Prior Bad Acts (20 page)

“I’m sorry for you,” Kovac said softly. “I’m sorry you have to go through it. I’m sorry I had to tell you about the girlfriend.”

Carey shook her head. “No. Don’t be.”

She stared down at the desk drawer, then finally pulled it open and took out the file. She handed it across the desk.

“What’s this?”

“Evidence. I’ll be using it in court.”

Kovac paged through the contents. “How long have you been saving this up?”

“Since this morning. I did a little detective work of my own. He wasn’t even bothering to hide it.”

“That rotten, rat bastard son of a bitch,” Kovac growled half under his breath as he looked at the hotel receipts and florist bills. He picked out the list of escort agencies and turned red with anger. If David had been there, Carey had little doubt that Kovac would have punched him in the face.

He pulled out a copy of several canceled checks made out to the property management company. “What are these for?”

“He’s paying for an apartment,” she said, and recited the address to him. “For himself or for one of his little playmates. I called the company this morning, pretending to be David’s new accountant. I needed information. The last accountant left things in a terrible mess. Couldn’t they help me out? All I needed was the address of the property.”

“And they gave it up,” Kovac said.

Carey nodded.

Kovac picked up the copy of the note regarding twenty-five thousand dollars. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “It was in his wastebasket this morning.”

“It’s a payoff,” he said.

“You don’t know that. It could mean anything. A debt. Something related to his business. He’s talked about buying a boat.”

Everything she said sounded like an excuse. If she had been sitting in Kovac’s place, she knew what she would have been thinking.

“In October?” Kovac said. “Who buys a boat right before winter?”

Carey didn’t answer him.

“Carey . . .”

“David is a lot of things,” she said softly, looking down at the desk. “But I can’t believe he would do what you’re suggesting.”

“Before you found this stuff, would you have believed he was living a secret life? That he was cheating on you with prostitutes every time you turned your back? That he would use your maiden name as his alias?”

She looked up at him, startled and hurt.

“You didn’t know that part,” Kovac said gently. “What else don’t you know about him?”

What could she say? She was married to a stranger.

“Things weren’t always like this between us,” she said at last, feeling the need to justify having stayed in the marriage. “We were in love once. The last couple of years, we’ve grown apart. He’s slowly become this bitter, unhappy person. I wanted just to gloss over it, to think he was frustrated with his lack of success. I didn’t want to come down on him, because I knew his ego was fragile and my career was going so well.”

She brushed a thumb beneath her eyes. “And there was Lucy. She loves her daddy. If nothing else, he’s been a good father. He adores Lucy. The sun rises and sets on her.

“I didn’t care that he didn’t love me anymore. I had my career, my daughter. I could make that be enough.”

She felt weak, was trembling ever so slightly. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so defeated in her life. Kovac just sat there quietly, watching her with sympathy in his world-weary face.

“I’d like to go home now,” Carey announced, pushing herself to her feet. “I need to rest up for the big scene.”

“You’re telling him tonight?” Kovac said, rising from his chair. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Why wait? I’ve waited too long as it is.”

Kovac gently caught her by the arm as she came around the desk, headed for the door. His touch surprised her.

“I can be right there for you,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

And he meant it, Carey thought. This hardened street cop, who didn’t even like her, would help her through this if she asked. And she had no doubt that he would follow through. That was who Sam Kovac was—blunt, honest, reliable—and not for any reason other than he simply believed that that was the right thing to do.

“I really don’t want an audience,” she said.

“I’ll stay outside.”

Carey shook her head. “I already have two officers sitting out front. David is as aware of them as I am. He wouldn’t risk touching me. He has a whole other life to live for. I can guarantee you prison isn’t on his agenda.”

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Kovac said.

“Well, that’s what I’ll want to be—alone. Despite all recent evidence to the contrary, I prefer to cry in private.”

