Ice Shear (15 page)

“And you stayed in touch?” I asked.

“I saw her Facebook updates, all the fun in L.A. But we didn't talk or e-mail.” He paused. “And we didn't date after high school.”

Jason didn't seem like the type to speak ill of the dead, so I asked the next question gently. “Did she ever do anything you didn't like so much?”

“Well . . . ,” and Jason seemed to strain under the effort of saying something not so nice, “she sometimes drove too fast and played her music too loud.” I stifled a smile remembering my little drive from two nights ago. He furrowed his brow. “She would mouth off to people if they told her what to do. That was maybe a bad idea 'cause she got thrown out of a couple of high schools. And maybe college? I'm not sure what really happened there. Craig said she ran off with Marty and her dad disowned her, but she said she got bored of college, which I can't understand. I mean, I love college.”

“Are you in college now, Jason?” I asked.

He paused, picking up another box and breaking it down; he had three left. “Pharmacy school. I was supposed to start the DPharm program last month—”

“The what?” I asked.

“Doctor of Pharmacy program. I took twenty credits a semester and finished undergrad early but . . . with my dad? Things are tight right now. Plus, my mom thinks if I take a couple of months off she can talk me into going to medical school.” He shoved the box into the Dumpster with a clang. “That's not happening. Anyway, I guess that's another thing that wasn't so great about Danielle. Her folks, they just
gave
her stuff, and she didn't seem to care. She would throw away the things they gave her, things other people would kill for.”

He was on a roll: “I thought she changed out in L.A.—grew up?—but she wrecked college, too. And she wasn't a very good employee here, promising to work hard and then not caring. It's like if you're nice to her, she doesn't try to live up to her side, like she wants to punish you for trusting her. My mom said she couldn't afford to pay for someone, especially someone who was unreliable, and”—he gestured to the alley, the Dumpsters, the snowdrifts—“here I am.”

“How about Marty?” I asked. “You guys seemed like good friends.”

He put the last box in the bin, and shut and locked it, testing the top to make sure it was secure. “He'd be parked out here, waiting to pick her up after work—she hated the cold, and he tried to make sure she didn't have to spend even a minute outside. The two of them, they were like movie stars, like Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty, and I”—he shrugged—“well, I'm not. So I was surprised when he invited me over for dinner. He was a cool guy, you know, he'd read Charles Bukowski's poetry. And he always, always watched her when she bounced around, and he always listened to what she said, and got mad if she ‘played the dumb blonde.' And he gave her books to read, like Jack Kerouac and Chuck Palahniuk.” A blast of cold air seemed to take Jason's breath away. “She didn't read them, so I borrowed them.”

“Do any drugs, Jason?” Hale asked.

“What?!” Jason watched the pharmacy's back door. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

I touched Jason's arm, petting him like frightened animal. “What Agent Bascom meant to ask was whether drugs were around.”

“Well, sometimes pot,” Jason blurted softly. “I didn't smoke any. Neither did Marty. Sometimes Dani did, but only outside. Marty hates drugs.” He spoke low and quickly, keeping his eye on the back door. “I think his brother, you know, Ray? He smoked it with her sometimes.”

“What'd you think of Ray?” I asked.

“He is really juvenile.” I stifled my smile at a twenty-one-year-old boy calling a seventeen-year-old juvenile, but he had a point: with his familial and financial responsibilities, Jason was mature beyond his years. “Ray would be around a lot, when me and Marty hung out. Marty said he and Danielle were trying to be real parents to Ray. I guess Marty's family isn't so great. Marty was making sure Ray didn't get into trouble—he was strict, but said Ray needed a firm hand. Danielle was helping Ray study for the GED. Danielle got a GED, you know. She never graduated from high school.” Jason took a deep breath. “But Ray, he was okay, I guess.”

“So you won't be too broken up to hear he got killed,” Hale said.

Jason appraised Hale. “No way. You're lying.”

