Authors: Midge Bubany
“I don’t know that they don’t,” Ralph said. “Let me give Stan Haney a call.”
After a lot of “uh huh’s” and a “sounds good,” Ralph ended the call. A grin crossed his face and he shot up from his chair.
“There
is
a fairly new camera in the parking lot, behind the security lights—it was programmed to record only after hours from 5:30 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. I’ll run over and pick up the discs while you boys continue to work on your reconciliation.
Reconciliation?
After Ralph left the room, neither of us said anything for a time. Finally, I broke the ice. “Did you know she asked me out the night of the murders?”
He looked at me blankly. He’d been with her the night before.
I said, “So why did she do that? You two were already dating.”
“She knew I was with April in Vegas and one date didn’t mean we were exclusive.”
“Did she tell you we had been together?”
He looked out the window. “Eventually, yeah.”
“That wasn’t a problem for you? Because it is one hell of a problem for me. I don’t share women with guys I know.”
He looked out the window and didn’t respond. Disgusted, I got up and left to use the john.
Chapter 42
T
roy sat next to me
at my computer as I scrolled through the two-county garage security discs for October 7th. The date and time were recorded in the lower right hand corner. The camera had been installed last summer, and Stan told Ralph he’d never had a reason to even check the discs. I could see why. The only things the camera caught meandering through the lot were rabbits, cats, birds, coyotes, and even a lone fox. Just when I was starting to think this was a waste of time, at 6:30 a.m., a figure wearing dark clothing and a black baseball cap entered the screen from the left sidewalk, and walked toward the camera.
“Here it is,” I said. “Look like a small adult to you?”
“I’ll be damned. Pause it,” he said.
“Shit, the visor’s pulled down so we can’t see the face, but it could be Naomi. Looks like her walk.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The figure walked out of view.
“She’s going to the office to get the keys,” I said. “And how many people have keys to that place?”
“Probably very few.”
About five minutes later the figure came back on screen, walked over to a pick-up, got in and drove out of the lot.
He said, “Rerun that. Stop.”
When I did, I noticed the number on the side of the truck and pointed to it. “Look there. It’s #13, the truck we thought Ronny drove out to Emmaline.”
“That’s definitely not Ronny. So what are you thinking?” Troy said.
I said, “This is how I see it: Naomi knew Ted Kohler would be out at Emmaline the morning of the 7th and she drove #13 out there. Ronny and Gus were scheduled to bring the dock in later in the morning, so when his dentist appointment is canceled Ronny calls Gus and is told to meet him out at Emmaline. For some reason Ronny decides to go early, takes #10, drives out to Emmaline and sees #13 there already. He wonders what’s going on, leaves his cell phone and keys in the truck, and unwittingly becomes a witness to a murder. Naomi shoots him too. When she goes to leave, Ronny’s truck #10 is blocking #13, so she drives #10 back into town. But by that time, the camera is off. She had plenty of opportunity and time to manipulate the truck sign-out after the fact, but I don’t think she knew it was a problem until I found Ronny’s cell phone in #10.”
“She calls me to pick up the doughnuts because she’s running late: Ronny was a complication she wasn’t counting on.”
“It also gives her an alibi. I’m calling Ralph up to see this.”
In short order,
Ralph viewed the footage beside us. “Dang it. The face isn’t visible, but I’ll get Samantha Polansky on it to see if she can help us enlarge the image. You know the number of people who have keys to that building is limited.”
“That’s what we were saying,” Troy said.
Ralph gave us each a pat on the shoulder. “Good work. We’re darn close to proving our case.”
“She set him up, waited for us to figure it out, then after we questioned him, she manipulated him out to the cabin and killed him, then set up the suicide so she, the poor widow, could get a million bucks. Sweet revenge for two men who wronged her.”
Troy’s phone rang. Before answering he looked at the display. “It’s Naomi.”
“Take it,” Ralph said. “Just don’t let on about any of this.”
While Troy took the call, Ralph got hold of Samantha, and I busied myself burning copies of the disc.
When Troy’s call ended, he said, “She wants to know if I could get her a copy of the cause of death. She also said she went to see you, Ralph, and you mentioned new evidence.”