He didn’t like the idea at all. He wanted to protect her. What a lovely thought, someone looking out for her, someone to lean on, someone volunteering to shoulder the burden for her.

“I appreciate the thought,” she said. “I really do.”

“I don’t trust him, Carey.”

“Don’t worry. David is far too passive-aggressive to hurt me himself.”

“I want you to call me after,” Kovac said. He still had hold of her arm and stood close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. Peppermint . . . and the faintest hint of scotch.

She arched a brow. “Drinking on the job, Detective?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, that little tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You drove me to it.”

“Well, then, I guess your secret should be safe with me.”

She took a step away from him, and he let go of her arm.

His expression turned serious. “Be careful. And call me. And remember: I can be there before you hang up the phone.”

Carey nodded. “Thank you . . . Sam. Thank you.”

She wanted to put her arms around him and hug him for being kind. Or because she wanted to feel strong arms around her, supporting her, protecting her. She felt so alone.

Instead, she thanked him again and went to the door. Lucy’s face lit up.

“Mommy, I learned how to arrest somebody.”

Officer Young smiled at her. “What do you say to the bad guys?”

Lucy put her hands on her hips and made her best mean face. “Assume the position!”

Carey chuckled. “We have to go now, sweetie. Thank Officer Young and Detective Kovac.”

Lucy said her thanks to the officer, then went to Kovac’s feet and looked up at him. “Thank you for holding my hand, Detective Kovac.”

Kovac leaned down and shook her hand formally. “You’re welcome, Fairy Princess Lucy. You can call me Sam.”

The little girl smiled, delighted. “I like you, Detective Sam. Will you carry me?”

“Lucy!” Carey exclaimed.

Kovac looked uncomfortable and slightly terrified. He glanced up at Carey.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

But when he looked back at Lucy, he couldn’t seem to say no. Lucy put her arms around his neck and sat in the crook of his arm, looking pleased as punch with herself.

“I’m going to pretend you’re a giant,” she said. She jabbered at him all the way to the car.

When he put her down on the sidewalk, he turned to Carey, his expression dead serious. “You call me, I’m there. Be careful.”

Carey nodded and slipped into the backseat of the Mercedes. All the way home, she thought of how much her father would have liked Sam Kovac.

29

“YOU PLACE KIDS
in foster homes, you worry if the foster parents are just in it for the money or if it might turn out they’re abusive. You never think about some psycho killing them.”

Marcella Otis had been the Family Services caseworker for Wayne and Marlene Haas regarding their fostering of Amber Franken’s two children. Liska had arranged to meet her at a coffee shop on the Nicollet pedestrian mall just a few blocks from the police station. They sat at a sidewalk table, soaking up the glorious day, nursing their drinks, and talking. They probably looked as if they were just two ordinary women chatting about ordinary things. Only the people at the next table, who were quite obviously eavesdropping, knew better.

Ms. Otis was a sight to see. A woman of considerable substance in a neon green tunic and pants, an African-looking multicolored pillbox hat perched atop ropes and ropes of cornrows. She wore hip rectangular glasses and an abundance of silver jewelry.

“I was just sick when I saw it on the news. I’ll never forget that night. That terrible thunderstorm. Just waiting for a tornado to take the house. It seemed like a nightmare, but it was all too real. I remember everything turned green just before it hit, the sky, the air. Freaky.”

She closed her eyes and shivered at the memory.

“Had the kids’ father ever surfaced before the murders?” Liska asked.

“Ethan Pratt? Ha! That’s a good one. He had no more interest in those children than the man in the moon.”

“But I heard he’s suing the county for endangering them.”

Marcella pursed her lips and made a face. “He’s all interested now. Those kids are worth more to him dead than they ever would have been alive. That boy’s a damn coyote, picking at their bones. He’s making noise about suing what’s left of the Haas family too. Like those poor people haven’t been through enough tragedy.”

