Shadow Girl

by Gerry Schmitt

  “I’m going to have an unmarked car park right here on your block,” Max told Snell and Terrell. “So don’t anybody get creative. Don’t get any weird ideas about another murder.”

  “Get out,” Terrell shouted. She was on her feet and screaming in Max’s face. Her face was beet red, her teeth were bared, and Afton could see spittle flying from her mouth. “Get out of here before I call my lawyer and have your stupid little badge pulled!”

  • • •

  THEY got out. Max drove to a McDonald’s over on Rice Street and they went through the drive-through. Max ordered coffee; Afton got a Diet Coke.

  “What do you think?” Max asked as they sat in the parking lot, the golden arches casting a curve of light on the hood of his car.

  “Snell is plenty skeevy,” Afton said. “But I don’t think he’s smart enough to engineer three murders. Well, five if you’re counting the surface-to-air rocket that killed the helicopter pilots.”

  “Yeah, I pushed him pretty hard.”

  “And he stuck to his story,” Afton said. “Even though his brain cells seem pretty well sautéed.”

  Max blew on his coffee. “There’s that.”

  “I suppose the possibility exists that Snell could have hired someone. That he got one of his lowlife friends to do his dirty work.”

  “Why?” Max asked. “Because Terrell asked him to?

  “Maybe.”

  “What does she see in him?”

  “I don’t know,” Afton said. “Drugs? He’s her drug connection? Or she likes to go slumming . . . hang out with bad boys? Probably some rich girls get a big kick out of that.”

  Max sipped his coffee while he digested Afton’s words. “Do you think Terrell could be the brains behind all of this?”

  “What? You mean the murders?” Afton shook her head. “No, I don’t think Terrell is the brains of the organization. She’d be more like . . .”

  “The asshole?” Max said.

  Afton let loose an indelicate snort. “That sounds about right.”

  38

  I appreciate the fact that you were all able to come in this morning,” Thacker said.

  It was Saturday morning and the team—Thacker, Max, Afton, Dillon, and Farmer—were all dressed casually. Jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers. Only Thacker was wearing pressed khaki slacks and a navy pullover sweater.

  “And we’re grateful for the damage control you’ve been able to do,” Max said. “You managed to fend off most of the media jackals.”

  “Mmn,” Thacker said, not quite ready to accept Max’s praise. “We’re managing, not mitigating. There are a number of hair-raising stories out there and the public is starting to collectively squirm. Just way too many dead bodies.” He looked around, said, “Damn, where is that press release Darlene just gave me?”

  “So, what’s the game plan?” Dillon asked. He was perched on a straight wooden chair unwrapping a package of Hostess Twinkies. Afton figured it must be his breakfast. So much for a healthy egg white omelet.

  “Let me bring you all up to date,” Max said. He proceeded to give a quick rundown on the two dogs searching the DSN warehouse for drugs, then segued into last night’s shakedown on Odin’s stepdaughter’s boyfriend.

  “The common denominator in all this has to be drugs,” Farmer said. He cast a wistful eye toward Dillon’s Twinkies.

  “If it’s drugs,” Afton said, “we don’t know where they came from or who has them.”

  “Or where they’re headed,” Max said.

  “Maybe Barber had all those answers and was forced to come clean,” Dillon said. He licked frosting from a finger. “I mean, he was tortured pretty bad, right? That generally means the torturer is trying to extricate a fair amount of information from the torturee.”

  “Genius,” Farmer murmured.

  Thacker ignored him. “Are we assuming the two shooters, the old lady and the younger Asian man, were the torturers? Do we think they’re still here in town?”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” Max said. “But it feels like they are.”

  “Then we keep doing what we’ve been doing,” Thacker said. “And we especially keep an eye on Sunny Odin and her daughter, Terrell.”

  “What about Barber’s wife?” Dillon asked.

