lanes, again with no apparent road work in progress. Single lane traffic stretched ahead for as far as he could see.
“Call Jane,” he commanded his car phone.
“Hi, sweetie, where are you?” answered Jane.
“In road construction hell.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I visited Maureen Finnegan and it was tough. What are you doing?”
“I’m on my way out to the Schmitt farm to put Radio Frequency ID chips in his herd. Poor Tom, he thinks cattle rustlers have snatched two steer. He’s got Chief Frederickson on the case. Never a dull moment in Turners Bend.”
“You mean like Old West cattle rustlers? In Iowa? In the 21st century?”
“Yes, it does happen. Unbranded cattle are taken across the border into southern Minnesota and sold at sales barns. It’s happening more with the bad economy. The RFID chips will help Tom track his cattle. It’s similar to the chips we have in our pets. Sorry, I’ve got to run. Love you.”
“Play Josh Groban.” Chip hoped that hearing the tenor sing Italian love ballads would ease his mind, which it did for a few miles, until his thoughts returned again to Finnegan’s murder. What did he uncover? What, if anything, did Margaret Murphy have to do with it?
He checked his rear-view mirror. That poor chap in the red Chevy Suburban has been stuck behind me for miles. Avis rental car sticker on the bumper. Must be someone on vacation or business who is not going to get wherever he’s going any faster than I am.
***
“Oh my God, Chip, you look like someone went at you with a weed whacker,” said Jane gently touching the side of his nicked and bandaged face. “You can’t go out meeting your reading public looking like that. Plus someone shot at you. What are you going to do?”
“Franco, the homicide detective, said drive-by shootings are often gang initiations. It’s made me a little nervous, but I think I’ll feel safe now that I’m home. Try not to worry too much. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s a wife’s job to worry. What, if for some reason, you were the intended target, not just a random victim? First Patrick and now this. I’m glad you’re finally home. You’ll be safer here than in Minneapolis.”
Jane kissed him lightly on his nose, made him tomato basil soup and sent him to bed…alone. When he awoke, he discovered he had slept through the night and Jane had joined him at some point with her back to him. He reached his arm over and pulled her toward him, spooning her. He kissed her neck, catching a whiff of the citrus-scented shampoo she used.
***
Later the two were in their kitchen, Jane scrambling eggs for their breakfast. “What are you going to do about your tour? I think you should cancel the engagements for a while. Didn’t you say the homicide detective told you to lay low and be careful? It’s just not safe for you to be out in public, plus you look a fright right now. Lucinda won’t fuss; she has other things on her mind.”
Chip poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Lucinda. I almost forgot about her. I can’t believe she hasn’t been hounding me. What does she have on her mind, other than my next book contract?”
“Babies. After a year of trying her biological clock is taking over like a ticking bomb.”
Chip guffawed and spit out the coffee he had just sipped. “Lucinda with a baby? Really? I can’t picture it.”
“That’s unkind, Chip. Many women, who you wouldn’t expect, have strong maternal desires. I do admit, however, it’s kind of difficult to imagine Lucinda changing diapers.”
Jane served his eggs and toast and poured coffee in her thermal mug. “Baby pigs are calling me. I better run off to Hoffman’s farm. Try to rest today, dear.”
He looked around the kitchen with its one red wall. It was the most-used room in Jane’s house where he now lived with her and Ingrid. On the counter were the proofs from Ingrid’s senior pictures. He had heard Jane and Ingrid discussing the pros and cons of each as they tried to select a head shot for the yearbook.
Shuffling through the poses he mentally attached a label to each…sullen, worried, intense, sad, distant, hurt. Ingrid was going through a tough period and was still dealing with the aftermath of several traumas, the worst being a kidnapping. Her expressions conveyed her pain.
The photographer must have had a h
ard time getting a genuine smile out of her, he thought. That is until he came to shots of her with Sugar, her prized Appaloosa. Ingrid’s face had a peaceful glow in those photos. One of them would get his vote if he were asked.
It came to him in a flash, the long-elusive title for his newest
novel…Head Shot.
Chapter Eight
Head Shot
St. Paul, MN
Late October
JO PULLED UP BEHIND Frisco’s car, in front of Rick Wilson’s apartment building. She verified the apartment number and climbed the steps to the third floor. Pushing aside the yellow crime-scene tape, she turned the knob of the apartment door and her nose was immediately assailed by the combined smells of smoke and blood. Jo’s stomach protested and she swallowed a few times to push back the bile that had risen in her throat.
She steadied herself and went in. Her eyes watered at the acrid odor and she coughed. Breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell, she called out, “Frisco. You in here?”
Jo heard him reply, “Yeah, first bedroom on your right.” She gingerly stepped around an overturned kitchen chair and wove her way through the crime scene.
Entering the bedroom, Jo recognized Frisco’s dark hair as he crouched low over the bed. She looked around the destroyed room. “What a mess.”
Frisco straightened up and Jo could see the blood stain that covered the upper part of the bed. He said, “No kidding. Glad to be working with you again, Jo.” He looked down at his gloved hands. “I’d shake your hand, but these latex gloves are a bitch to get back on.”
Jo felt the roiling once again in her stomach. I don’t have time to have the flu. She fought to keep her composure and mentally counted to twenty before she trusted herself to respond, “Not a problem. So, bring me up to speed.”
Frisco studied her. “You feeling ok? You look a little green around the gills.”
Jo waved a hand. “I’m fine. It’s just a bit rank in here. So, tell me what you know about the case.”
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 4