Fractured (21 page)

“A healthy attitude.”

The light on her desk glowed and so he got up. “Next patient is here. Thanks for the insight on the case. I'll pass that one along to MacIntosh.”

Georgia Lukens shot back at him a final bit of observation. “So she's back to MacIntosh when you mention the case? Ellie is the woman and MacIntosh is your partner? You are going to have to reconcile that the two are one and the same.”

“The problem is, I have. It would be easier to separate the two,” he said as he left the room.

 

Chapter 20

“Fergusson wants an update on the cases.” Ellie spoke shortly. “Let's go.”

Santiago glanced up, nodded, pressed a button on his computer, and shut it down. He was remarkably quiet for him as they walked down the hallway to the chief detective's office, but then again, they were both being distant, and she wasn't sure if it was cause and effect. She was really avoiding him and since he was smart, he knew it.

Life really could change in the blink of an eye.

Fergusson, hefty and keen-eyed, did not appear to be in a good mood, and that was not unusual, but she had the uneasy feeling they were about to get reamed. He didn't even tell them to sit down. He said with false pleasantness, “I'm going to keep this meeting simple. I want some good news, okay? Metzger is getting pressure from the university, for one thing, to solve a murder that happened on its campus. From your reports, I'm pretty disappointed in the progress being made. Your problem is this face-slashing deal is catching the eye of the media again, and the citizens of this city seem to have a high opinion of your abilities to solve this kind of case, but
I'm
starting to have some doubts. The leads you do have are all over the place and no point A leads to a point B, much less a point C. Peterson's widow just did an interview with the university paper, and I realize that is not a nationwide publication, but she expressed in not very subtle terms that she believes our homicide division is overrated. If the city papers don't pick it up, I'll be surprised, and be aware it is unflattering.”

“Look—” Santiago started to say heatedly.

“Shut up.” Fergusson gave them both a flinty look. “I also think she's a bitch, I talk to her on the phone about every other day, but she is entitled to her opinion and she is the widow of a man who died horrifically. The public will feel sorry for her, and to a certain extent, they should excuse how she is acting. So should we.”

Santiago rubbed his taut jaw. “She knows something. First she came to me and told me explicitly—ask Grasso—to not let this case be sensationalized, and then she does a newspaper interview and slams us? What the fuck?”

Fergusson put his beefy hands on the desktop, fingers splayed. “How do I know? If you think she knows something, go after it. Or I'll send Grasso. He solved his last case in two days. She might like him, or at least his
GQ
look.”

Ellie said caustically, because the implied criticism stung, “His last case was a drunk and disorderly that only turned into a homicide because the victim was so intoxicated when he was shoved during a bar fight, he fell and hit his head. Manslaughter at best. There were about twenty witnesses. That gang case before it doesn't count either.”

“I'm not picking on you, MacIntosh. I'm pointing out he's free right now.”

“Oh.” She stopped and compromised because she was angry too, but she'd met Mrs. Peterson. The woman disliked her, and Santiago was certainly a little intense for most people. So she settled for a more civil tone. “Grasso is good, no denying it, and you might have a point. He's pretty upper crust and that is definitely her thing. Sure helped in our last case. If he is free, my vote is, we'd appreciate it if he'd try to talk to her.”

To her surprise, her partner caved pretty easily. Usually he was opposed to sharing an investigation. Santiago muttered, “Fine by me. If I never have to speak to that woman again, it won't have me crying in my beer. She's a … well, I'm going to use some self-restraint here, but bitch is too mild. Use your imagination and supply the word.”

Ellie refrained from commenting. She didn't really disagree. Mrs. Peterson had been antagonistic from the beginning.

“She isn't the killer, but maybe a lover is the reason she seems to be panicking?” She threw it out there because she'd been thinking about it—a lot. “It doesn't take great deductive skills to assume it is possible she demands to know how the investigation is progressing more because she wants to be abreast of what we know and don't know.”

