Hurley nods, and this knowledge ties our current-day murders even tighter to my father’s trouble thirty years ago. That trouble involved some memos my father found in a briefcase he stole.
My father is a Gypsy by birth, raised in a family that traveled around the upper Midwest conducting thievery, cons, and swindles to survive. The family typically arrived in a location—usually smaller towns, suburban spots, or rural areas—and stayed for a few months while they ran their “jobs.” When things started to get hot, they would pack up camp and move to a new location, where they would start all over again. My father participated in these “jobs” from the time he was old enough to walk and talk. In fact, he met my mother when he conned her out of some of her money. He was strongly attracted to her, however, and came back the next day to return what he had swindled from her. Their relationship took off from there, but since my father’s family was extremely protective and possessive of their own, it wasn’t easy for him to conduct a relationship with a woman who was an outsider. He did it, however, essentially leading two lives, neither one aware of the other, for nearly five years. He married my mother in a small ceremony that was kept secret from the family. I came along nine months later, and my father spent the next four years on the road, running back and forth between his family’s current location and my mother and me.
Right around the time I turned four, my father’s family was encamped outside of Chicago and my father was participating in a con with a fellow family member named Constantine in which they swapped an empty briefcase for one that their target mark had. They would use a similar-looking briefcase and follow the mark around until the timing was right, and then one of them would act as a distracting shill while the other conducted the swap. According to my father, they got money, watches, jewelry, credit cards, and other items of value doing this. They would pocket the cash, use the credit cards for a few days before ditching them, and pawn whatever they could. The then-empty briefcase became part of a collection used in other swaps.
With this particular con, however, my father and Constantine got a briefcase belonging to an employee of a pharmaceutical company named Miller-Weiss. It didn’t contain any cash, credit cards, or other items of value, so they thought it was a bust at first. But what it did contain proved to be much more valuable: a series of internal memos from Miller-Weiss detailing some problems they were having with a new weight-loss drug that had proved to have fatal side effects, and what they were doing to cover it up.
My father and Constantine realized these memos might be worth something to the company, who would want them back lest their cover-up go public. They contacted people at Miller-Weiss and tried to negotiate a deal—basically they attempted to blackmail the company. But they grossly underestimated the desperation, power, and determination of their corporate adversary, and things went horribly wrong. Constantine was shot and killed, and my father, who had been smart enough to hang behind, went on the run.
The Miller-Weiss company cleaned house quickly and thoroughly. Their headquarters shut down, documents were shredded, and the workers and management personnel all disappeared. Some were reassigned to jobs overseas, and others, like the man whose briefcase had been stolen, simply vanished, though my father’s mark hadn’t disappeared forever. His body was found floating in a lake a few weeks later.
There was an investigation, and it was discovered that Miller-Weiss was a subsidiary of a larger corporation, which was also a subsidiary, and so on, with a dozen or more shell companies and walls separating the top honchos from the scandal. Fines were charged and paid, but no one was ever forced to take responsibility.
My father, fearing for his life and supposedly still in possession of the memos, went into hiding. He was given a new identity and relocated by the U.S. Marshals. He invited my mother to come along, but she refused. Her goal back then, presumably, was to distance herself, me, and my sister Desi from my father’s troubles as much as possible. She succeeded for thirty years, but now it looked like they had come back to haunt us.
While I was relieved to learn that my father wasn’t a cop killer, our visit to the U.S. Marshal’s office led to some other startling revelations that impacted my family even more. I learned that my sister, Desi, who I had always thought was my half sister, fathered by my mother’s second husband, was actually my full-blooded sister, sired by the same man I was. My parents wove a very tangled web thirty years ago, one that has unraveled in bits and pieces recently, each revelation more startling than the next.
Marshal Washington told us that my father had gone to the DA’s office after the attempted, disastrous handoff of the hot memos, and told them his name was Rick Novaceski. False names were commonly used by the family during their cons and swindles. Shortly thereafter, some goons showed up at my father’s family encampment asking for Rick Novaceski, even though my father hadn’t used that name anywhere but at the DA’s office.
“Marshal Washington didn’t come right out and say it in no uncertain terms, but he implied that someone, somewhere in law enforcement or the DA’s office had to have leaked my father’s name,” I say to Hurley. “So are you saying you think the Kupper family is somehow involved?”
Hurley nods, looking somber.
“Is this Randall Kupper guy who owned the stolen boat a relative of the other two?”
“He is,” Hurley says. “He is Judge Kupper’s nephew, and Jason Kupper’s son.”
“Where is Jason now?”
“He retired from the force five years ago and is currently an Illinois congressman.”
I lean back in my seat and digest this information. “So you think the boat Prince stole wasn’t really stolen, don’t you?”
“I do. I think it was set up to make it look that way. Randall Kupper was conveniently out of town when it happened, effectively distancing him from the act.”
“Wow,” I say. “My father kicked up quite the hornet’s nest back then, didn’t he?”
Hurley nods.
“So where do we go from here? Is there a way to expose the Kuppers if they really are involved in this mess?”
