Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (7 page)

“Certainly plausible. Any thoughts on the building security?”

“I took the kids on a tour of the Capitol back when we first moved to town. Practically no security at the front doors, just a guard at the desk, along with the tour guides. No metal detectors or anything. I remembered thinking at the time how easy it would be for a terrorist to stroll in and start shooting.”

Jo raised her eyebrow and said, “You mean they don’t have armed security guards patrolling the building?”

“I’m told they beef up the Capitol safety measures when legislature is in session or any big shot is in town. And of course, they have security cameras all over the place, but if someone looked like they belonged, who would look at them twice?”

“And we didn’t get lucky enough to have security footage of the conference room where the body was found?”

“Nah. The conference room itself is not monitored, and the cameras outside the door were disconnected during the renovations.”

Jo played with her glass, thinking about their next steps. “So, we’ll need to check into anyone with motive. The usual suspects, such as his wife, and any business associates who might have a grudge. But with Freemont’s politics, we will need to cast a wider net.”

The detective nodded and said, “Yeah, you mean like political opponents and anyone else who had beef with his opinions. The guy was anti-global warming, anti-gay marriage, anti-tax hikes for the wealthy … yikes, we’re going to need a really big net to land this fish.”

Just then, the waitress returned to their table. “Here ya go, nice and cheesy, just the way you ordered it.” She plunked the heavy tray down on the table between them, and the tantalizing scent of sausage and peppers made Jo’s mouth water. She slid a couple of squares onto Frisco’s plate, and then helped herself.

Frisco spoke between bites, “Dripping with grease. Now, I ask you, is there any other way to enjoy pizza?”

Jo bit down on a corner piece and felt the hot cheese singe the roof of her mouth. Just the way she liked it; her taste buds were in heaven. “Not to my knowledge,” she said taking another bite.

They munched in silence for a while, pausing only to add another couple of slices to their plates before they resumed talking about the case.

Jo took another drink of beer to wash down the pizza and then wiped her lips clean on a napkin. “You have to wonder why he was shot in the mouth, though. Think something he said pissed off the wrong person?”

“Oh yeah. That was the message, all right. Of course, there are a lot of people who wish the politicians would all just shut up. Our boy just chose an extreme way to do it.”

“So, you think it was a male perp?”

Frisco reached over to top off her beer glass, and then poured some into his own. “Just going with the stats; most shotgun homicides are committed by men.”

“True, but then again, did you take a look at the smudge mark on the victim’s shirt? If that was a footprint, it was awfully small for a guy.”

Frisco shrugged. “Maybe the autopsy will give us some additional direction.”

“Let’s hope.”

They finished their pizza in companionable silence. Frisco pushed back from the table. “Man, I’m stuffed. Probably won’t sleep a wink tonight with such a heavy gut, but it was so worth it.”

“You’ve got that right,” Jo said thinking how she probably wouldn’t sleep well and it had nothing to do with eating too much pizza.

As if reading her mind, Frisco tilted his head and said, “So, have you heard from Dr. Goodman lately?”

Jo could feel the heat rise up in her face. “No, I haven’t. Our, um, schedules haven’t exactly meshed lately.”

Frisco’s voice was gentle. “Gotta be tough, with you running after the bad guys here and him taking care of patients back East. Good man though.”

“Yes, yes he is.” Jo glanced down at her watch. “Frisco, do you mind if we head back to my car? I’ve got a call to make.”

“Let me grab the check and I’ll have you back in no time.”

Chapter Nine

Turners Bend

September

When writing his last chapter, Chip had surfed the Internet looking for a St. Paul pizza place. One link led to another until he came upon a write-up about the Savoy. It seemed like the perfect place for Frisco and Jo to eat. Writing about pizza dripping with melted cheese made him hungry. He checked his freezer … no pizza, only a tray of shriveled up ice cubes and a gallon of crystalized chocolate ice cream. He looked in his cupboard and was trying to decide between Spaghettios and Spam, wondering what had ever possessed him to buy either of them. The phone rang. It was Sharon, the police dispatcher, speaking in a hushed voice.