“Jason, we're not,” I said, impressed that he had caught on to Hale's shock tactics. Jason's pale eyebrows shot up in surprise, visible only because his face was red with cold. “That's why we were over at the Brouillettes'. We found his body on their property.”

“God. Does Marty know? I wouldn't have said those things if I'd . . . God. Poor Ray.”

I tapped at my notebook. “Can you tell us where you were last night from eight until midnight? We need to know for our records.”

The back door swung open, and Denise Byrne dragged out two huge garbage bags and placed them next to the pile she had brought out earlier. Hale gallantly reached over to pick one up and stumbled; they were heavier than they looked.

“You can leave that for Jason, Agent Bascom.” Denise looked from me to Jason. “You almost done out here?”

“I have to do the plastic and glass, Mom, and after I can finish the trash.”

“No, I meant the detectives.” Denise waved her finger between Jason and me. I felt scolded.

“A few more questions,” I said. “Jason, last night?”

“June, I think I misunderstood this discussion.” She walked down the steps until she was at ground level, although she still towered over me. “I thought this was just an interview, but you're talking to my son like he is a suspect.”

“It's okay, Mom,” Jason said. “It's okay. Last night, I watched some videos with my dad. There was a storm, you know?”

“I don't know why you two needed to watch
Star Wars
again. After four hundred watchings you must know all the lines by heart,” Denise said, smiling fondly. “You know, I hate to be a pain, June, but we should have our discussion right now, while I have the time.”

“I think we're done here,” I said. “Jason was a great help.” I moved toward the pharmacy door, but Denise stepped sideways and blocked me.

“Oh, no, you can't go in this way, you have to go around to the front door.” She moved up the steps and had her hand on the doorknob, as if ready to slam it in our face. “Authorized personnel only, because of the controlled substances. You know how regulators are.”

“As a police officer and an FBI agent, we're pretty trustworthy,” Hale said. “And it'd be better if we could have the conversation in private.”

“Oh, I can definitely understand. Do you want to find a time later?” I shook my head no.

“Jason,” Denise said, “when you're done with the trash, you need to clear the walk again. Then don't forget to come in and sweep and mop. People have been tracking snow in all morning.”

Once we were around front, out of earshot of Jason, Hale spoke. “I think we aren't going to get her full attention here. Bring her in after work?”

“No.” I had an aide named Juliana who came every day when Kevin was in his last few months. Juliana would have stayed around the clock if I'd asked, and I would have been happy to have her if my budget had allowed it. Juliana cheerfully wiped bile off her smock, all the while chatting with Kevin about her childhood in one of the hill towns at the west end of the county, a life filled with an endless supply of summer days and chickens. No, I explained, Denise's husband needed constant care, and we weren't going to pull her in to prove who was boss.

“Good point. That said,” Hale said, “I'm frozen through, and do wish we could've done the last interview inside.”

“Me, too.” I caught Hale's elbow as he slipped sideways against me. “Jason's a blusher, and it would've been interesting to see when he turned red.”

“You think he's lying? Could he have been jealous enough to kill her?”

I chose my words carefully. “It's possible, but it's not my first choice.” Jason had seemed infatuated, but infatuated with Marty rather than with Danielle.

As we entered the store, Denise Byrne was waiting for us. Perched high on a stool behind the counter at the end of a long aisle lined with cold and flu remedies, she was very like a Roman emperor of the absolute rule rather than the bread and circuses variety. Her sweatshirt was gone, replaced by a pharmacist's smock over a silky pale purple shirt, and her hair had been brushed and sprayed into a thick helmet of gold. Several file folders were lined up next to the register and the glasses repair kits, lip balm, and throat lozenges.

She started speaking while we were several feet away. “I want to keep things friendly, but I feel like we're being treated like suspects rather than witnesses. We want to help. We do! But you would tell me if I needed a lawyer, right?”

“No need for any of that, Mrs. Byrne.” Hale seemed to have decided to go the southern charm route with Denise. He nodded at the files. “Are all of these for us?”

I picked up one and scanned the W-2 statement, Danielle's employment history, and her application.

