I steer the conversation back to work. “What have you come up with on Carolyn Abernathy?”
“I talked to her roommate, a young woman named Barb Holden. She left last Thursday right after her work shift at a grocery store and drove to Minnesota to spend the week with family. She said she texted Carolyn on Friday to let her know she arrived okay and Carolyn sent a text back, telling her to have fun. That was around eight-thirty in the morning. As far as we know, that’s the last time anyone saw or communicated with Carolyn. I’ve since verified that the roomie was and still is in Minnesota. She gave us enough verifiable locations for Friday and Saturday to rule her out.”
“What about the boyfriend?”
“Ah, yes, he’s an interesting specimen. I found his number written down in Carolyn’s address book. His name is Keith Lundberg, thirty-three, and he’s an auto mechanic at the local Ford dealership. Apparently, he and Carolyn have only been dating for about a month. I talked to him on the phone last evening and he said he hadn’t seen Carolyn since spending the night at her place last Thursday. He said he left Friday morning around seven to go to work. He claimed he tried to call and text Carolyn several times over the weekend, but she never answered. He gave us permission to look at his phone records, so once we get them we’ll see if that’s true.”
“What about her cell phone?” I ask. “We bagged it as evidence.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to Jonas yet to see if he’s looked at it. It’s on my agenda for later today. There was an interesting tidbit we got from one of Carolyn’s neighbors who said she heard yelling coming from the house on Friday morning. She said when Keith left, he slammed the door and looked mad as he walked to his car.”
“What does Keith say about that?”
“Haven’t asked him yet. I didn’t get the info about what the neighbor saw until just a bit ago. I did ask Keith if it was unusual for Carolyn not to answer his calls or texts, and he said she sometimes turned her phone off when she had studying to do.”
“What studying did she have to do at this time of year? Isn’t she on summer break?”
“Sort of. Apparently, she was taking a summer class.”
“What about her other neighbors? Did any of them see or hear anything?”
“Nope. We talked to everyone within a two-block radius and no one saw Carolyn or anyone else go in or out of the house on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, with the exception of the boyfriend early Friday morning. Several of the neighbors did say it wasn’t unusual for Carolyn to stay shut in for days at a time, and since the closest neighbors knew the roommate was out of town, no one got worried until Monday when they started picking up on the odd smell coming from the house. We also talked to her coworkers, some of her fellow students, and one of her teachers. They all seemed genuinely shocked to learn about her death, and none of them can think of anyone who would want to hurt her.”
“Man, this case is nothing but dead ends,” I say, grimacing at my unintended pun.
“An apt and accurate description,” Hurley says with a chuckle. “However inappropriate. Maybe something will pan out when I have my next chat with Keith.”
“When are you planning to do that?”
“I was thinking of heading over there now. Want to come along?”
“Sure.” I glance at my watch. “Maybe we can sneak in a lunch along the way?”
“Sounds good. Want to try out that new sandwich shop over on the east end of town?”
“Yeah, we better hit it up before it tanks.”
New restaurants pop up all the time in Sorenson, but most of them don’t last out a year. It’s not because their food is bad, or their service sucks, it’s because we have several established restaurants that are reliably good and Sorenson’s population will only support a certain number of eating establishments. Every time a new place opens up, many of the residents—myself included—will flock to it in the beginning to try out the menu. We do this knowing it may well be our one and only chance at it. Eventually the newness wears off and business slows until the doors close for good.
“I’ll pick you up out front in ten,” Hurley says.
“Got it.”
I check in with Otto to let him know where I’m going and what I’m doing, and to see if he needs help with anything. He seems to have things well under control—paperwork is tedious, but not that complicated—so I head out front to meet Hurley.
The Ford dealership where Keith Lundberg works is located near the edge of town and the assortment of new and used cars parked on the lot are all sparkling in the warm June sun.
“Thinking it’s time to consider doing a trade-in?” Hurley says as I eye one of the new SUVs on the lot.
