She could hear his sigh through the phone. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Feels like we’ve gone down a rabbit hole with this case.”
Ending the call, Jo turned to John. She felt so tired. Tired of human lives being wasted. She said, “Billy MacGregor’s body was found in an alley in St. Paul early this morning.”
John’s mouth fell open. He said, “Jesus. What happened?”
“It looks like a drug overdose, probably heroin.”
Jo was shocked to see the transformation in John’s features. His face was white, but his voice was firm, “I don’t believe it. I know he used in the past, but he told me if he started using again, he’d be giving up on not only himself, but Rick Wilson, too. And I believed him.”
Jo reached out and touched his arm. “John, I know you want to believe that, but I’ve seen it happen before. The addiction is too tempting, especially when someone’s under that much pressure….”
John ran his hand through his hair. “Look. I saw plenty of relapse cases when I was a medical intern and I know all the depressing stats on recidivism rates.
“However, I don’t believe this guy would fall back into his old drug habits. You didn’t see the fear in his eyes. The kid was in survival mode; he wouldn’t have wanted to give up any self-control to drugs. Don’t you think it’s a bit convenient this kid dies of an overdose, just before he meets with you?”
Jo caught her lower lip in between her teeth. Good point. She said, “Let’s go through everything you remember about what he told you. Maybe we can figure this out.”
They sat down at the kitchen table and John went through what he remembered of the conversation at the hospital. Jo listened carefully, without interruption.
When he finished, she said, “And he was convinced they were after him next?”
He nodded. “I’m telling you Jo, the kid was scared out of his mind. I don’t think he was just being paranoid. I think he was murdered.”
Jo stood up, feeling restless and frustrated. “You said they talked to some guy in the compliance department, about doctored water quality reports. Did he mention the name of the company or the name of the guy they spoke to?”
John looked down at his hands. “No, and I didn’t push him. Now I wish I had. At the time, I thought it was best if you talked to him.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder. Jo could tell John was taking this kid’s death hard. “John, this isn’t your fault. You did the best you could to convince him to come forward with what he knew so we could protect him.”
He looked up at her, his eyes tired. “But it wasn’t enough, was it?”
***
Jo met Frisco at Billy MacGregor’s house later that morning. The outside of the house looked even more depressing than when they had visited it the previous day, so she wasn’t at all surprised at the mess inside. The furnishings were mismatched and screamed early-modern college student. Clothes were strewn around the floors, and there were piles of books, DVDs and stuff everywhere.
Frisco said, “Some things never change, do they? Like how single guys don’t pick up their shit.”
Jo picked up one of the books jutting out from a plastic shopping bag on the battered coffee table and read the title, Complete Poems and Songs, by Robert Burns. She pulled out another, entitled, Ordinary Grace, by William Kent Krueger. “He certainly had an eclectic taste in books.”
Jo slid the books back in the bag. “Let’s see if we can find a laptop or computer somewhere.”
A quick sweep of the house showed there wasn’t a laptop or computer to be found.
Frisco said, “Maybe he took it with him.”
“Did anyone find his vehicle at the scene?”
“Yeah, but the windows were smashed and the tires were lifted before the cops found it.” He shook his head, “Not exactly the safest neighborhood to leave your car unattended, for even a short period of time.”
“So, his laptop could have been swiped.”
“Could be. If it was even there, in the first place.”
While Frisco rummaged around the bathroom and kitchen, Jo searched the family room. At the very least, she hoped they would find some connection to the companies Billy and Rick had been researching. However, she was also on the hunt for anything that might prove or disprove that Billy’s death was an accident.
She picked up a paystub from the coffee table. Judging from the year-to-date earnings, it appeared Billy had been a part-time employee of Subtext, a bookstore in St. Paul.