“What did you tell her?” Ralph asked.
“I pretended I didn’t know anything about it . . . that you two left me out of the loop and I was pissed.”
I gave him a nod of approval. “She probably believed that.”
“She wants me to come over to her place at seven o’clock for dinner tonight. I told her I’d get back to her. What do you want me to do, Ralph?”
“Go. See what she’s up to.”
“Problem is, I’m not that good at pretending. I think she’ll suspect something’s wrong.”
“You have to do this, Troy,” I said.
“Wear a wire,” Ralph said.
We sent an email to Samantha asking her to take a look and get back to us. She called within minutes.
“Because of the camera angle and visor of the cap, I can’t get a good still of the face, but I enlarged a shot so you could see the clothing. It’s a black Northface jacket, black jeans and black ballet slippers. I’ll send you the enlargements.”
“Why ballet slippers?” she asked.
I said what came to mind, “They’re small and maybe could be worn inside boots or something.”
Troy reluctantly agreed
to accept Naomi’s invitation and wear a wire. While he went home to change, Ralph and I set up the Tech van, normally used for drug surveillance. We parked around the corner, a half block away. Before Troy went in, he stopped in the van so Samantha could tape a wire under his shirt.
“If I’m gonna get laid at the end of this I’m taking off the wire.”
“Yeah, we don’t want to hear that shit,” I said.
“Speak for yourself,” Samantha said.
I laughed but Ralph, remaining serious said, “Getting laid isn’t part of this deal. Restrain yourself.”
From what we heard
of the conversation, Naomi’s kids were at her in-laws, and she’d roasted a chicken for dinner. While they ate, they made boring, small talk, but my ears perked up when out of the blue Naomi asked, “So tell me what new evidence you have that makes you all want to reopen Jeremy’s case?”
“I told you I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Don’t you hold team meetings and discuss those things?”
“Yeah, sure, but I’ve been busy with the burglaries. I don’t know, maybe they don’t trust me not to tell you.”
“Why is it such a big, friggin’ secret?”
“I haven’t a clue. You do know, I’m not even supposed to be here because of Jeremy’s case.”
“I wish you would’ve been there when I talked to Ralph and Cal. They were totally weird. It was like they were playing cat and mouse with me. Why would they do that?”
“Beats me. They’re assholes.”
“I’m just saying it’s funny they’re not telling you anything. Do they not think Jeremy shot Kohler and Peterson?”
“Yeah, I don’t think Cal likes him as the shooter.”
“Why? With all the evidence they have.”
“They must think if Jeremy was murdered it means he probably he was set up for the murders.”
“Oh, for god’s sake. Who would set him up?”
“You tell me . . . Assholes.”
“No seriously, Troy, who would set him up?”
“Someone who could benefit from his death.”
“Like who?”
“Like Tiffany. She must be his beneficiary. I’ll run that by them tomorrow.”
“Oh, let’s not talk about this anymore. I want you to fuck me.”
Fumbling sounds. “Wait . . . what is this?
“A pager.”
“Nobody wears a pager under a shirt. Is it a wire?”
More fumbling. “Fuck!”
“Don’t,” Troy said.
“Get the hell out of my house!” Naomi screamed.
Chapter 43
DAY FIFTY-SIX
T
oxicology reports showed Jeremy Moberg
had no alcohol or drugs in his system at the time of death—indicating the bottle of Johnny Walker had been staged—but his case was never officially reopened because we didn’t have enough evidence to arrest Naomi or anyone else. Therefore, Naomi was granted her million dollars insurance payout. The three of us investigators vowed to keep tabs on her as best we could, but I could tell the interest was waning.
It was the morning of December 1st, and in a team meeting, Ralph told us the Mobergs were afraid they’d never see their grandchildren again if they didn’t treat her as if she was innocent. After a simple memorial service in Florida, they released their son’s ashes in the Gulf of Mexico. Then to show their loyalty and faith in their daughter-in-law, they took her and the grandkids to Disneyland for five days.
“So basically, they’re letting it go. Are you willing to do that, Ralph?” I asked.
Ralph said, “If we don’t have the physical evidence or a confession, there’s not much any of us can do about it.