Hurley grimaces, and cocks his head to one side. “Not at this point. We don’t have any evidence, just a lot of supposition.”
“Maybe we should talk to Tomas Wyzinski,” I suggest. “You know, when I was testifying against him, his eyes creeped me out. They looked dead, cold, and at the time I thought menacing. But given what we know now, I’m beginning to think that deadness was resignation, maybe even fear. He has to be worried about his brother, Lech. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that someone has threatened to hurt Lech if Tomas ever talks.”
“If that’s true,” Hurley says, “and since Tomas was willing to go to prison for the rest of his life over the matter, what makes you think he’d change his mind and talk about it now?”
“What if we offered to protect his brother?”
“You mean like witness protection?”
I shrug. “That, or something similar.”
Hurley sucks in his lower lip and then rakes his teeth over it as he lets it out. “If this thing goes as high as a congressman and a judge, I’m not sure any sort of protection offer will be enough to convince Tomas.”
He was probably right. We needed to come at it from a different direction. “What about Hal’s sister? It looked as if Hal suspected her death was tied to that weight-loss drug she was on, and someone covered it up to make it look like a suicide. Maybe we can find a lead there somehow.”
“I already thought of that,” Hurley says, looking as frustrated as I feel. “I tried to contact the ME’s office that did her autopsy, but the doc who did it has left the country. He’s in South America somewhere.”
“That in and of itself is suspicious, don’t you think?” I say, trying to swallow down my irritation over the fact that Hurley has been looking into the case but not sharing any of his findings with me until now.
“I do,” he admits. “But even if we could find him, what are the o
dds that he’s going to confess to some sort of cover-up?”
I frown and let out an exasperated sigh. All those innocent people dead, some of them people I knew and cared about, and all we have are a bunch of dead ends. It’s frustrating. I slump down in my seat, sulking, running all the facts of the case through my brain. There has to be a way, some lead we haven’t yet picked up on, or some person who will be willing to talk.
Then I remember something. “Hurley,” I say, sitting up straighter. “What about the phone data with Hal and Carolyn?”
“Phone data?” he says, looking confused. “We scrubbed the phone records and didn’t find anything useful.”
“I know, but remember how both Hal and Carolyn made calls that pinged off towers in some suburban area of Chicago right before they were killed? I don’t recall the name of the place off the top of my head—”
“Kenilworth,” he fills in for me, and I notice that he has perked up.
“Right. Kenilworth. Coincidence? Maybe. But maybe not.”
Hurley looks skeptical. “Kenilworth is a big area, and most of the people who live there are wealthy, positioned, powerful people. Even if we knew where to look, I doubt any of them will be forthcoming with any useful information.”
“We could look up the names of the people who live closest to the tower Hal and Carolyn pinged off of, and research them. See if anyone who lives in that area has anything to do with the pharmaceutical industry. It would be a lot of work, but it’s exactly the sort of thing Laura is great at and loves to do.”
Laura Kingston is an evidence technician who works full-time but splits her hours between my office, where she assists Arnie, and the police department, where she assists Jonas. According to recent rumors, she also splits her off time between her two coworkers, both of whom have a romantic interest in her.
Hurley gives me a grudging nod. “It’s worth a shot,” he says about my idea. “I don’t know if it will produce anything, but it can’t hurt to try.”
“I also think we should dig deeper into Carolyn Abernathy’s life, specifically her work life. If she was involved in this and onto something, it had to be related to her work in the clinic billing office. If we could get a look at the files she was dealing with . . .”
“We already tried that, and we were promptly shut out,” Hurley grumbles.
“Then we try again.”
He gives me a tolerant smile this time. “Easy to say, but how? We don’t have enough to get a warrant, and I’m sure they’ve disabled Carolyn’s ID badge by now, so we don’t even have access to the area where she worked.”
“There might be a way,” I tell him, thinking. “Give me a little time, and I’ll see if I can come up with a plan.”
By the time we arrive back in Sorenson at Meredith Lansing’s address, I have most of my plan figured out. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain Hurley isn’t going to like it.
CHAPTER 5
The residences for Craig Knowlton and Meredith Lansing are on opposite sides of town. Craig’s house is in one of the ritzier neighborhoods, with sprawling homes nestled on immaculately landscaped parcels of land. Meredith Lansing, on the other hand, lives in an apartment in an area of town that is largely comprised of businesses. Her immediate neighbors include a bank, a Laundromat, an auto supply store, a Quik-E-Mart, and a car wash. Her apartment complex is an eight-unit building, and hers is on the second floor. Since Meredith’s place is closest to the end of town we come in at, it’s also the first notification we decide to do.
Dawn is breaking as we pull into the lot of Meredith’s apartment building, park, and get out of the car. We climb exterior stairs to a door with the number 3 on it, and Hurley knocks. After waiting a minute, he knocks again, harder and louder. There was a doorbell at one time, but now there’s nothing but wires.
Hurley is about to knock a third time when we hear a chain lock slide. A second later, the door opens to reveal a dark-haired, sleepy-eyed man dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, both of which are rumpled. His hair is sticking up on top of his head like a rooster comb. He blinks at us, squeezes his eyes closed, and blinks again.