  “Her, too,” Thacker said. “We work harder and smarter and keep trying to find those shooters. Try to track down the window sticker Sammy Mah spotted on that red car. We should also keep in touch with law enforcement out in Prior Lake, swing back to the Hotel Itasca for a follow-up interview, maybe even go back and hit that noodle factory. And we for sure need to huddle with the medical examiner. Max, you should pay him a visit and see if anything new has turned up. Trace evidence, fingerprints, any sort of unusual signature that can be linked to another killing. You’re lead detective—you know the drill.”

  “Put me to work, boss,” Dillon said. He picked up one of his Twinkies and passed it to Farmer, who said, “Ooh.”

  Max went back to his desk, scratched out a few notes, and then dragged a whiteboard into the bullpen. He had Afton draw up a chart—her penmanship was way better than his, better than anybody’s there—outlining what they’d already done and what they still needed to do. Then he quickly doled out assignments.

  As everyone got busy, Afton said to Max, “Do you mind if I tag along to the ME’s office?”

  “You really want to?”

  She shrugged, knowing there’d be metal tables, clanking pipes, shiny instruments, and dead bodies. The stuff of nightmares. “It might be . . . enlightening.”

  “Okay, but don’t . . .” His mobile phone shrilled suddenly. “Hang on,” he told Afton. He punched the On button and said, “Yeah? Montgomery here.”

  “That chick you wanted me to tail?” The Scrounger said. “She’s on the move.”

  “What are you talking about?” Max asked. “Oh . . . jeez. You mean Fan Ling?”

  “First she made a loop around Lake of the Isles, then she doubled back to Lake and Hennepin, went through a parking ramp without parking, and then drove downtown.”

  “She thinks she’s being followed,” Max said. “Which means she’s gotta be up to something. Did she make you?”

  “I don’t think so. She just waltzed into First Federal,” The Scrounger said. “The main bank, the one on Sixth and Marquette.”

  Max was so startled, he could barely answer. “She’s there now?”

  “And get this—she’s all dolled up in a floppy hat and big, bug-eyed sunglasses. Like old movie stars used to wear.”

  “Disguised.” This wasn’t good. “Can you see what she’s up to?”

  “She went in and started chatting with one of those assholes in a three-piece suit that you always see twiddling their thumbs behind a nice, clean desk. Then they both disappeared into a back room. Right now I’m thinking safe deposit box. With stacks of hundred dollar bills inside.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” Max shouted. “We’ll be right over.”

  “What?” Afton said when Max hung up. He looked so wild-eyed and excited that she knew something must have broken.

  “Fan Ling’s over at the bank.”

  “The bank?”

  “First Federal,” Max said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  • • •

  THEY jogged the six blocks to First Federal and found The Scrounger waiting outside, leaning up against a marble pillar. He was smoking a Camel cigarette and looking like a street person in his ratty army jacket and camo pants.

  “Is she still in there?” Max asked.

  The Scrounger nodded. “Unless she made her getaway via the back door.”

  “What are we doing?” Afton asked. As far as she knew, Fan Ling hadn’t committed any sort of crime. Hell, maybe she’d come here to take out a home equity loan. On the other hand . . .

  “Fan Ling took a circuitous route, as though she was afraid of being followed,” Max said. “And she’s wearing sunglasses and a big hat.”

  “Maybe on her way to
Miami Beach?” Afton said. But she didn’t think so. No, Fan Ling was definitely up to something. And Afton’s best guess was that it had something to do with Leland Odin’s money. After all, Fan Ling had been his last real visitor.

  Max led the way through a set of brass-and-glass revolving doors with Afton following right on his heels. In the expansive lobby, at least half a dozen customers were sitting at various desks conversing with bank officers. A whole bunch more customers were lined up at the teller windows. But there was no Fan Ling in sight.

  Max walked to the nearest teller window, cut in line, and said, “Excuse me, I need to get into my safe deposit box.”

  The teller glared at him from behind her metal scrollwork. “Sir, I’m helping someone right now,” she said.

  A guy with a cash envelope said, “Yeah, she’s helping me.”