“Chip, you might want to come into town to see the media circus and your old FBI friend, Agent Masterson. The shit is going to hit the fan as far as I can tell.”

* * *

When Chip arrived at the police station, Chief Fredrickson was seated at his desk across from FBI Agent Angela Masterson, who was in the process of berating him. The chief’s uniform shirt, straining at the buttons, was wet under the arms. He ran his hand across his face and over the stubble of his five o’clock shadow. Still apparently shaken by the discovery of a body and frazzled by the national and state media, who had rolled into town with satellite dishes on top of their vans, Chip thought the chief looked like a damp dishrag. Agent Masterson, on the other hand, was as cool and icy as an outhouse in January.

Chip hesitated to remain in the office, but since Masterson did not acknowledge his presence, he quietly took a seat near the door.

Few people intimidated Chip as much as Angela Masterson. She was a trim, black woman who, despite her petite size, exuded power. She packed a gun, and he was sure she had no qualms about using it.

He had first encountered her earlier in the year when the FBI came to Turners Bend, along with half a dozen other federal agencies, to investigate a criminal case.

“Chief, it’s beyond my imagination how a quiet little burg in the middle of Iowa can be such a hub for crime,” said Masterson. “Again, you have totally mismanaged this case. Now I am going to clean up your mess and leave you to your own devices. I would not be here at all if the Tracy Trent case had not been mentioned. Whatever led you to that conclusion?”

She did not wait for a response nor did she seem to expect one. “I can tell you this, I’ve looked at the coroner’s preliminary report and your corpse is not Tracy Trent. Due to a previous injury not publicly known, we can easily tell when a victim is not the Trent woman.”

Masterson stood and paced back and forth in front of the chief. “This is no longer a federal case and it’s back in your jurisdiction” she said. “Now you and I are going out to inform the press, and I am getting out of this place faster than a speeding bullet, and believe me, I know my ballistics.”

The chief stood, put on his jacket and cap and followed the FBI agent to the steps of the City Hall, where a bank of microphones had been set up for the press conference. Chip followed and joined the group of reporters as Masterson approached the microphones to address the eager crowd.

“I am FBI Special Agent Masterson. I can tell you, based on firm evidence from the coroner’s report, that the remains uncovered three days ago in the Bijou Theater here in Turners Bend, Iowa, are not that of Tracy Trent, the missing radio announcer from Iowa City. We will continue to investigate her disappearance, as we have for the past five years, but the local authorities are now handling this case. Police Chief Fredrickson will brief you further. Thank you.”

Fredrickson looked startled, as if he had not expected to speak. He stepped to the microphones with stage fright written all over his face and cleared his throat.

A reporter shouted, “Chief, Chet Roper, from the CBS affiliate in Chicago. Why did you think the remains were those of Tracy Trent?”

“I never did. Someone around here just jumped to the conclusion, I’m afraid.”

Another reporter jumped in. “If it isn’t Tracy Trent, Chief, who is it?”

“When I know, I’ll let you know. Until then, I hope you’ll clear out of town and leave us alone to do our job. I have no more comments,” he concluded and pushed his way through the crowd.

* * *

The bell jingled as Chip opened the café’s door, but no one noticed it above the din of gossipmongers. He heard a familiar laugh and glanced in the direction of the small table he and Jane had at one time selected as their own. Jane was there and not alone. Lance Williams seemed to be entertaining her, and Chip winced as Jane put her hand on his arm.

He did all he could do to stop himself from rushing over, pulling Lance out of his chair and decking him in the jaw. Chip knew he should be cool and just saunter over and join them, but he was in no mood to do so and feared he might make an ass of himself. He turned on his heels and exited before they noticed him.

He fussed and fumed all the way back to the farmhouse. Sure, he himself had been a newcomer who wooed the local vet, but that was different, wasn’t it? He loved her and asked her to marry him. And anyway, how lame was this character … an architect who wanted to be an organic farmer? Who was Lance kidding? The guy didn’t know the first thing about farming. Then again, he thought, he hadn’t known the first thing about writing crime stories, and look at him now.
Relax, Jane would never be interested in Lance, she’s too smart, too sensible. Oh God, maybe she’s too smart and sensible to marry a two-bit crime writer, one who’s been divorced three times!

