Relative Malice (7 page)

10

Monday

The first call from Adam Nashlund came in before nine. Kendall didn’t take it. After the first one, his calls were scattered throughout her day, all ignored. She’d never really met the man, but considered him responsible for her brush with death when she was shot as the result of a drug event he’d put in motion. Working undercover at the time, if he’d followed proper procedure on the sting, she wouldn’t have been shot. He wasn’t a cop anymore; she had nothing to say to him.

Alverson and fellow detective Joe Monson came back in at noon after interviewing girls at the high school about the virgin emails.

“Did you get anything?” Kendall asked.

“Supposedly only about six girls got the emails. That we found out about, anyway.” He held up a metallic-red laptop. “We got this from Hayley Frank, one of the Glausson girl’s BFFs. It still has the email on it. I thought we could have it traced. Another girl who got one is dropping hers off later.”

Kendall sighed. Computer analysis was limited in their station, and the officer who did it wasn’t available. Maybe she’d pass it on to Tarkowski, let the FBI experts examine it.

“Did you talk to Ruby Rindsig?”

“I don’t think that name was on my list. She one of the high school chicks?”

“No, but she would have still been in school when the emails went around. I must have forgotten to add her.” Kendall had no real reason to interview Rindsig again, just that there had been something about her. “Call Tarkowski about the computers; see if they’ll do the trace on the emails. I’ll talk to the Rindsig girl myself.”

It was after two o’clock when Kendall finally finished the mountain of paperwork related to the case. She pulled her coat on and went for her car; she needed a break from the monotony of the written word.

Ruby Rindsig’s address turned out to be in a trailer court on the northwest side of the city, not all that far from the Glausson house and across the Chippewa River from the mini-mansions in its elite subdivision. The trailer with the number she’d written down sat at the far end of the park, long and weather-beaten, decades past its prime.

The man who answered the door leaned heavily on a walker, its legs ending in fluorescent green tennis balls. His odor wafted out into the cool air, contaminating it with a sour, acrid stench. Kendall showed him her ID. “Detective Kendall Halsrud. Is Ruby Rindsig here?”

He examined the ID. “Nah. She ain’t here much. What’s she done?”

“You’re her father?”

“That’s me. Girl spends all her time at school—hasn’t got no time for her old man.”

Kendall felt a flash of sympathy for the girl; the father was her only relative on record. She handed him one of her cards and told him to have Ruby call her. She’d find the girl at school if she didn’t hear from her.

It was after nine p.m. by the time Kendall headed for the apartment. She didn’t realize she’d forgotten to eat until she entered the back hall and inhaled the enticing scent of fried food coming from the bar’s kitchen. What the hell, she had to eat. She took a seat at the bar in front of the redheaded bartender she’d met the first night she came in. After ordering a beer and a burger basket, she noticed Brynn duck furtively into a booth toward the back of the room.

A man who’d been sitting at the front of the bar walked over and stopped beside Kendall. He had collar-length, dark hair, and walked with a swagger that announced he was full of himself. She disliked him at first sight.

He leaned on the bar at her side. “The elusive Detective Halsrud—the woman who doesn’t take calls.”

Adam Nashlund. She should have recognized him. He looked just like she remembered him—wearing an Army Surplus store, khaki jacket, torn jeans, and an arrogant grin. Kendall raised her beer to her lips.

He offered his hand. “Adam Nashlund. You can call me Nash.”

Kendall remained facing the bar.

He climbed on the stool next to her. “Hey. I don’t bite.”

“Your fuck-ups get people shot.”

“Ouch.” He kept studying her. “You’ve been around long enough to know there’s always more to a story than what trickles down.”

He had a point, but Kendall wasn’t ready to concede it.

He kept pushing. “Can we forget ancient history? I need to talk to you about the Glausson murders.”

“Why? You’re not a cop.”

“Gray Glausson hired me. He wants to find the baby, and he’s worried the kid isn’t your top priority. Well, not you personally, but the morons in ECPD.”

Was one of the “morons” close to the investigation talking to him? Someone who’d been at the meeting and knew there were opposing factions on whether the Glausson baby was still alive? Not that she’d ever prove it, but it pissed her off.

“So what, you’re a PI now?”

“No, just doing a favor for Glausson. He’s my boss. I work security at CPP.”

She snorted. “How nice for you.”

