February Fever (11 page)

Twenty-Five

Following Doghn through Coach
Car 8 was a bit like following a parade float. He gathered people as he passed, showering them with attention, signing autographs. I noticed two women scribble furiously when they saw him approaching and slip him notes as he passed. Celebrity is the oddest thing—a twisted version of the human need to believe in something bigger than ourselves. I giggled at the thought. Doghn was a munchkin among men. He was famous, though, and many people on this train clearly idolized him.

Mrs. Berns, Terry, and even Ms. Wrenshall followed him like quiet disciples right up until Jed called out to us.

“Mira! Mrs. Berns! Did you get my peanuts and pop?”

Doghn was in front of me. He gave Jed a passing glance, distracting our friend from his original question.

“Hey, dude,” Jed said. “Didn't I see you board back in Fargo? How's the train treating you?”

Doghn stopped. “What?”

“I thought I saw you get on back in Fargo, only you didn't have that bitchin' face fur back then. Right?”

The look Doghn gave him was withering. He parsed out his words as if English was not Jed's first language. “Son, I did not board this train in Fargo. I boarded here, just now. And I assure you that this ‘face fur' is not removable. If you'll excuse me?”

Jed's face fell. I was going to comfort him, but Mrs. Berns took care of it. “The guy's an asshole, kid.” She ignored Doghn's glare. “Also, we forgot your Coke and peanuts, but here's five bucks. See you at dinner?”

“Sure thing,” Jed said, taking the money. He squeezed behind Terry and made his way forward to the viewing and cafe car. The rest of our posse continued back toward the sleepers, Doghn signing more autographs and collecting more notes as he went. The travel through Car 10 went much quicker as no one could see Doghn unless their door was open, which seemed to disappoint him.

“Where is my room?” he called behind him.

Reed, who was bringing up the rear, told him to continue to Car 15.

I paused, causing Mrs. Berns to run into me, Ms. Wrenshall into her, and Terry into her. “Hey, Reed, I thought all the sleeper cars were taken?”

“Car Fifteen has a room reserved for the conductor. It's been assigned to Mr. Attenborough for the duration of the trip.”

Must be nice to be famous. “Where's the conductor sleeping?”

“Car Three, with the rest of the staff.”

I returned my attention to Doghn leading the pack. He pushed the button releasing the Car 10 door and stepped into the foyer separating the cars. I jumped in so I was next to him. The foyers were much easier to navigate without the train moving, and I wanted to keep an eye on the guy. He pushed the button opening Car 11, and both he and I navigated the hallway's sharp angle in front of the welcome kiosk.

Police Chief Bob Harris was waiting for us.

I stepped back, letting Doghn barrel into that fight on his own.

“Doghn Attenborough,” he said, extending his hand. “I'm guessing from your haircut and bearing that you're in charge of this investigation?”

One point for Doghn. That's when I remembered the investigation he'd become famous for. It was a cold case when he was brought on board. A business owner was in Detroit for a conference. Hotel cameras caught her going into the elevator, presumably to her room, around two AM. The cameras never caught her leaving. She was discovered in a ditch twenty-four hours later by a utility man, raped, brutally beaten, and left for dead. She was in a coma for weeks. When she awoke, she couldn't remember anything about the attack.

Police were able to trace her steps for the entire evening preceding her attack, including a tryst she had had with the night manager before entering the elevator. The night manager was a suspect for
a short while, as was a conference employee. They both agreed to a DNA test. Their DNA did not match that of the man who had raped and beaten the victim. The police had reached a dead end.

Enter Doghn Attenborough, Private Investigator.

He was, according to the story I'd read, a modestly successful PI in Detroit at the time. The hotel chain where the woman had stayed hired him to look into the case. Apparently, she was suing the hotel for breach of safety. Doghn reviewed all the records. The hotel had cameras at every exit. The woman had not left by any of them. Her room had been on the third floor of the hotel. The hotel had security windows that could not be opened wider than three inches. Still, the police checked every window in the place. None had been violated.

Even so, to be thorough, the police searched the ground below her window, as well as the ground around the entire hotel. There was no sign of a struggle. It was a mystery. Doghn conducted his own investigation of the room, hotel, and grounds, but by the time he was brought in, the room had been cleaned hundreds of times, and two winters had come and gone, changing the landscape around the hotel. He found nothing.