“There's a problem with that theory,” Santiago said with a hint of his infamous sarcasm, “she
can't
be a good lay.”

In open disgust but unwillingly amused, Ellie said, “I meant her
husband
was having an affair. She's figured it out somehow and does not want us to do the same thing.”

He brightened theatrically. “Possible he was cheating … I would.”

“Now, see, that kind of statement might be why you are still single, Santiago.”

“Maybe.” His face went shuttered. “Hey, you're single too.”

Fergusson intervened. “Go talk it over with Grasso and you two keep me informed, right?”

They left, walking down the generic hallway. Her partner said coolly, “I think we need to interview Lance Young's coworkers as soon as we talk to Grasso. Monday is a business day. Someone will be in the office.”

“I agree.” Her tone matched his.

Maybe a shade chillier.

He caught it, but then again, she'd intended it that way. It was ridiculous, but having had over a day to think about it, her initial confusion had turned to resentment. When she'd been assigned Santiago as a partner he'd absolutely rubbed her the wrong way with his abrasive remarks and he definitely had not been secretive about how he disliked working with a female detective that did not have his level of experience. During their first big case they'd discovered—both of them were surprised—that they worked well together, and formed a truce.

In her opinion, he'd ruined that relationship.

“Look”—his hand shot out and shackled her wrist, stopping them both right in the middle of the hallway—“is the cold-shoulder treatment necessary?”

He'd said he wasn't going to apologize and she believed that to be true, but he did at least look a little repentant and obviously it was bothering him too. There was a hint of regret in his blue eyes as he stared down at her, but she doubted it was for the kiss, but more for her reaction to it. Whatever his faults, they did have one thing in common and that was a passion for the job.

“You were pretty unprofessional.”

“I wasn't a cop at that moment. I was a man.”

She didn't really have an answer to that, but with unfortunate timing, Metzger's secretary walked by. He had a new one and she was brusquely efficient, much like her boss. She said, “What's this? Lover's quarrel? I just dropped off the ballistics report for our drug dealer. The chief pushed it through fast and Rays wanted you to have it too, so I made copies. On your desks, Detectives.”

To his credit Santiago let go of Ellie's wrist right away, and might have even seemed chagrined, if that was possible. She said, “Thanks, Liz.” She glanced at her partner. “Let's go take a look.”

*   *   *

The office itself
was a generic cinder block building in an industrial district that was being renovated bit by bit, and since the only people that worked there were management in the extermination company, Jason wouldn't call the visit a success. Lance was a good employee, they'd learned from his earnest boss, had been with them for several years, always serviced his calls, and very rarely called in. He'd passed the yearly drug screening with flying colors and unfortunately didn't talk about his private life, if he had one.

One way or another, everyone had a personal existence even if it meant watching reruns of sitcoms from the fifties with your mother while eating microwave popcorn. It was a life away from work. Lance actually
had
lived with his mother, but according to her, he wasn't home much and it was a temporary arrangement as he switched apartments.

“He had charges on his credit cards from two different bars.” Ellie opened the door and got into the car. “Let's go check them out.”

Jason was driving and he went around to the driver's side. “If he was a regular, they might remember him if it is a local place. I don't recognize the names of either of them, but this city has a lot of bars.”

“I'm sure you've visited your share.”

A hint of the normal Ellie. He'd take the gesture toward getting everything back to normal, at least while they were working. “And I'm always willing to expand my horizons.” He pulled out and they headed for a district right off downtown, a mixture of older, nice neighborhoods and urban amenities including, apparently, a place called Joelle's. It was pretty full even on a Monday afternoon, probably because of a happy hour special, and the clientele was a mixture of young professionals sprinkled with blue-collar types with their names embroidered on their shirts. Loud, busy, trendy.

A flash of Young's picture yielded nothing but a shake of the head from the bartender, but he did wave over a waitress who obligingly showed it around to the other staff.