He ignored the dig. “Hey, it could be worse. Glausson was going to hire Maggie Cottingham.”

Kendall rolled her eyes. Maggie Cottingham was notorious—a dark-rooted, blowzy blonde, ambulance-chasing attorney who fancied herself an investigator. How the woman ever passed the bar, no one knew. Her presence at the station usually managed to clear it of all personnel with an excuse to vacate the premises. Nashlund wasn’t Cottingham, but she didn’t want him anywhere near her case. Or her.

When her food was placed in front of her, Kendall stood and picked it up. She turned to him for the first time. “Sorry, I’m eating with a friend.”

Brynn looked surprised when Kendall slid into the booth across from her. Or as surprised as someone wearing dark glasses in a dimly lit bar could look. Kendall chewed a bite of her burger. “You were right. Good burgers.”

Brynn picked up a fry, daintily dipping it into a side plate nearly filled to capacity with a giant puddle of catsup. “I like the fries best.”

“How’s the cat doing?”

“He’s fine.”

“I haven’t found out yet if the relatives want him.” Graham Glausson would be the first call on Kendall’s to-do list, but after meeting Nashlund, the cat wouldn’t be the immediate topic of conversation.

Kendall wondered why Brynn needed dark glasses in the bar, recalling she’d also been wearing them when she visited Brynn’s apartment. She suspected at times they were a shield rather than a necessity. Kendall was ready to ask her about it when Nashlund, carrying a basket of food, slid into the booth next to Brynn.

Kendall bristled. “Don’t you ever wait for an invite?”

“Hey, a guy can only wait so long before he has to take matters into his own hands.” He picked up his burger and took a bite nearly big enough to halve it. He turned to Brynn and nodded toward Kendall. “She should work with me, don’t you think?”

Brynn shrugged and licked catsup off her fingers. “I don’t know.”

One thing about Brynn—Kendall would never have to worry about her talking too much.

The greasy food suddenly wound through Kendall’s intestines like copper tubing; she should have expected as much after her hit-and-miss meals of the last few days. She bolted for the ladies room. With any luck, Nashlund would be gone when she got back.

After Kendall left, Nash turned to Brynn. “So. How long have you and Kendall been best buds?”

Brynn stuck another fry into her mouth.

“Tell me, how do I win her over?”

She tapped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I don’t think I should talk about her.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think she’d like it.”

Nash leaned nearer to Brynn until his face was inches from hers. He reached up and gently slid off her dark glasses. Brynn’s ice-blue eyes, shining like faceted mirrors, were turned ever so slightly toward each other.

“Yowza! You could kill a guy with those eyes.” He raised his eyebrows, meeting her frigid stare. “Sexy, very sexy.”

Nash slid the glasses back into place. “Thanks for the peek.”

When Kendall came back to the booth, Nashlund wore an idiotic grin, and Brynn’s body language said she wanted to crawl under the table. She sat down to finish her burger when her cell went off. It was Alverson.

“Newsflash. One of the search teams found a baby blanket stuck to a dead tree along the river.”

Kendall’s heart sank. “Where are you now?”

“I’m on my way over there. They’re on the east side of the river about a quarter of a mile south of Clairemont. They’re going over the area to see if there’s anything else.”

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”

Kendall wrapped up her burger, ignoring Nashlund’s inquisitive look.

He narrowed his eyes. “Not gonna share?”

When she didn’t answer, he stood and handed her his business card. “In case you change your mind—I’m available.” He walked toward the door.

Kendall watched his departing back. “Asshole.”

Brynn followed her gaze. “I thought he was nice.”

Kendall arrived on the scene, the riverbank lit up like a baseball diamond. An area about twenty yards wide was taped off along a section of the riverbank thick with shrubs and clumped winter grass. Kendall could see her breath in the frigid night air. Fortunately there hadn’t been much snow yet—nothing that stuck to the ground, anyway. If there were anything to be found, at least it would be visible.

The techs, spread out along the edge of the river, sifted through dead leaves, sticks, and assorted debris, looking for anything that could possibly be evidence.

Alverson stood nearby, talking to a sixteen-year-old boy wearing what looked like an advanced Boy Scout uniform.

“Detective Halsrud,” Alverson said, “this is George Cline. He’s the one who found the blanket. He’s with a group of Explorer Scouts.”

The boy stood at attention, and for a moment Kendall thought Cline was going to salute. She was about to ask what an Explorer Scout was and then decided it didn’t matter.