Then he began watching the hotel security tapes of that evening.

He watched them dozens of times, he claimed, until he caught it: the woman going into the elevator at 2:12 AM. She waved at someone, later identified as the night manager. She was alone on the elevator when the doors closed. Only a handful of people rode the elevator throughout the night, and then many more the next day. By the time the utility worker discovered the unconscious woman, Doghn counted over a hundred people riding the hotel elevator, and only one was suspicious.

He was a big guy, linebacker-big. That wasn't a crime, and neither was the fact that he carried a huge suitcase as he exited the elevator at 5:34 AM. The problem was in how he picked up the suitcase as he left the elevator, almost as if it had something heavy in it—maybe 119 pounds, awkwardly folded.

Like a body.

The man was Rolf Nilsen. He was a traveling salesman originally from Ohio. His DNA matched the samples found on the woman as well as DNA connected with seven other rape and assault cold cases across the country. It was an impressive bit of sleuthing, and I respected that. It was Doghn's personality that I wasn't a fan of, at least not yet. I can be judgmental, and I'm working on that.

“Bob Harris, Glendive Police.” He offered his hand to Doghn. “I'm holding down the fort for the time being. Can I help you?”

“I'd like a look into that room.” Doghn pointed over Chief Harris's shoulder at Aimee's empty cabin, still festooned with police tape.

“I bet you would,” Chief Harris said, smiling kindly. I wonder if Doghn was going to fall for it. “But this is an active investigation. No one's going in or out unless they're official. Sorry.”

Doghn stroked the tips of his mustache, glanced furtively into the room, and then thanked
Bob
for his time before speaking to the rest of us. “The law has spoken. Any good PI respects that. I'll see you all at dinner?”

I watched him walk away, Reed and luggage in tow. Well, that was anticlimactic. Ms. Wrenshall murmured something about being tired and disappeared into her room. Terry said he needed to get back to the snack car. Mrs. Berns echoed that thought.
Chickenshits
. I tried to follow them, but Chief Harris gently grabbed my arm.

“Got a minute?”

To be arrested?
“Sure. What's on your mind?” I wondered if he could hear my pulse. Of the many unsavory aspects of being a corpse magnet, arousing police suspicions was one of my least favorite.

He waited until Ms. Wrenshall's door was closed and the car had emptied before he led me into my cabin and closed the door behind us. My blood instantly thickened. This was not good.

“Would you like to sit down?”

Could he see my knees shaking? “Sure.” I indicated the chair across from me. “You?”

“No thanks.”

Curse words
. He'd walked me right into this one. With him standing and me sitting, he possessed all the power in the room. He pulled out his notebook and flipped it open.

“What do you think of Mr. Attenborough?”

I tried to hide my surprise. I'd thought he was going to ask me if I wanted the fish, chicken, or veggie option in prison. “A little theatrical for my taste, but I think he's competent.”

Chief Harris nodded. “Me too.”

I leaned forward. “What's he doing here?”

“As near as I can tell, he was driving to the same conference as you when he caught wind of the train kerfuffle via the police band radio. I'm guessing he's here for the publicity, and that AmeriTrain would be financially grateful if he could turn this around quickly for them.”

“Makes sense.” My hamster wheels were spinning. Chief Harris was trying to quid pro quo me, which meant he hadn't found anything yet. It was a good plan, except he didn't know that I had my own agenda. “You guys find Aimee yet?”

He stroked his chin and glanced out the window. Two police officers were standing on the platform, relaxed, chatting. “Nope. Not her dad, either. You find anything?”

“Nope. Do you know what killed Aimee's mom?”

“Nope.” He had the graciousness to smile. If he didn't before, he now knew that I knew the game we were playing. I tried not to like him too much. I had a feeling that would be dangerous, as his only skin in this game was solving this case. He didn't care whether I fell on the friend or foe side of the score sheet.

“Any lead on the body back in Fargo?”

By way of answer, he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a photo. “You recognize this guy?”

My throat tightened. It was Fatigues creeper, the one who'd slunk on the perimeters at the Fargo train station and hairy eyeballed me in the viewing car last night. “He boarded in Fargo. I saw him in the viewing car last night.”