“Nope, I love that stupid hearse. I’ll drive it until it dies. I’m just looking to see what’s out there for Emily. She’s going to need a set of wheels pretty soon.”
Hurley sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, don’t remind me. When I took her driving the other day, she was distracted by all kinds of stuff—people walking, stores we passed, a house she likes. Then her cell phone dinged with a text message, and before I knew what she was doing, she had reached into her purse and grabbed the thing. I made her pull over immediately, took the phone away, and gave her the standard lecture. But I’m worried that it went in one ear and out the other. She gets distracted so easily. I think she may have a mild case of ADD, or ADHD, or whatever that alphabet soup is.”
I shake my head. “She has a not-so-mild case of being a teenage girl,” I say. “Make her put her phone in the trunk when she’s driving. Then there’s no way for her to look at it.”
“Not a bad idea,” Hurley says with a begrudging nod. “I was thinking along the lines of giving her an extra-safe car to drive.”
“Extra-safe?” I say, turning and heading for the service counter inside.
“You know, something with reinforced side panels?”
I shoot him a look of disbelief. “You want to give Emily my hearse?”
He shrugs and flashes me a guilty smile. “You have to admit, even if she did wreck it, she’s safer than she could possibly be in any other car.”
I stop, turn, and gape at him. “What about me and Matthew? What about our safety?”
“Of course I care about that, too,” he says. “But you’re a good driver. I’m not sure Emily is or ever will be.”
“I’m not falling for your flattery diversion,” I tell Hurley, giving him a chastising look. “If you’re that worried about Emily, we should buy her a new car with side and front air bags, Bluetooth, hands-free phone and messaging capabilities, and a good crash safety record. The hearse may be reinforced, but it doesn’t have side air bags or Bluetooth capabilities. And while we can tell Emily to put her phone in the trunk until we’re blue in the face, you know there are going to be times when she won’t do it, either because she forgets or decides that this one time won’t matter.”
“I can’t afford a new car for her,” Hurley says.
“But we can,” I say. “Let’s remember we’re a team now.”
“But with you working only part-time, we’re just scraping by every month as it is. I’m not sure we can handle a new car without tapping into your savings.”
“I don’t have a car payment and you have only six months left on yours. We can handle two car payments for a few months if we have to.”
We arrive at the service desk and table the discussion for now. Hurley presents his badge to a balding, red-faced fireplug of a man behind the desk and asks to speak to Keith Lundberg.
“Can’t help you,” says Mr. Fireplug, whose first name, according to what’s stitched on his gray shirt, is BRADLEY. “He didn’t show up for work today.”
“Really?” Hurley says, and I can tell his radar has just come on. “Did he call in or just not show?”
“Just didn’t show,” Bradley says with a hint of irritation. “Bummer too, because he seemed like a good hire. Knew his stuff, showed up on time, and worked fast.�
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“How long has he worked here?” I ask.
“Only a few weeks,” Bradley says. “He moved here from somewhere in Texas. Don’t think he was from there originally, though,” he adds, squinting his eyes in thought. “His accent was more like one of them Boston types, you know? He said ‘ka,’ instead of car, that kind of thing.”
“Can you give me a home address for Mr. Lundberg?” Hurley asks.
“Sure.” Bradley hops off the stool he’s on and wanders off into the back area. After a minute or so, he returns with a slip of paper in his hand. “Here you go.”
Hurley takes it, thanks him, and we leave. When we’re back in Hurley’s car, he shows me the slip of paper and says, “This address look familiar to you?”
I read it and recognize it. “It’s the Sorenson Motel.”
He nods solemnly. “And that’s not the address Lundberg had on file with the DMV.” He takes out his cell phone and starts jabbing at the screen. “Damn. According to Google maps, the address on file with the DMV is a business.” He starts the car, shifts it angrily into gear, and pulls out.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Sorenson Motel. I have a feeling we may have let a killer get away.”