“Did you ever consider that Naomi actually told the truth, Cal?” Troy said. “The only real evidence we have that Jeremy didn’t kill himself was the lack of prints on the bottom of the lock box and key.”
“And the staged bottle of Scotch, and the fact Naomi said he called her crying.
When
did she have those conversations? I studied his phone records—a few short conversations—not the kind where somebody carries on crying—and she tells his parents they’re reconciling, but Jeremy and Tiffany are making fricking wedding plans. It doesn’t add up. She committed the perfect murders.”
“Maybe you’re right, but until we have physical evidence or a confession, our hands are tied,” Ralph said.
“What about the film of the person entering the garage to get the keys to the truck. We have a good shot of the ballet slippers, if nothing else. See if Naomi purchased any.”
“Shoot,” Ralph said.
“What?” I said.
“A bag of clothes found at the community college was turned it—had some black slipper shoes. I didn’t think much of it. Thought they were probably just some co-eds,” he said.
“Where is it?”
“In the evidence room . . . just . . . in case.”
I raced up to the room to check the bag out. Troy and Ralph followed me. I took it to the investigations office and pulled the items out with gloved hands. The shoes were black ballet slippers. Troy opened up the file with the film to compare.
“They look the same to me,” I said. “And see the blood smear on this sleeve? Jesus, we could have our physical evidence, Ralph!”
“Oh, I didn’t see the blood. But does the saying
too good to be true
ring a bell?” Ralph answered. “ Do we even have DNA samples from Jeremy’s family members?”
“The lab should still have the samples taken when Jeremy died. We need to send this in for DNA top priority testing,” I said.
“All right, I’ll give Leslie Rouch a call, but I hope you’re not disappointed with the results.”
“It’s a long shot,” Troy said. “Some random bag, thrown in a garbage can at the college? It’s probably contaminated.”
Yeah, maybe it was a long shot, but I was absolutely sure Naomi had planned and carried out the murders down to the smallest detail—after all, she was a
perfectionist like me
.
Chapter 44
DAY SIXTY-FOUR
I
t was the ninth of
December and the dusting of snow on the lawns sparkled in the streetlights. I’d volunteered to pick Shannon up for the department Christmas party at Cadillac Jack’s. On the drive to Bensons’ I muttered to myself about the DNA tests not being back yet. The two cases haunted me—day and night I found myself mulling the details, trying to figure where Naomi had tripped up—and second-guessing if I was wrong about her.
As I drove by the Super 8, I noticed a family walking in, struggling with their kids and luggage, but still looking happy. The Kohler and Moberg kids wouldn’t have both parents to vacation with anymore.
I pulled into Bensons’ driveway feeling like it was a date, but I knew better than to call it that. I was about to get out and walk up to the door when Shannon stepped out of the front door. Good god, she was wearing a dress and heels. I hopped out and went around and opened the door for her, and supported her elbow as she stepped up onto my running board.
“You look nice,” I said. “You should wear a dress more often—show off your legs.”
“Right.” She pulled her long coat closed.
“I think your legs are sexy.”
They were strong and muscular. I did think they were sexy.
“Oh, shut it,” she said.
I grinned. I loved to compliment her—watch her get flustered.
“I can’t believe you bought a dead man’s truck. God, I think it might be bad luck or something,” she said.
“Yeah, like that’s what I want to hear.”
She giggled. “I’m kidding ya, Sheehan. It’s a real nice truck. I hardly notice the aura surrounding it.”
“Shut up.”
She giggled again.
We took seats at a table with Troy, April, Austin Spanney, and his date, Lauren something. Since the conversation centered on department business and gossip, April and Lauren, sitting side by side, disconnected and engaged in their own conversations.
After the meal Sheriff Wittman got up to speak. He abruptly announced his retirement and the special election in May to elect a new sheriff. He said although he encouraged Ralph to run, he said he wasn’t interested, but would continue until that time. Now that depressed me. I liked working under Ralph.
I needed to go to the restroom, and as I walked in, I ran into Bob Brutlag.
“Hey, did Jack make his big announcement yet?” he asked.
“Yeah. You knew?”