Jo carefully pushed aside a row of DVDs and music CDs. As she read through the titles, she was surprised by Billy MacGregor’s taste in music and movies. Horror flicks like Saw III were mixed in with Singing in the Rain. As she dug through novels on a sagging bookcase, she realized something felt off about the mess in the room. It was frustrating she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Jo continued her search in the bedroom, kicking aside a pile of discarded clothing. At once, she realized what was wrong. She went out into the family room to verify her suspicions.
Once she was satisfied, she called out, “Frisco, can you come in here a minute?”
Frisco walked into the room. “Find something?”
“It’s more like what I didn’t find. Have you noticed something strange about the mess in this house?”
Frisco smirked, “You mean like the fact that the scattered dishes in the kitchen are clean and the bathroom is spotless?”
Jo said, “So you noticed it, too? There is no dust anywhere, and the clothes strewn around the floor still have fold marks.”
She thumbed at the shelves behind her. “Take a look at those DVDs. They are arranged in alphabetical order. Doesn’t quite fit with the mess in this room, does it?”
Frisco looked at the shelving above her shoulder and whistled. “Wow, you’re good. I wouldn’t have caught the alpha-order thing. So, someone searched the place and then made it look like this kid was a slob to cover their tracks.”
“Billy MacGregor’s death is looking more like murder all the time.”
Jo filled Frisco in on her conversation with John and how he vehemently disagreed with the preliminary assumption that the young man had died of an accidental drug overdose. She concluded by saying, “We need to make damn sure this kid’s death wasn’t an accident. What did the ME say?”
“She sent off the tox screens, so we’ll know more after those come back. There were plenty of old needle marks on his arms, but they were healed over. It wasn’t until she looked at his legs that she found a fresh mark on his upper thigh.”
Jo shrugged. “Not unusual…hard core users do it all the time.”
“But there were no signs of other marks on his legs. Why change methods now?”
“Did you find any drug paraphernalia?”
He shook his head. “I found half a joint in the medicine cabinet, but that was it. You?”
“Nothing.”
Frisco frowned. “Let’s get a hold of that tox screen ASAP. I’m betting my next paycheck this kid was murdered.”
“Let’s keep looking for a copy of that documentary. Maybe the person who tossed the place missed something.”
The detective smirked. “Not betting my paycheck on that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Turners Bend
Late November
A MONTH HAD PASSED and Chip’s writing had suffered. The household had been busy with their house guest and with hosting a big Thanksgiving dinner. And if he was being honest with himself, a good dose of procrastination had stalled the progress of his book. He resolved to get back on the saddle and pound out a new chapter.
He was alone in the quiet house. Runt was sleeping at his feet and Callie was sprawled across his keyboard, writing a cat tale with random letters. Instead of concentrating on his writing, his thoughts turned to Finnegan. A search of online news did not produce any recent information on the author’s murder. He called Detective Franco at the MPD and the duty officer put him on hold. He
put his phone on speaker, rose and began to make himself a pot of coffee using the Free Trade Ethiopian blend he had become addicted to since Baba’s arrival. It was dark and rich and packed a powerful dose of caffeine.
Jane had been right. Turners Bend had fallen in love with Baba in the past month. He quickly ascended to rock star status. He taught Bernice how to make injera, a spongy Ethiopian flatbread, and the Sunday school kids at First Lutheran how to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in Amharic. He was an animal whisperer, according to many of the local farmers. He was drawing Ingrid out of her shell. And, Runt who never left Chip’s side during the day, slept with Baba every night, head on the pillow next to the young man’s closely-shorn head. I’d be jealous, if I didn’t like the guy so darn much. There’s something very special, magical about him.
A voice from the speaker phone drew Chip away from his musings. “Franco here.”
“Hi, this is Chip Collingsworth,” Chip responded, as he poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee, the rich aroma curling up his nose. “I wondered if you could give me an update on Finnegan’s murder. How’s the investigation coming along?”
“Hello there, Chip. I’m not at liberty to say too much, but I’m sure it has something to do with the research he was doing. His back-up files have proven to be very interesting. The investigation has now crossed state lines and I’m working closely with an FBI agent.”
