Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (11 page)

Chapter
Sixteen

Head Shot

Minneapolis
& St. Paul, MN

Late October

J
O WOKE UP EARLY, FEELING
exhausted and sick to her stomach.
She had felt better most of the day before, and assumed she was finally getting
over the flu, but she had to admit she still felt awful. A wave of nausea came
over her and she staggered into the bathroom, just in time.

John rushed in behind her. “Jo,
are you alright?” He handed her a damp washcloth.

A suspicion crept into her head
that something else was going on, but she quickly quashed the thought before
replying to John’s question. “I…I think I picked up another bug. I was feeling
a little off yesterday, but then it passed. Ugh, I feel like crap.”

Her brought her a glass of water
and as she rinsed out her mouth, he said, “Jo, I know you are supposed to be
meeting with Billy MacGregor this morning, but you can’t go anywhere like this.
Why don’t I meet with him and convince him to talk to Frisco?”

The idea was tempting, but she
shook her head. “You had a hard enough time getting him to trust me in the
first place. I’m feeling a little better now. It’ll be fine….”

There was a deep frown line
between John’s brows. “Really? The paleness of your face would suggest
otherwise.” He put his hand to her forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.
Any other symptoms? Headaches, body aches...anything like that?”

She walked to the sink and rinsed
the washcloth in cold water. When she replaced the washcloth on her forehead,
the coolness made her feel a bit more in control. “No. Seriously, I’m already
feeling better. Look, I’ll meet with MacGregor and come straight home again if
I’m still feeling bad afterwards.”

John didn’t look convinced. “Well,
I know how important this is to your case…but, you need to take care of
yourself. You’re not going to be able to solve anything if you are laid up in a
hospital.”

Jo forced a smile on her lips. “It
would take a lot more than a stomach bug to put me in the hospital. I’m a tough
FBI agent, remember?”

He didn’t return her smile and
looked only a little less worried when he said, “Can I get you something?”

“Just my dignity. Not cool to get
sick in front of my fiancée.”

Jo got ready for work and only
felt dizzy once, which she managed to hide from John. She was shoving the notes
she had taken on Wellborne from the previous evening into her briefcase when
her phone buzzed.

She nabbed her keys from the hook.
Tucking her cell phone between her chin and shoulder, she said, “Hey, Frisco.
What’s up?”

The detective’s voice was grave.
“We got a call this morning from a bakery over off of University. One of their
people went out back for a smoke and found Billy MacGregor’s body in the
alley.”

Jo put the keys back on the hook
and closed her eyes.
“Any idea what
happened to him?”

Frisco’s voice sounded as weary as
she felt when he responded. “An apparent heroin overdose. The ME is on her way
over, so we’ll know more soon. Looks like you can forget your meeting with
him.”

Jo watched as John came into the
kitchen. At his raised eyebrows, she whispered, “Frisco” and he nodded.

Into the phone, she said, “Are you
heading over to the scene? Do you want me to join you?”

“Nah. I got this. I’ll call you if
anything comes up.”

 
“Thanks for the heads up, Frisco. I’ll talk to
John again and see if he has any additional details. Call me when you get back
from the scene and we’ll head over to Billy MacGregor’s house again. I’d like
to look around and see if we can find whatever it is he said he was going to
show me. Guess we’re back to square one.”

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 that
other woman was in my kitchen just now, but this is the Lucinda I know…my
kick-ass literary agent.