“Good eye. His name is Lester Pimmel. He escaped prison two days ago, along with a man named Steve Nunn. Lester is a bad seed, rotating through juvie and jail since he was twelve. His most recent conviction sent him to the federal pen. Forcible rape and voluntary manslaughter. He assaulted a woman outside a bar, and when her boyfriend found out and came after him, Lester killed him. Said what he was doing with the woman was consensual and that he was just defending himself from the other man and it got out of hand.”

I wanted to cover my ears, but Chief Harris continued.

“Steve Nunn is a follower. History of petty crimes, then he kills someone driving drunk and ends up behind bars for twenty years.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “They're both on the train?”

“No. Steve is the body found at the Fargo train station, his face pierced with lead. We discovered Lester in one of the lower-level bathrooms in Car Five. He's being held for questioning in the murder of Steve Nunn as well as the death of Sofia Ramos.”

“Aimee's mom?”

“The woman who died next door. So far, we only have her name, not her relations. I was hoping you could help in that area.”

I shook my head. “I really don't know anything I haven't already told you. I understand how it must look from where you're sitting—standing—but I just had a few conversations with the girl, Aimee. I never saw her before the station at Detroit Lakes, or after I ran into her just before bedtime last night.” Unless I'd seen her reboard with her dad a few hours ago, but I was keeping that card tight to my chest for the time being.

Chief Harris was watching me so intently that I felt my talker begin to kick in. I tossed a question into the chute in the hopes of distracting myself. “Is that why you let us all move around the train? Because you think you caught the killer?”

He kept staring at me, well past the point of uncomfortable. I felt all sorts of confessions burbling up—sometimes I picked my nose when I was driving, but only at the edges of the nostril, and I didn't like to eat corn off the cob because once when I was a kid I'd seen a pile of animal scat that was almost entirely whole pieces of corn held together by some fur and loose turd and ever since then, I can't look at corn kernels without thinking “poopcorn.” When Johnny slept over I sometimes got up early and snuck out of bed to brush my teeth and hair, apply lipgloss and a dab of perfume behind each ear, and slip back in so he'd think I was half unicorn, and—

“What are you thinking?”

I snapped back into focus and glanced at him. He appeared truly puzzled. I opened my mouth, and then I closed it. “You don't want to know.”

He almost looked like he believed me. “The odds are good that Mr. Nunn was murdered by Mr. Pimmel. We still don't know the cause of Ms. Ramos's death. Given that, and the serious snowstorm that's heading up from the south, we're not only letting you move about the train, we're letting the train continue on its route.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes capitalism trumps justice.” He laughed. “Who am I kidding? It always trumps justice. AmeriTrain brings business to this part of the state. The DA doesn't want to ‘draw out an extensive investigation' when it seems clear to him who killed whom and why. We're treating Ms. Ramos's death as if it were due to natural causes. If we're wrong, we have information on every passenger here.”

Made sense, but it still surprised me that they were going to let their crime scene roll away.

Chief Harris seemed to read my mind. “What choice do we have?” He handed me a card, this one much plainer than Doghn's. “Call if you see or hear anything, all right? The conductor said he had a phone you can use, or you can talk to one of the plainclothes who will be at every stop this train visits.”

I didn't know whether to be flattered or suspicious. Did he think I'd confess or crack the case? Either way, I didn't think I'd need Glendive, Montana, Police Chief Bob Harris's card.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Twenty-Six

Chief Harris left my
cabin door open when he departed. I heard him knock on Ms. Wrenshall's door, give her a courtesy update that was much briefer than mine, and leave Sleeper Car 11. He reappeared on the platform and approached the two officers I'd previously spotted talking. Their posture immediately straightened when he approached. He was a man who commanded respect, despite his initial “aw shucks” small-town demeanor, or maybe because of that, and maybe because he got the job done.

He was off on this one, though. I felt it in my bones, and I
guessed he did, too. Something stinky had happened to Sofia
Ramos. There was no reason for Aimee and her dad to disappear otherwise. And it was unlikely that the convict's murder was connected other than coincidence. Most killers had their MO, and violent men who murdered using guns didn't turn around and kill quietly, not leaving a mark. If Sofia had been murdered, I was confident that Lester Pimmel hadn't done it.