“Is the agent a good-looking woman?” asked Chip, envisioning Agent Jo Schwann.
“About as far from it as possible. That only happens on TV or in your books. This agent is about fifty and he looks like an ex-prizefighter.”
“What about Shanghaied, the book on Finnegan’s chest and the Asian gang connection?”
“I think that was what you would call a ‘red herring’. The Gang Task Force has an undercover guy among the Asian gangs. He claims none of them is taking credit for the kill. I think the book was a deliberate move to throw us off track and pin it on the Purple Brothers or Crazy Bloods or one of the other Asian gangs.”
Chip began to make a sandwich with left-over Thanksgiving turkey, Swiss cheese and lettuce. “Well, what about Gomez, the guy who rented that black Escalade, the one who did a number on my car in the parking ramp? Any news about him?”
“That’s out of my hands and real hush-hush. A raft of federal agencies are involved…DEA, FBI, NSA, HSA and just about every other three-letter group you can name. Did you know those guys do not play well together? Seems they are squabbling over jurisdiction and not sharing intel with each other. Weird. Any more incidents since you were run off the road?”
“Nope, all’s quiet on this end. Hope you’ll keep me posted if you have anything you can share about either case. I feel pretty intimately involved.”
“You betcha,” said Franco, as he ended the call.
Chip took a big bite of his sandwich and realized he forgot to add mayo. He grabbed a jar from the refrigerator, but it was empty. Who in this household would put an empty jar back in the fridge? Huh, most likely me.
He took his sandwich to the back porch and sat in a spot of noonday sun. Runt padded along and sat by his chair, accepting the piece of turkey Chip took out of his sandwich. “Jane doesn’t approve of table scraps for dogs, but I suppose you know that, don’t you?” Runt cocked his head, as if trying to understand Chip’s words.
Chip thought about Franco’s question. It had been quiet for weeks. No more mishaps. He had stopped searching for unfamiliar faces and cars, no longer jumped at unexpected sounds. His jitters were gone for the most part. He could possibly dismiss the parking ramp shooting as a random drive-by, but not the red Suburban forcing him off the road. There was no explanation for that, except someone wanted to do him harm. A nagging feeling about that accident surfaced every once in a while.
Their law enforcement protection had slackened, but Deputy Anderson still did a safety check every day and patrolled the area looking for suspicious characters. The Turners Bend post office tacked up a picture of Gomez and the State Patrol was on the lookout for the red Suburban, but no sighting or tips from the public were called in.
An unfamiliar mini-van came barreling down the driveway. It was a new-looking, seven-passenger mini-van, white and sparkling. It came to an abrupt halt, immediately alarming Chip. He felt a surge of panic and his skin began to prickle, his mind racing to try to think of a weapon to protect himself. Damn, why didn’t I follow-up on getting a gun? There isn’t even a baseball bat in the house.
He ducked down and waddled to the utensil drawer, opened it and pulled out a knife. He crawled to the window and stood by sliding his back up the wall. He drew back the curtain just enough for a peephole and saw Lucinda Patterson-Williams, his literary agent, step out of the van. His tension deflated like a tire’s slow leak. He wiped his hand across the sweat on his forehead and blew out a puff of air.
Lucinda was dressed in pencil-legged jeans, tall leather boots, and a puffy vest. A voluminous scarf was artfully draped around her neck. Urban mommy look, thought Chip. This impression was further enforced when Lucinda slid back the side panel door with the remote control and withdrew what seemed to be a large diaper bag. He had heard about her baby craziness and this was solid proof.
He opened the back door for her. “Jeez, Lucinda, you scared the crap out of me.”
She entered and looked at the chef knife still in Chip’s hand. “What were you planning to do? Slice and dice an intruder?”
“Sorry, guess I get paranoid when I see an unfamiliar car approaching the house. Still on edge about that drive-by shooting in Minneapolis.” He returned the knife to the drawer and poured a cup of coffee.