Liska nodded. “Yeah. I talked to Bobby Haas a little while ago. He’s been through more than any one person should go through in a lifetime. Finding Marlene and the two children. His own mother dying of cancer.”

“Cancer?” Marcella said, arching a brow.

“He told me Marlene Haas was his stepmother,” Liska said. “That his real mother died of cancer a few years ago.”

“If he was talking about the first Mrs. Haas, that’s just not true,” Marcella said. “The first Mrs. Haas was carrying laundry down to the basement, slipped, and fell down the stairs. She died of a broken neck.”

Liska sat back. “Why would he lie about something like that?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’d have to ask him. Maybe he just doesn’t want to think about one more person being snatched out of his life so suddenly.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Haas?”

Marcella nodded. “Rebecca. A very sweet lady with a big heart. She and Wayne were talking about taking on another child. I had just been to their home to speak with them about it a day or two before the accident.”

“You said
if
Bobby was talking about her,” Liska said. “Who else would he have been talking about?”

“His birth mother, I suppose.” She took a long sip of her chai latte.

“Bobby Haas is adopted?”

“Yes. Wayne and Rebecca took him on as their first foster child when Bobby was ten. They ended up adopting him. And now that I think about it, his birth mother didn’t die of cancer either. She committed suicide.” She fondled a chunk of biscotti while she pulled the memory up. “That’s right. She hanged herself.”

“Jesus,” Liska muttered.

“If I remember correctly, she was a seriously disturbed woman. Bobby Haas had gone through the tortures of the damned before he ever became Bobby Haas.”

“Does he have any history? Trouble in school? Trouble on the streets?”

“No. I hear he’s an excellent student. Hasn’t been in any trouble ever that I know of. Why? Is he in trouble now?”

“No,” Liska said absently. “Not that I know of.”

“He’s a good kid,” Marcella said. “If I’d gone through half of what he’s gone through, I would’ve gone crazy a long time ago.”

“Maybe he did,” Liska said softly. “There are a lot of ways to go crazy. The ones who do it quietly are the ones you have to worry about most.”

“You can’t possibly think he had anything to do with those murders,” Marcella said. “The boy was inconsolable when it happened. Karl Dahl is your killer.”

“Yeah,” Liska said, her mind already moving on from the conversation. “Actually, I’m looking in to the attack on Judge Moore.”

The social worker sniffed and made another face. “I hate to sound un-Christian,” she said, “but there are a whole lotta people in this city who would have lined up for the chance to take a whack at her.”

Yes, Liska thought, but more and more she was thinking maybe Bobby Haas had been at the head of that line.

30

“SO LET’S HAVE
the update, people.”

Lieutenant Dawes stood at the head of the table in the conference room. The war room, they called it when they were working a case like this. One entire wall was covered side to side with whiteboard. Leads, questions, details were written on it in Dry Erase marker, easily wiped away for the next terrible case.

“I’ve been looking for any record of Stan Dempsey owning property other than his house,” Elwood said. “Nothing. But I did discover there are forty-one land-owning Dempseys in the metro area. One of them might be a relative. I’ve got people making those calls right now.”

“Did we locate his ex?” Liska asked.

“In a cemetery,” the lieutenant said. “She passed away last year. Brain tumor.

“And I’ve heard nothing from the daughter,” Dawes went on. “I reached out to the Portland PD to ask them to locate her if they can.”

“Did anyone warn Kenny Scott about Stan?” Kovac asked. “As Dahl’s defense attorney, he’s a prime target.”

“I called him,” Dawes said. “Got his machine. I’ve dispatched a radio car to go over there and sit on his house until he shows up. Hopefully, he got out of town for the weekend.”

“He might want to think of making that a permanent move,” Tippen said. “If his address goes public, he’s going to have angry villagers with their pitchforks and torches on his front lawn.”

“He’s court appointed,” Dawes said. “He didn’t choose to represent Karl Dahl.”

“No,” Tippen conceded, “but he chose to represent him with zeal.”