“Yeah, he told my old man. Say, guess who I ran into at the airport in Minneapolis.”
“Who?”
“Naomi Moberg.”
“Okay?”
“She was with her kids and . . . wait for it . . .Tiffany Howard.”
“Tiffany? No shit?”
“Yeah, and she fell all over herself explaining why Tiffany was with her.”
“What did she say?”
“That Tiffany had become important to her kids and she wanted to maintain the relationship.”
“Wow, so they travel together? That surprises me.”
“Juanita says it’s way too weird.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Where were they going?”
“Chicago.”
I couldn’t wait to tell Troy what I’d learned, but upon hearing it, all he said was, “Strange.”
“Something’s wrong with that.”
“I’ll talk about it Monday morning but tonight is party time.”
At eleven o’clock, Shannon mentioned she’d like to get home to her boys, so we left shortly after.
On the drive back in to town she said, “I overheard what you told Troy about Naomi and Tiffany. What do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t think Naomi would befriend Tiffany now unless there was something in it for her.”
“What would that be?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to go talk to Tiffany’s parents tomorrow.”
“It takes a lot of patience to be a good detective.”
“I guess.”
She gave me one of her killer smiles. I let a couple seconds pass before I gathered the courage to say, “Shannon, I really like spending time with you. Is there anyway you’d be willing to move our relationship forward?”
She turned to face me. “It scares me.”
“I know, me too. But we can proceed slowly. Maybe start with coffee dates, that kind of thing.”
“If it gets weird, we stop. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t want my boys to know. I don’t want them to get their hopes up.”
“I hear you.”
When I pulled up in her driveway, I leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the lips, and she didn’t haul off and hit me. Progress.
“See you tomorrow,” I said.
She smiled sweetly. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside—Benson and me—dating.
On the way home as I passed a strip mall on the west side, I saw a flash of light inside the auto parts store. That wasn’t right. I pulled around to the back and saw an unoccupied black Dodge Ram beside a door that had been jimmied open. The truck bed was loaded with boxes of auto parts. The driver had left the engine running. I got out trying not to make noise. I turned the Ram’s ignition off, put the keys in my pocket, and called for back up—no lights no sirens. I also mentioned to dispatch I was off duty and unarmed. I had the license plate run and smiled when I saw who the registered owner was: Kent Silva’s, the Hackett brothers’ sperm donor. I love to nail scumbags. I hoped he wouldn’t come out before my backup arrived with firepower.
Within a minute, two squads silently rolled up and boxed the Ram in. Greg Woods handed me a shotgun and he, John Odell, and I waited behind our vehicles, weapons trained at the back door. When Chad and Todd Hackett burst through the back door, they stopped in their tracks to the sound of all three of us shouting versions of “Get down on the ground!”
Silva’s arms were loaded with boxes, so he couldn’t see. He ran smack into one of his sons. I expected them to bolt, but they didn’t. They dropped the items in their arms including a cash register, and complied with our commands.
When Woods patted Silva down, he pulled a nine-millimeter Glock off him.
“Oh, nice. Having a little bonding time with your boys, Silva?” I asked.
He grunted.
After all three were searched and cuffed, I said, “So, what are you doing with this merchandise and cash register?”
“This is my buddy’s store,” Sylva said. “We’re doing some work for him.”
Odell groaned. Woods chuckled.
“Yeah? What’s the buddy’s name? Let’s give him a call see if he wants you to move his cash register and sell off all these auto parts for him,” I said.
Of course, Scott Wagner (the owner) didn’t know Kent Silva or his boys. While the deputies took the three off to county to process, Scott met me at the store and needless to say he was grateful I just happened by. Maybe the dead man’s truck was good luck after all.
Because I couldn’t get over Tiffany and Naomi traveling together, I drove by Moberg’s. A For Sale sign was in the front yard. Naomi was selling both houses. Why?
I got home after two o’clock. Larry had left a note that he’d watered Bullet about ten o’clock, so I loved up my dog, took off my shoes, sat down, put my feet up and had a beer. I reveled in the satisfaction of solving the burglaries. Troy was going to be pissed. I smiled.
I set my alarm for seven o’clock so I could call and meet with Tiffany Howard’s parents.