A visit to the Sorenson Motel is never high on my list of things to do, in part because I was forced to live there for a week while my cottage was being held hostage in an investigation, and in part because Joseph Wagner, the owner, is a crusty old curmudgeon who could try the patience of a saint.
It takes less than five minutes for us to drive there, and based on Joseph’s reaction when we enter his office, I’m guessing he’s about as happy to see us as I am to be here.
“You two,” he says, making a face like he just tasted something sour. He’s wearing overalls with a T-shirt that has a large arrow front and center pointing downward. Above the arrow is printed VACANCY. Given that Joseph is twice my age and looks like Larry Fine from the Three Stooges, I’m guessing that vacancy will be there for a long time.
“What sort of havoc do you want to try to wreak on my place this week?” Joseph asks.
“We’d like to know if this man is staying here,” Hurley says, showing him Keith Lundberg’s DMV photo.
“He was, but he turned in his key early this morning,” Joseph says. “He’d paid through to the end of the month, but didn’t ask for a refund. Good thing, ’cause I don’t give ’em.” Joseph’s stingy ways are probably the only thing that’s kept him in business all these years, since he hasn’t done any upgrades to the motel since the eighties and there isn’t much in the way of entertainment close by.
“Can I take a look at the room he was staying in?” Hurley asks.
“Sure,” Joseph says, shrugging. He slides off the stool he’s sitting on and walks over to a locked cabinet. He opens it, removes a key hanging under the number five, and hands it to us. “My housekeeping girl already cleaned the place, so I hope you aren’t looking for any of that forensic evidence kind of stuff.”
Hurley frowns at this. It would be better if the room hadn’t been cleaned, but there’s no guarantee of finding anything useful even if that were the case.
“How long was he here?” I ask.
“Since the start of the month. Said he wanted to pay by the week, but gave me a month’s worth to start out. Then he left after only two weeks.”
“Did he say where he was going? Or why he was leaving?” Hurley asks.
“He didn’t offer and I didn’t ask,” Joseph says.
“I don’t suppose he left a forwarding address of any kind?” I ask.
Joseph snorts a laugh.
We walk down to unit five and Hurley unlocks the door. The room is your standard motel fare: a queen-sized bed, basic bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a small table with two chairs in the corner by the door, and a credenza with a TV on top. It’s not a smart TV or even a flat screen, but a placard next to it does boast basic cable and rentable movies, including a few whose ratings could “mark the spot.”
Hurley and I do a basic tour of the room and bathroom, but there’s nothing of interest. The maid has done an excellent job. The place may not be modern or fancy, but it’s clean. As we shut the door behind us, Hurley stands there a moment, looking across the parking lot. Then he takes out his phone and makes a call.
“Bob,” he says, letting me know who the call was to. Bob Richmond is one of the other detectives with the police department, the same detective I was with when we entered the Wyzinski house. He was semiretired not long ago, but one stray bullet and a couple hundred lost pounds later, he’s back working full-time. “I need a favor,” Hurley says. “Can you meet me at the Sorenson Motel right away?” He listens for a few seconds, says, “Thanks, and bring Jonas,” and then hangs up.
“What are you going to have Jonas do?” I ask him. “That room looks like it’s been scrubbed clean.”
“It has,” Hurley says. “But that garbage Dumpster hasn’t been. Look at it. It’s full. That means it’s due to be emptied soon. I’ll bet there’s a week’s worth of trash in it. And who knows what we might find in there?”
I realize what a smart idea this is, and thank my lucky stars I’m not Jonas. Wading through a week’s worth of motel trash can’t be anyone’s idea of a fun time.
CHAPTER 11
We hang around the motel long enough for Bob Richmond and Jonas to get there and take charge of the trash.
“I want all of it,” Hurley says. “Haul it all back to the evidence room. We need to go through it and look for any clues as to who this Keith Lundberg character is and where he might have gone.”
Jonas eyes the Dumpster wearily; to his credit, he says, “I’m on it,” and then gets down to the task.