He clipped a neighbor’s mailbox and the side mirror of his Volvo snapped off.
Damn.

He arrived home to two barking dogs and a kitten who was taunting them from her perch on top of the refrigerator. He let the dogs out into the yard, snatched down Callie, and then headed to his laptop to check emails.

September 23, 4:00 p.m.

Chip,

Good news, bad news. The good news is that Amy Chang from Good Day USA wants to interview both of us for a segment about crime novels that are being made into movies. The bad news is that she wants to do the interview in Turners Bend, which means I will have to make another trip to that odious little town. Amy and I plan to arrive next Tuesday to film. Try to look and act like a noted author for once.

Lucinda

His life was a roller coaster ride. Just a few days ago he had been excited about the Bijou renovation and the positive signs from Jane. Now the theater project was on hold, Jane had a potential new suitor and worst of all, Lucinda was coming to town.

His only comfort was the purring kitty in his lap.

Chapter Ten

Mind Games

St. Paul & Brooklyn Center, Minnesota

Late July

The media vehicles had cleared out of the parking lot in front of the Capitol by the time Frisco pulled alongside Jo’s black SUV. The Capitol and St. Paul’s Cathedral across the way were brightly lit by spotlights—two jewels lit against a velvety black sky.

“Looks like the media packed up their circus wagons and left for the night,” Frisco said.

Jo laughed. “Glad the head muckity-mucks get to deal with them, not me.” She grasped the door handle. “Thanks for the company at dinner, Frisco. I hope you like living here.”

In the glow of the lights in front of the Capitol, Jo saw a shadow pass across the detective’s features. “As long as my family is all together, that’s the important thing.” As Jo stepped out of the car, he leaned over and said, “I’ll give you a call tomorrow when the autopsy is set up.”

“Sounds good. Night, Frisco.”

Jo started up her SUV and headed north out of St. Paul, working her way to the highway. Dinner with Frisco had been a welcome respite, but now she was itching to get back to work. Even though it was past normal working hours, she knew a case this big would fill many of the FBI headquarter offices until late into the evening.

As she entered the west-bound lanes of I-694, she said to herself, “I really should call John now, while I’ve got a moment.” But dread and, if she were being honest, fear kept her from plugging in her Bluetooth.
What do I say to him? I can’t tell him to drop everything and move here, and I would have a hard time starting over there.

She kept thinking about Frisco and his move to St. Paul. She sensed he wasn’t thrilled with the relocation, but was making the best of it.

On the other hand, as difficult as her job could be and as much as she hated all the bureaucracy, she genuinely loved what she did for a living. It gave her an energy that went way beyond anything else she’d ever known. Except John.

I need to stop thinking about how I was supposed to be in Baltimore right now.
She spoke out loud, “I’m making myself crazy.” Jo clicked on the radio. Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” filled the interior with powerful, bluesy notes and her mind eased back into thinking about the case. Even as a child, Jo loved solving riddles and puzzles. She thrived on following leads, even if they sometimes led to dead-ends. There was a method to it all; a systematical search for the truth.

Maybe that’s the frustrating thing about relationships. Romantic connections with other human beings usually didn’t have a right or wrong answer. There was nothing methodical about them. They were messy.

The highway miles drifted by as she plotted out what she’d like to accomplish tonight in the office. Tomorrow would be a crazy day, and if she planned ahead tonight, she could hit the ground running.

Jo passed through the high palisade fence surrounding the newly built FBI building in Brooklyn Center, a northern suburb of Minneapolis. She pulled out her identification card to show the security guard on duty and then proceeded up the ramp into the parking structure.

From the outside, the headquarters looked like the other sleek, modern office buildings in the Twin Cities area. However, a closer look revealed a state-of-the art building, including a screening area for visitors, blast-proof glass, a reinforced structure, and a closed-circuit television security system.