“I made you extra copies, so you don't have to stay here to read them,” Denise said, reaching up to her neck and smoothing down the collar. Up close I could see that the shirt was polyester rather than silk.

“Why'd you hire her?” I said as I read. “She lasted less than two months and doesn't seem to have had any experience.”

“My son remained fond of her, and that's the sort of thing I do for neighbors. Plus, she had to make her own way after her parents cut her off. I knew what that was like. I put myself through school on a basketball scholarship.”

“But she didn't work out as an employee?” Hale said.

“No.”

She didn't elaborate, so I prompted her: “Did she cost too much to pay?”

“No!” Denise exclaimed. “Who's saying things like that?”

I didn't tell her it was her son. Instead I asked, “Did she miss her shifts?”

“Her husband always dropped her off right on time. Probably nothing better to do. Between you and me”—she dropped her voice—“I think he was a deadbeat. He just looks like that type, you know?”

I went direct. “Did she steal from you?”

Jason appeared at the doorway, holding his key chain in front of him. “Mom, I can't find the key for the garbage.”

“Jason, I've told you to keep your keys in a safe place, so you don't forget where you put them.”

“I did, Mom. I had them. It's—”

Denise sighed loudly, but she smiled at her son. “We'll look at home later, okay, honey? Go back out and clear and salt the walk again.”

Denise waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

“Yes.” She nodded, and her bangs fell over one eye. Using two fingers, she precisely slid the hair back in place. “Yes, she stole from me.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

“Drugs from up here. All the controlled substance inventories matched up, even the Oxycontin, which is the druggies' first choice. She took cold medicine—three packets a week. And eye drops, although that might have been shoplifted. We always report the losses to the auditor, even the supplies Danielle stole. I made Danielle's thefts anonymous, since I didn't have one hundred percent proof and hadn't wanted to embarrass the congresswoman or her husband. They say Amanda's going to be president, or at least vice president, which I guess would be okay.”

Denise straightened a display of earplugs. “We do take precautions against theft. We got a private security system put in. We have cameras out front, and I lock the Dumpsters. And of course I have a gun—and a permit, of course—for when I'm working late. Since my husband got sick, that happens . . . a lot.”

Thankfully, this murder hadn't involved a gun. The doorbell rang, and an elderly man walked up the aisle toward us, pushing forward on a walker.

“Is there anything else?” Denise said in her pharmacist's whisper.

Hale collected the files. “No, ma'am, I think this is everything. You sure have been helpful.”

“I have a question,” I said. “Do you know Ray Jelickson?”

“Only in passing. He was at the wake yesterday, making a lot of noise.” Denise Byrne's eye flicked nervously at the customer. “I didn't like my son hanging out with him.” She smiled brightly at the man behind me. “You are a hearty one, Mr. Ashby, braving the snow! I'll be with you in a second. Me and June”—she looked at me questioningly—“we're done, right, June?”

MARTY'S BLOCK HAD BEEN
plowed. Piles of snow rose against the parked cars, almost burying some of the economy models. Not that they could get out. Right down the middle of the street was a line of black sedans: “Bucars” from the FBI. We pulled in and walked up the narrow shoveled path, no more than a foot wide, that wove between cars, past the gate, and up the walk and the steps. Midway to the door was a huge indentation where someone had fallen.

Before we had the chance to knock, the door opened, an agent holding it wide. We made our way past two more men, who were opening DVD cases. A third was emptying the shelves, shaking books out and dropping them on the floor. Him I recognized: Potreo. When I first arrived in California he had constantly called me and the other female agents “Breast Fed.” None of us laughed and he took to pouting.

I slipped on a pile of CD cases, found a helpful hand under my elbow that let go too soon, and flailed to regain my balance. I turned to my pseudohelper, a guy from my last assignment in Oakland. These weren't people Hale had pulled in from the Albany office, they were agents from across the country, all of whom specialized in drug trafficking and gangs. I wondered if any of them would tell me what was really going on. Probably not.