“Minnesotans hate zeal,” Elwood said. “Zeal is right up there on the list of suspicious emotional behaviors like joy and despair.”

“Always err on the side of blandness,” Tippen advised.

Dawes turned to Kovac. “Sam, what have you got?”

“A headache,” he said. “I don’t like the husband’s alibi witnesses. One is too slick; the other is a hooker. Moore checked into the Marquette around three yesterday. Moore and the hooker were in the lobby bar from six, six-fifteen on. In between time he was banging the hooker, not beating his wife’s head in. The slick one, Edmund Ivors, joined them around seven.”

“Edmund Ivors?” Tippen repeated. “I know that name from somewhere.”

“He’s some kind of multiplex movie mogul,” Kovac said. “The most interesting part is that they were joined briefly by a third guy. Neither Moore nor Ivors mentioned a third man when I questioned them. The bartender described the guy as thirtyish, blond, dark jeans, black jacket, black T-shirt. Was there for maybe ten minutes.”

“Long enough to say, ‘Hey, I tried to kill your wife. I got run off. I want my money,’” said Dawes.

“That’s what it looks like to me. We’ll need paperwork to get the hotel to hand over the surveillance video.”

“Did the bartender see them make an exchange of some kind?”

Kovac shook his head. “She was busy. She saw the guy talking with them; then she didn’t see him. Dickhead Moore, Slick, and the Bird woman then went off to dinner and Christ knows what else. The bartender said Ivors struck her as the kind of slimebag who likes to watch.”

Liska crinkled her nose. “Eeewww!”

“What’s Moore’s motive?” Elwood asked. “Besides that he’s an asshole.”

“Money,” Kovac said. “She divorces him, he gets half. He has her killed, he gets it all.”

“Is she divorcing him?” Liska asked, watching him with particular scrutiny.

“The handwriting is on the wall,” Kovac said, avoiding her eyes. He wouldn’t betray Carey’s trust. No one needed to know the famous final scene was still hours away, least of all Liska. “That clown’s been living off her for a while now, I’d say. He hasn’t made a film in years. He’s out running with the dogs while she’s in the hospital with a concussion. You can cut the tension between them with a knife.”

“She’s got money?” Dawes asked.

“Family money,” Tippen said. “The Greers of old were in the lumber business. Huge fortunes were amassed on the backs of immigrant lumberjacks. Alec Greer’s father branched out to mining taconite when that was still lucrative, and got out while the getting was good. Judge Greer is well off. Unless he leaves it all to charity, his daughter should inherit a bundle.”

Dawes raised her eyebrows. “Thank you, Mr. History Channel.”

“I’m a Renaissance man,” Tippen said. “A bon vivant. A raconteur.”

“You’re full of crap,” Liska said, tossing a ballpoint pen at him.

Tippen fired back a chocolate-covered coffee bean. Liska squealed as it hit her in the forehead.

Dawes assumed the role of mother. “Tippen, do I have to take those away from you before you put someone’s eye out?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Is Judge Moore’s father healthy?” she asked Kovac.

“No. On his way out. Carey is his only child—”

Liska burned a look into him and mouthed
Carey?

“If she’s out of the picture, then the old man’s money would pass to his only grandchild, her daughter, Lucy. Lucy’s five years old. Moore would have control of whatever she inherited.”

“This is all a neat theory,” Dawes said. “What do you have to back it up?”

“My years of experience and wisdom,” Kovac said. “Get me a warrant and I’ll prove it. A search warrant for the house and a warrant for Dickhead’s financials.”

“And what are you going to use to get a warrant, Detective?” Dawes asked. “Your good looks?”

“And charming personality.”

Dawes rolled her eyes. “What have you got, Nikki?”