“George, tell me what you saw when you found the blanket.”

“We were walking the riverbank with lanterns and noticed something pink caught on a dead tree. When we got closer, we could see it was a baby blanket because it had little panda pictures on it.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“No. We followed orders and called in right away, then waited here. We didn’t touch it and tried not to move around a lot.”

They dismissed the Explorers from the immediate area. The techs bagged the blanket and various detritus, but other than the blanket, none of it seemed relevant to their case. Now they’d have to wait for forensics to do their thing. Meanwhile, she’d have to call anyone who might remember if that particular blanket had belonged to the Glausson baby.

By the time she and Alverson headed for their cars, her fingers felt nearly frostbitten. She couldn’t wait to be in her car with the heater cranked up, but there was something that couldn’t wait.

“Hey, Ross, I need to talk to you.” He stopped walking and faced her.

“Do you still see Adam Nashlund?” Kendall asked.

Alverson hadn’t been Kendall’s chief suspect as the one blabbing to Nashlund, but his slow reaction to her question gave him away. He’d deny it, even though his tells were obvious. She didn’t give him a chance.

“From now on, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share anything about this case or any other police business with anyone except your fellow officers. Am I clear on that?”

His face screwed up, ready to protest, before expelling a long breath of air that raised a white, frosty barrier between them.

“Okay, I had a beer with the guy. Is that a crime?”

“No, but discussing this case or anything involving police matters isn’t professional and could lead to a reprimand. Keep your yap shut from now on.”

“He’s not a bad guy, you know.”

Kendall resisted the urge to slug him. Adam Nashlund could go to hell and Ross Alverson could accompany him on the trip.

11

Tuesday

Kendall spent the morning working on reports and wondering where to go next with the investigation. The discovery of the baby blanket had turned out to be a bust; neither Betty Ruffalo, Evan’s therapist, or the baby-sitter recognized it, although that didn’t guarantee the blanket wasn’t Philly Glausson’s. The initial exam done by the ME showed no evidence of blood on the cloth or anything else that could identify its owner.

There was a camping area not far from where the blanket turned up; it could easily have drifted down from there. But there hadn’t been camping weather for weeks and the blanket looked too new to have been out in the elements that long. Too new to have been along the river for even the four days since the murders. It was up to forensics now to see if there was any trace on it. Meanwhile, Kendall had detectives checking area stores in an effort to find out where it had been sold and hopefully, who’d bought it.

Kendall rose from her chair for a second cup of coffee just as a woman came rushing toward her desk. Walking masterfully in a pair of outrageously high stiletto-heeled pumps was one of the most beautiful women Kendall had ever seen. Nearly eye-level with Kendall, she’d have been average height without the shoes.

“I’m Graham Glausson’s fiancée.” She shoved a piece of paper at Kendall. “This was on Gray’s windshield this morning, Detective.”

Kendall took the sheet of loose-leaf paper. Scrawled across it was,
“If you don’t want to end up like your brother, back off.”

A nasty tingle travelled Kendall’s spine. “And your name is?”

“England Duran.” She rested her finely manicured hands on Kendall’s desk. “I’m a model.”

How nice.

Kendall ushered her into a conference room, much to the disappointment of the male onlookers. Her beauty out of place in the well-used room, England Duran would have been at home on a throne, smothered in queenly robes while being fawned over by adoring slaves.
At least she’s not perky.
Her luxurious, black hair fell in a silky stream to the middle of her back, and except for a slight overbite and fashionably inflated lips, Kendall thought she bore a resemblance to Morticia Adams.

“Why isn’t Mr. Glausson with you?”

The woman slapped a diamond-decorated hand on the table. “What are you going to do about this?”

Kendall would have made book on Glausson having no idea his woman was here reporting the note. “The note will be sent for fingerprinting. We’ll have to take your prints too if you’ve handled it without gloves.” Glausson’s prints were already on record, along with the DNA he’d willingly submitted.

“That’s it? You aren’t going to protect him?”

“I can’t order protection on the basis of a threatening note. This could be from a crank. A crime as sensational as the Glausson murders brings out all the crazies.”

Duran sniffed. “I should have known it wouldn’t do any good to come here with this. You can’t do anything until something happens to him, right?”

Kendall felt light-headed from the shallow breaths she took to avoid inhaling Morticia’s cloying perfume—maybe it was laced with formaldehyde.