Dead end.

The second place, however, was quieter and only about a block from his mother's house. Dark, smelled a little like stale beer, and the music was subdued. Old tables lined the walls, and there were pictures of sports stars on the walls, most of which were no longer in this world, and televisions tuned to ESPN mounted in the corners. Of the two, Jason would prefer this one for a quiet drink, but probably Lance knew his job hung on being able to drive from house to house, so the lure was that he could walk to it.

The white-haired man at the bar was the owner and he recognized Young right away. “Right, yeah, know him. He hasn't been in since last week and I'm kind of surprised. Doesn't usually come here on Friday or Saturday, but is pretty regular during the week. What's he done? Seems like a nice guy.”

“He's a nice
dead
guy.” Jason leaned on the bar. “Help us out. He ever come in with anyone? A girl or a buddy? We'll listen to whatever you can tell us.”

“A young woman was with him the last time he came in. He's … dead?”

“Can we get a description of the woman?'

“Um, dark hair. She had long brown hair. Give me a sec.” The owner waited a minute to think about it even though a phone was ringing somewhere. He had a diet soda sitting on a paper coaster patterned with a pig's face, and took a drink. “I'm good with faces. Probably thirty, no … maybe younger, I'd say. Around his age, pretty, and might have been a knockout under the layers of makeup. I don't like women who do themselves up too much.” He eyed Ellie. “Taller than you, but not by much. Not as slender, but close. She had on a short skirt and heels I thought were risky in this weather. Black ice isn't just on the roads. The sidewalks aren't too friendly.”

“When was this?” Ellie asked it with a friendly smile but her gaze was razor sharp. “We certainly appreciate your help. He came here often and we have the credit card traces, but if you could pinpoint when she was with him, then maybe we can track her down and find out if she has information.”

“Last visit.” The proprietor sounded positive. “I mean, he came in here alone a lot. I remember thinking to myself it was nice to see he had a girlfriend.”

“Ever seen her before?”

“No.”

“He buy, or did she pay for anything?”

“He paid like he usually did, with his credit card. She had a cup of coffee and he had a beer.”

“Would you recognize her again? You seem to have an above-average memory.”

It was true, but still pleased the guy. He inclined his head. “I think I would if you brought me a picture or if she walked through the door.”

Jason handed him his card. “If you see her again or remember anything else, even something that seems insignificant, can you give us a call?”

“Sure.” He tucked the card in his shirt pocket after looking at it, and wiped the bar, unsmiling. “So, he was murdered? It isn't part of that thing I saw on the news, is it?”

“I'm afraid so,” Ellie confirmed as they turned away and walked toward the door.

“Find who did it,” the owner called out. “That was a nice young man.”

When they emerged onto the street, it had started to sift fine white particles from the sky again, courtesy of the winter in the northern climes. Jason considered opening her door but thought better of it. Anything at this point that might topple over the tenuous understanding they had to put the other night behind them was not worth risking. “I take the position that anyone is too young to be stabbed to death and dumped in the woods. Anyway, his mother didn't say anything about a girlfriend.”

“His mother,” Ellie said as she looked down the street, a light frosting of snow landing on her hair, “was so distraught and incoherent when we talked to her, I am surprised she could string two words together and I can't blame her. The living back home thing is obviously not what he wanted for more than a few months. Dismiss the idea she would know his life.”

Jason didn't disagree. “So where do you want to go next?”

His partner eyed the darkening sky. “Peterson's wife is now up to Grasso, and I think that's a good call. A woman screamed when our second victim was killed, and there was a woman with Lance Young on the night he died. Peterson might have been having an affair. The thread is starting to bother me.”

“They were stabbed,” he protested. “That isn't a woman's crime.” But he understood her unease.

“It isn't a woman's crime because a man is usually stronger.” MacIntosh now had snowflakes on her eyelashes. “But, if fed rufilin, they might not be as able to defend themselves.”