  “The safe deposit boxes?” Max said again.

  “Oh, for goodness’s sake,” the disgruntled teller said. She waved a hand and said, “They’re just to your left over there. Mr. Sandager can help you.”

  Max showed a hint of teeth. “Thank you.”

  • • •

  AFTON and Max walked across a plush blue carpet and skirted around a low counter. Afton figured they must be in the private banking area—everything was so hushed and subdued. They were just about to speak with a receptionist when Fan Ling emerged through a set of double doors carrying a Louis Vuitton duffel bag.

  From the way the designer duffel sagged, Afton figured Fan Ling must have just emptied out a safe deposit box and filled it with . . . what? Fifty-dollar bills, a coin collection, stock certificates, first edition Batman comic books and a Captain Midnight decoder ring?

  “Fan Ling,” Max said. He used his serious voice.

  Fan Ling stopped in her tracks, causing the man walking behind her to practically stumble into her. “You!” she said. She didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked stunned.

  “Making a small withdrawal?” Max asked her.

  “Maybe not so small,” Afton said.

  “Excuse me,” the man accompanying Fan Ling said. “What’s going on, please?”

  “Are you Mr. Sandager?” Max asked.

  Sandager nodded politely. Her wore a chalk gray pinstripe suit, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and looked like central casting’s version of a banker. “Arthur Sandager, yes. Is there a problem?”

  “Police,” Afton said.

  Nonplussed, Sandager said, “May I please see some form of identification?”

  Max flipped open his ID. “This work for you?”

  Sandager studied it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now. Do you have a spare office we could use?”

  Sandager hesitated for the briefest moment and then said, “Of course, Detective. Right this way.”

  Max grabbed a protesting Fan Ling firmly by the arm and pulled her along, Afton following on their heels. When Sandager showed them into a small conference room, Max said, “Thank you.” Then Max, Fan Ling, and Afton went in, along with a very curious Sandager.

  “What is this?” Fan Ling demanded. She rolled her eyes, flipped her hair, and did everything but stomp her foot.

  “Suppose you tell us,” Afton said in a conversational tone.

  “This is where I do my banking,” Fan Ling said stubbornly. “I am taking care of business.”

  “Sure,” Max said. “You’re here to open a checking account, buy travelers checks, whatever.” He glanced at Sandager. “Does the young woman have an account here?”

  Sandager hesitated for a moment and then said, “No.”

  “It’s none of your business what I’m doing.”

  Max pointed to the duffel clutched tightly in her hand. “We’d appreciate if you’d cooperate and show us what you have concealed in your bag.”

  “This is just to put our minds at ease,” Afton offered. “To eliminate you as any sort of suspect. We certainly wouldn’t want you to get inadvertently mixed up in the Leland Odin murder.”

  “Or the Jay Barber murder,” Max said.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Fan Ling protested.

  Afton smiled. “The bag? Would you open it, please?”

  “No,” Fan Ling said.

  Max reached out, grabbed the bag from her, and plopped it onto the table. “Thank you.”

  “You are going to be so sorry you did this,” Fan Ling said. “I am going to get an attorney!”

  “Where have we heard that before?” Afton said.

  Max unzipped the duffel bag and pulled it open. It was loaded—literally loaded—with stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Not traveler’s checks,” Afton said. “More like traveling money.”

  “Taking a trip?” Max asked. “Planning to leave the country?”

  Fan Ling narrowed her eyes. “No.”

  “Come on,” Max said. “I doubt if Diamond Shopping Network pays you quite that well. And in cash yet.”

  “So where’d you get the money?” Afton asked.

  Fan Ling bit her lip. “It was a gift.”

  “Sure,” Max said. “A tax-free gift.”

  “It was!” she shrieked.

  Afton glanced at Sandager. “We’re guessing that this money—you did know this duffel bag is filled with money, didn’t you?” Afton said.

  Sandager peered carefully into the bag, then pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Well, not exactly. All our customers are afforded complete privacy when they retrieve the contents of their safe deposit boxes.”