“Nothing much. I haven’t been able to confirm Bobby Haas’s alibi or to break it. One strange thing: When I was talking to him today, he told me that Marlene Haas was his stepmother, and his real mother died of cancer. But when I spoke to the caseworker from social services, she told me the kid’s adopted, that his birth mother committed suicide, and Wayne Haas’s first wife died from a broken neck when she fell down the basement stairs with a basket of laundry.”

“So nobody had cancer?” Elwood said.

Liska shook her head. “No. That’s a pretty weird thing to lie about, wouldn’t you say?”

“How old is this kid?” Tippen asked.

“Seventeen.”

“And he’s had that much violent tragedy in his life?” Dawes asked. “Maybe he just wanted to eliminate one of them. How would a kid feel, having all of that in his background? The only thing my fifteen-year-old son wants is to be exactly like everybody else his age.

“This boy probably feels like people think he’s some kind of a freak. At least saying his mother died of cancer is something other kids have a frame of reference for.”

Liska looked at Kovac. He knew her well enough to see all the subtle signs that something about this kid was bothering her.

He shrugged. “You can’t arrest the kid for saying his mother died of cancer when she didn’t. And if you can’t get a witness to put him at the parking ramp, you can’t pin the assault on him.

“I’m putting my money on the future ex.”

“I’m sure you are,” Liska said.

Kovac lowered his eyebrows.

“I’m taking Dempsey,” Tippen said. “He’s openly crazy. He’s made threats. What’s beating a woman with a club to a guy who might be willing to torture someone with an electric carving knife?”

“No wagering in my presence, please,” Dawes announced. “Let’s all get back to it. We’ve got to make something happen.”

“Any word on Karl Dahl?” Kovac asked as he rose from his seat.

She shook her head. “The man has vanished. The dogs never got on a scent. No one credible has seen him. We’re getting the usual tips from psychics and religious fanatics and people who just call because they’re lonely and they want someone to talk to. And lots of dead ends. I’ve got uniforms running all over town, chasing down bald-headed men.”

“He’s the kind of guy who lives off the radar,” Tippen said. “A shadow figure on society’s fringes.”

“I thought that was you,” Liska said, standing up.

Tippen gave her a mean look. “You’re very short and perky.”

“Fuck you.”

As they all moved toward the door, Dawes nodded for Kovac to hang behind.

“You have that strong a feeling about Judge Moore’s husband?”

“You’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg of my hatred for this jerk.”

“I’ll make sure we get the security video from the hotel bar ASAP. Maybe we can get a line on this mystery man. We can at least compare the video to the one from the parking ramp. See if it could be the same guy.”

“If I could get Moore’s financials, maybe I could find evidence of payoffs for the hit.”

“I don’t see a judge giving us a warrant based on what we have, Sam. Do you think Judge Moore would swear out a complaint on him?”

“For what? If being a lousy husband was against the law, I’d be doing twenty-five to life,” Kovac said. “Besides, I don’t think she would do it. She has her daughter to consider. And her reputation. I don’t see her filing a complaint on some half-baked accusation just to get the Dickhead in our box so we can break him.”

Dawes sighed. “Do you have any excuse to bring him in for questioning?”

Kovac thought of the file folder he’d locked in the trunk of his car. He’d only glimpsed through it, but he knew there was plenty of evidence of Moore’s infidelity. But if he brought David Moore in for that, then he tipped Carey’s hand.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“I could ask him to come in for a noncustodial interview,” he said.

“Will he cooperate?”

“No,” he conceded. “He won’t cooperate. The first thing he’ll do is squeal for a lawyer, and then we’re fucked.”

He looked away and sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Boss. I’d throw the jerk into a snake pit if I could, but if we bring him in on what I’ve got, that just gives him time to circle the wagons, tip off the doer.”

Dawes nodded. “All right. We can put a tail on him.”

“You can get the overtime for that?”

“Already blessed from on high. The brass wants this doer’s head on a silver platter.”

“I mean to make that happen,” Kovac said. “I’ll even stick an apple in his mouth for the ceremony.”