“Knock knock.”

I jumped, my head swiveling to the open door. Chad, my “dance” partner last night, stood in the doorway.

“Yes?” I didn't mean for my voice to be so sharp. Shame does that to me, and I'd just discovered that I would never again be able to look at the kid without remembering the
squish-crack
his privates made when I face-planted them.

“Have you heard? The train'll be moving again within the hour.”

“Yup.” I didn't want to encourage this friendship. He seemed like a perfectly nice kid, but I had too much on my plate already.

“Hey, I was going to ask you …”

He didn't say anything more, just stood there with his face open. Man, does that make me crabby, when a person asks a question that isn't really a question. Grow a pair. I stared him down.

“Well,” he said finally, glancing at his feet, “I was wondering if I could join you for supper.”

Mrs. Berns appeared behind Chad and pushed underneath his arm to enter our room. “Least you could do is say yes, Mira, after you molested him last night. Usually, it's kosher to buy dinner
before
you explore a man's crotch, but whatever floats your boat. Oh, and Doghn will be eating with us, too. He told Reed, and Reed told me. We're on for six thirty tonight.”

This dinner was going from bad to worse. Eating with Doghn? Then I had a realization. “We can't. Where will Jed sit?”

Mrs. Berns began rustling through her gigantic purse. “On his ass. He said the dining car is too expensive, but I think he's got the hots for that cutie he met in Car Eight. He stocked up on sandwiches for the both of them and told me they're going to have a picnic in a private place he found on the train. Said we're more than welcome to join him, but I know a man making a play when I see one. So, Face Magnet,” she said, turning to Chad, “you can join us at six thirty. Don't expect any more action, though. Mira is a love 'em and leave 'em type.”

“Thank you!” Young Chad had the good sense to disappear before I could retract or otherwise modify Mrs. Berns's offer.

I pointed a glare at her. “Did you ever think that I didn't want to eat with that kid?”

“Did you ever think that whining makes your arms red?”

I glanced at my arm, bare below my t-shirt. “Does not.”

She pinched me, quick, hard enough to leave a mark. “Does too. Here's my life philosophy: the devil you know is always better than the devil you don't. More specifically, if we have to share a table, I'd rather it be with anyone but Ms. Wrenshall. I don't like that biddy. So, strap in and prepare to be entertained. That's the least we can expect of our dinner guests, right?”

I suppose. I redirected my creaky attitude, vowing to suspend my judgment of Doghn and Chad and make the best of it. And who knows? I could pick up some investigation tips from Doghn. He might be annoying, but he was also superb at his job.

Mrs. Berns and I took turns in the bathroom getting ready. She showered first, yelling through the door that it was like hosing yourself off with a straw and that maybe the space capsule was roomier and she was worried her sides weren't going to get clean because there wasn't enough room to turn around. I read my book through her remarks and then squeezed in when she was done. She hadn't been exaggerating. The bathroom was set up like an RV in that it contained a regular-sized toilet and sink and, separated by a thin wall, a shower approximately the size of a drinking glass.

The shower head was detachable so you could clean your shadowy spots. If I'd have dropped my soap, though, I would need to step out of the shower in order to bend over and reach it. You know how I know this? I was just beginning to soap my body when the train lurched forward. I was thrown against the shower wall, bruising my shoulder, and would have fallen to the floor if there'd been room. As it was, I found myself wedged at an odd angle, face pressed to the glass.

“You okay?” Mrs. Berns hollered.

“Fine,” I called, only it came out “fnnn.” I de-wedged myself, opened the shower door so I could turn around and fetch the soap, and cracked the bathroom door. The muffled sound of cheering filtered in. “Guess people are happy we're in motion again.”

Mrs. Berns peered up from where she'd been doing crosswords. “You have a face hickey. You fell when the train started moving, didn't you?”

I put my hand to my forehead. “Maybe.” I pointed out the window, using my other hand to hold the bathroom door in front of my body. “It'll be nice to get a change of scenery.”

She didn't even bother looking out the window. “No, it won't. It's bad juju to leave before we find out what happened to that poor woman next door. I suspect things will get worse from here on out.”