  “But you know who this particular safe deposit box belongs to, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But this young lady did have the proper account number.”

  “That’s okay,” Max said. “We don’t want to get you in trouble for anything. We only want to confirm who the safe deposit box, and its contents, belong to.”

  Sandager licked his lips. “Yes, well, the young woman was accessing Mr. Leland Odin’s safe deposit box.”

  Afton smiled. “Thank you.”

  • • •

  THEY let Fan Ling go with a stern warning not to leave town and handed the duffel bag full of money over to Mr. Sandager.

  “For safekeeping,” Afton said. “Is there some process by which you can hold this money, like, in escrow or something?”

  “Limbo?” said Max.

  “That can certainly be arranged,” Mr. Sandager said. “We just need to sign some papers . . .”

  “Perfect,” Afton said.

  Back out on the street, The Scrounger had drifted away, and a young guy with a guitar had taken his place. His guitar case was open and a scattering of dimes and quarters lay inside. He was whanging away at the strings, struggling through a bad rendition of “Layla.” He was never going to give Eric Clapton a run for his money.

  “There’s only one thing to do now,” Afton said. She dug in her jacket pocket, found a crumpled dollar bill, and tossed it into the open guitar case.

  “Bless you,” said the guitar player.

  “What’s that?” Max asked.

  “Stir the pot. Go talk to Sunny. Tell her what just happened here.”

  Max grinned crookedly. “I like how you think.”

  39

  WHAT on earth?” were Sunny’s first words when she opened her front door and found Afton and Max standing there.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Afton said. “But there have been some new developments that we need to run by you.” They’d rehearsed their dog and pony show in the car on the way over and Max wanted Afton to take the lead. He felt that Sunny would feel far less threatened by her. Afton felt that Sunny would probably feel contemptuous of her.

  “What are you talking about?” Sunny asked. She wore a lime green sweater and white slacks with a stunning line of diamonds encircling her neck. “Is this about Leland? Or Jay?”

  Afton managed her best earnest smile. “If we could just come in? Have a few moments of your time?”

  Grudging now. “I suppose.” Sunny stepped back a
nd let them come into her house, then closed the door with an audible sigh. “So, what’s going on?”

  “Perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down?” Afton said. She figured that when Sunny found out about Fan Ling raiding her husband’s safe deposit box, she’d fall right off that high horse of hers.

  Another sigh. “Yes. Whatever,” Sunny said. She led them into the library, where several large floral arrangements graced the cocktail table and end tables. Afton figured they were funeral arrangements that had been pulled apart and reworked so they didn’t look quite so . . . funereal.

  When they were all seated, Afton said, “A slight problem has cropped up.”

  Sunny gazed at her with an apprehensive look. “What now? Please don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”

  “No, thank goodness,” Afton said.

  Max cleared his throat. “About an hour ago, Miss Fan Ling went into First Federal bank, the main office in downtown Minneapolis, and emptied out your husband’s safe deposit box.”

  Sunny’s eyes bulged and she gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white. “What?”

  “Your husband’s employee from DSN went into . . .”

  “His safe deposit box!” Sunny screeched. “Odin had a box at . . . where did you say?” She wasn’t just upset; she was practically apoplectic.

  “First Federal,” Max said.

  Sunny started to shake so hard that the gold bangle bracelets on her wrist actually began to jangle. Then her voice began to shake as well. “That sneaky bastard. And you say Fan Ling had access to it? She had the code or the key or whatever it was?”

  Afton nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She had removed a good deal of money from the box . . . probably all that was in there . . . when we intervened.”

  “How much?” Sunny asked.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Afton said. “All in neatly bound packs of hundred-dollar bills. The bank personnel counted it out for us.”

  “That thieving bitch,” Sunny said. “That scabrous, ungrateful bitch. My husband brings her over here from China, gives her a high-profile job, and this is how we’re repaid . . . ?” She was so angry, she was practically grinding her teeth together.