Hurley and I climb back in his car and head for the sandwich shop. It has a drive-through, and after a brief discussion, we decide to use it and take our sandwiches back to the station.
“What plans do you have for after lunch?” I ask Hurley as we wait for our food.
“After we eat, it’s garbage-sifting time,” he says.
“Oh, joy,” I say without any. My cell phone rings then, and I find myself hoping it’s a death call so I can get out of garbage duty. A second later, when I see it’s Otto calling and realize it might very well be a death call, I’m overcome with guilt. Hurley’s phone rings then, too, an ominous sign.
“Hey, Otto,” I say, hoping my assumption about the nature of the calls is incorrect.
“Hi, Mattie. I hope you got your lunch, because we just got a call.” I give Hurley a grim, questioning look and he nods back at me, looking resigned.
Our sandwiches are ready and Hurley props his phone between his ear and his shoulder as the food is handed to him. He drops the bag on the seat between us and drives on through, pulling into a nearby parking slot.
“Where?” I ask Otto at the same time Hurley asks his caller the same thing.
“They found a body trapped up against the dam downtown. So we need to go there first, but then we might need to go to the lake. The sheriff’s office got a call half an hour ago for an abandoned boat on the lake, and it has blood in it, apparently a lot of blood. Don’t know yet if the two are connected, but for now we’re going to work with both the local cops and the county guys until we figure it out.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be at the dam in ten.”
I disconnect my call and Hurley says a moment later, “Got it. I’ll be right there.” Then he disconnects his.
“The dam?” I say. He nods. “And the lake?” He nods again. “I guess lunch is going to have to wait.”
Hurley gives me a disappointed look. “Damn the dam,” he grumbles. “I’m starving. I’m going to eat mine anyway.”
I need no further convincing. “Me too.”
Hurley pulls out of the parking space and turns back onto the street, heading through town toward the dam. He has the steering wheel in one hand and his sandwich in the other, and all I can think of is how we need to make sure
Emily does what we say and not what we do. While a sandwich might be a smidge better than a cell phone, it’s a gooey, cheesy, saucy thing that provides plenty of distraction. We make a quick stop in the underground parking lot beneath my office so I can grab my camera and scene kit from the hearse. We are only blocks from the dam at this point and through some unspoken agreement we stay parked until our sandwiches have been fully inhaled.
We arrive at the site a few minutes later and park on a bridge that spans the river. Parked in front of us are a couple of marked cop cars and an unmarked sedan, which I recognize as Junior Feller’s. Junior has been with the Sorenson PD for twelve years and he’s a Sorenson lifer, like me. He was promoted to detective a couple of years ago, and mostly handles vice issues. But he also gets pulled in to help on any homicides. It’s a small-town police department, so crossovers are common and necessary. Junior is standing several feet away, talking to Brenda Joiner. When he sees us, he comes trotting over. I hear sirens closing in and give Junior a questioning look.
“I thought we had a dead body,” I say, thinking the sirens are ambulances.
“We do. That’s the fire department,” he explains. “We’re going to need their help retrieving the body. It’s over there.” He points across a grassy expanse on the far side of the bridge toward the dam, which is located in the town’s small park area.
The river that flows through town runs into a lake two miles or so below the dam, and it’s fed from above us by another lake, which is about a mile upriver. While the width of the river for most of its run through town is roughly two to three hundred feet, here in front of the dam it pools out into a wide, shallow area creating a mini lake of sorts with a grassy, tree-studded park area all around it. It’s Sorenson’s equivalent to a town square, and it serves as the site of the annual fireworks on the Fourth of July, and any number of other town functions. It’s a peaceful, bucolic setting located just outside the center of town, and the townsfolk come down here all the time during the summer months for picnics, games, fishing, or the occasional lover’s tryst on a blanket beneath one of the many towering oaks bordering the river’s edge. So it’s no surprise to see there are dozens of lookie-loos hovering around the taped perimeter Junior and the uniformed officers have already set up.
Dead in the Water Page 10