As he held out the cup to her, Chip could see Lucinda was on the verge of tears, biting her lower lip and rapidly blinking her eyes.
“Is Jane here?” she said in a shaky voice.
“No, she’s out on a farm call. You look upset Lucinda. What’s up?” Lucinda plunked down her heavy bag, sat in a chair and began to weep, first a few tears and then sobs.
Chip had never had to deal with a vulnerable Lucinda. He was clueless as to what to do, so he retrieved a box of Kleenex from the bathroom and waited. He thought about touching her arm or patting her shoulder but realized he had never, in all the years he had worked with her, touched her. They did not have that kind of relationship, so he continued to wait. When her tears subsided, he said, “Okay, want to tell me what this is all about?”
She blew her nose and wiped the running mascara from under her eyes. “Jane was right to warn Lance about the online adoption scams. We checked and a lot of people have shelled out money without getting a baby. So we took her advice and contacted a couple of adoption agencies. They said it could take years to get a baby and that maybe we would age out, get too old for a baby to be placed with us. Poor Lance, he’s beating himself up because of his lousy sperm. This all just sucks.”
She blew her nose again and continued, “Oh Chip, I did the nursery all in Ralph Lauren. We picked out names. I bought that friggin’ mini-van with a custom built-in infant seat and a rear video entertainment system for the baby.” She pointed to the vehicle in the driveway. “I even started wearing my hair in a ponytail, just like all the celebrity moms in People magazine. I bought yoga pants for chrissake. Now I just feel ridiculous.”
“Hey, Lucinda, go back to the fertility clinic and explore other options, in vitro fertilization or artificial insemination. It’s not like you to give up. Pull yourself together. It will happen for you two and you’re going to be great parents.”
“Thanks Chip. I needed that. I know there are other options, but I was set on adoption rather than subjecting myself to medical procedures.”
She shook herself and straightened up. “Okay, that’s about enough drama for today. Now let’s get down to business. When will you have the manuscript of Head Shot done? No more lame excuses. Oh, and by the way, get back on the book tour. Sell, sell, sell is the name of the game.”
I don’t know who t
hat other woman was in my kitchen just now, but this is the Lucinda I know…my kick-ass literary agent.
Chapter Eighteen
Head Shot
Minneapolis, MN
Late October
SPECIAL AGENT JO SCHWANN and Detective Mike Frisco spent the better part of two hours searching the home of Billy MacGregor, looking for any sign of the fracking documentary he was working on with Rick Wilson.
They were working side-by-side in the family room when Frisco wiped his brow. “You find anything else?”
Jo stood up from her search of the decrepit built-in cabinet beneath the TV. “I don’t know. I was just looking at this photo of Billy with Rick.” In the picture, Rick stood with his arm draped across his friend’s shoulder. They both looked carefree and full of the devil. It made her sad to think one of the boys was now dead and the other was lying in a coma.
She looked closer at the photo. They stood next to a pick-up truck, their bodies obscuring most of the writing on the side of the door. “Hey, Frisco, does that look like some kind of logo to you?”
Frisco pulled out a pair of reading glasses and perched them on his nose. When he saw Jo’s smirk, he said, “Don’t laugh. You’ll be wearing them one day soon, you know.”
He took the picture in his hands and examined it. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He pointed to the logo. “Looks like a ‘v’ to me.”
“Or maybe a ‘w’. I’m pretty sure it’s the logo of Wellborne Industries. I did some research on them last night. Hang on a minute, I’ll check.”
She pulled out her tablet and brought up the website for Jonathon Wellborne’s company. Immediately, a large ‘W’ dominated the screen. Looking over her shoulder, Frisco compared the photo to the logo on the website. “I’ll be damned. It’s a match. Funny how Wellborne keeps popping up.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Mazlo said they were the ones who filed an injunction to halt the documentary. That’s why I was doing research on the company last night. Billy told John they were talking to some compliance guy, but didn’t mention the name of the company. Could be Wellborne Industries.”
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 10