“Can I help you?” he says, scratching at one armpit.
Hurley flashes his badge. “I’m Detective Steve Hurley from the Sorenson Police Department, and this is Mattie, my assistant. Are you John Lansing?”
He nods and switches his scratching efforts to his chin, which has a couple days’ growth on it. “May we come in, Mr. Lansing? We need to talk to you.”
Lansing processes this request. It’s not lost on me that Hurley didn’t bother to announce what office I’m from, or give my married last name, lest he reveal our relationship. I haven’t actually changed my name yet anyway, and I’m not sure I’m going to, even though keeping the last name of my ex irks Hurley. But keeping it makes it possible to avoid awkward explanations that occur at moments like this when we’re working together.
Lansing eventually says, “Sure, I suppose.” He steps aside, and we enter the apartment’s living room. It has standard beige carpeting that is worn, and the walls are an eggshell-white. The furnishings look like garage-sale pieces: a scarred wooden coffee table, a gold fabric couch whose cushions are flattened to half their normal size, a green fabric love seat with a tear in one side, and a pressed-wood entertainment center with cockeyed doors and sagging shelves.
We make our way to the couch, and when I settle into it, I can feel a spring beneath my butt. I let Hurley take the lead, watching Lansing.
“Mr. Lansing, you’re married to Meredith Lansing, correct?”
He nods. He’s still standing a few feet inside the door.
“Do you know where your wife is right now?”
“She’s at work,” he says, scratching at his chin again. “She works the graveyard shift up at the hospital.” An ironically apt answer, I think. “Why?”
Hurley had done his due diligence before leaving the motel by calling the hospital to make sure Meredith Lansing wasn’t working, even though we were 99 percent sure she wasn’t. “Your wife is not at work,” Hurley says. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
John’s face is curious and concerned. He hesitates but then does as Hurley suggests, settling onto the love seat.
“Mr. Lansing, I’m sorry to inform you that your wife is dead,” Hurley says in a soft, sympathetic voice.
John blinks rapidly several times. “She’s dead?” he says in a tone of disbelief. “How? Where? Are you sure?”
Hurley doesn’t answer any of his questions. Instead, he fires back with one of his own. “Do you know a man by the name of Craig Knowlton?”
John looks at the floor, his expression one of shock. After a few seconds, he shakes his head. “No,” he says finally. Then he starts scratching at his head, making his rooster comb stand up even more. His eyes narrow in thought. “Though the name does seem vaguely familiar somehow. Who is he? Did he kill Meredith?”
“Your wife was shot in what appears to be a murder-suicide,” Hurley says. “Mr. Knowlton was the other victim.”
Lansing takes a few seconds to digest this before asking his next question, his expression a mix of confusion and distaste. “Are you saying this guy shot my wife?”
“It appears that way,” Hurley says.
“Is he a patient, or someone who works at the hospital?” John asks. “Is Meredith at the hospital?”
Hurley shakes his head. “Your wife and Mr. Knowlton were found together in a room at the Grizzly Motel.”
John shakes his head, as if trying to rattle something loose. “Grizzly Motel?” he echoes. “Where is that?” I’m sure he must have a hundred other, more important questions he wants to ask, but he looks to be in shock, and I’m guessing all he can focus on for now is this most recent revelation.
“It’s about twenty miles outside of town,” Hurley explains.
There is a period of silence as we give John Lansing some time to digest everything we’ve told him. I watch the expressions on his face change, from
shock and disbelief, to sadness, and then to something that looks like suspicion. I know then that he has made the connection.
“You said you found Meredith and this man at a motel,” he says. “Why? Were they having an affair?”
“It looks that way,” Hurley says in an apologetic tone. “Did you have any suspicions about her seeing someone else?”
“No,” he says, his tone wounded. “An affair? For how long?”
“We don’t know,” Hurley says. “Were you and your wife having marital problems?”
John huffs in disbelief and shrugs. “I didn’t think so. I mean, we had the occasional spat. All married couples do. But overall, I thought our relationship was a good one.” He looks perplexed, and after a moment, he says, “How did she meet this guy, this Greg whatever?”
“Craig,” Hurley corrects. “Craig Knowlton. He’s a financial adviser here in town.”
A look of dawning comes over John’s face, and he snaps his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen the name. Meredith was trying to figure out what to do with her retirement money from her last job. She wanted to roll it over.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “She was all about planning for the future, especially since I lost my job.”
“Where did you work?” I ask.
“I haven’t worked for two years,” he says, looking off to one side. “I was with an insurance company, but they had some cutbacks, and I was one of the ones they let go.” He leans forward and runs his hands through his already mussed hair. “Money is tight for us. That’s one of the things we argue about. Meredith keeps telling me to get any job I can, flip burgers if need be. But I’ve been holding out for something more in line with what I was doing before.” He leans back and sighs, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. “I suppose that’s what made her look elsewhere,” he says. His face screws up like he’s about to cry.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” I ask him. “A relative, or a friend?”
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