“If anything else happens, let us know.”

England Duran fixed a narrow gaze on Kendall as she rose to leave. “I’ll have Gray call you.”

Call me, my ass.
Glausson was probably making a beeline for his minion, Adam Nashlund.
Let him pay Nash to watch over his royal behind.

Early that afternoon Ed Lipske came to Kendall’s desk. “I ran that woman you asked me about. Brynn Zellman.”

“And?”

“Turns out she has a sheet, but its sealed—Juvie. I asked Schoenfuss to see if he could unearth it. He said FYI, but not for public knowledge, she’s a hacker, on probation as we speak.”

A hacker?
Everything about the girl was unexpected. Or weird. “Do you have the name of her probation officer?”

“Yeah. Linda Fournier.” He handed Kendall a small sheet of paper with the officer’s name and number on it.

“Thanks. You wouldn’t know if she’s in?”

“Yup. She can see you if you get there between two and three today.”

Later, Kendall left the station and crossed the river to the courthouse where the parole offices were located. In her office, Linda Fournier stood on her tiptoes watering a giant spider plant suspended from the ceiling in an old-fashioned macramé holder. Fournier had to be in her fifties, her tightly curled hair dyed a flat, shoe polish black, and her clothes, librarian-conservative. She saw Kendall walk in.

“Detective Halsrud. Please, have a seat.”

The only seat in the tiny office sat beneath the spider plant. Kendall’s height permitted the lowest spiders to graze her hair. She brushed them aside, wondering if they unnerved the parolees who sat across from Fournier.

“I‘m here about Brynn Zellman.”

“Oh, dear. Is Brynn in trouble?” The woman even talked like a librarian.“I’m working on the Glausson murders. Right now she’s a person of interest, like everyone else we talk to.”

Fournier took a seat behind her desk. “Good. The poor thing is really trying to make a nice life for herself.”

“How did she end up on parole?”

“I suppose you could call what Brynn did cyber-vandalism. Brynn is talented with computers. Her hacking wasn’t really malicious; she used her skills to pay back people who had made fun of her. People can be cruel when a person looks different. Brynn was picked on everywhere she turned and never developed the assertiveness to deal with it.”

Kendall made a mental note not to anger the girl.“How long has she been on parole?”

“Since she turned seventeen. About a year and a half now. She only has six months left.”

“Probation lasting this long seems a little extreme for the offense.”

“It’s lengthy, yes, but she was spared community service. She might never have been caught, but her mother came into her room one day and saw what she was up to.”

“Her own mother turned her in?”

“It is surprising, except her mother was one of the people Brynn was driving crazy. Mrs. Zellman is one of those anal types who balance their checkbook to the penny every month. Brynn started making sure the numbers in her mother’s account were off, causing her mother and the bank many hours of work trying to find the errors. Her mother was furious.” Fournier adjusted her glasses. “Her mother is obsessively controlling and treated Brynn like a hothouse flower. According to Brynn, she couldn’t even breathe without her mother’s permission. Now the girl is determined to remain independent.”

Kendall could sympathize. Her relationship with her own mother had never been greeting-card perfect. “If she was seventeen, why has she been allowed to live on her own?”

“An uncle who died a few years ago left Brynn a considerable amount of money. Her mother controlled it, although he hadn’t specified when or in what manner she was to receive it. Brynn went to court in order to get the money transferred to her own account. She asked for it in monthly installments, and at the same time she applied to be an emancipated minor.”

Surprising. “I didn’t think that was easy to do.”

Fournier sighed. “No, not usually. Her mother was livid. I testified on Brynn’s behalf, Detective. I believed that Brynn would do better on her own by learning how to deal with the world. She sees me every week now, and a social worker drops in regularly.”

“Do you know if Brynn has friends that could be a bad influence on her?”

“I don’t think she has
any
friends, much less unsavory types. Detective, I must say, I can’t imagine Brynn had anything to do with the Glausson murders. I’m sure you can tell I have a soft spot for the girl—she’s quite unlike most of my parolees.”

“How did you feel about the psychic readings?”

“I approved it, although I suppose the IRS might be another matter. Her trust fund check isn’t very large, and that’s what she lives on, so she needs the extra money. She says she’s going to quit doing it when she gets off probation and can get a real job working with computers.”

“Do you think Brynn believes she has psychic abilities?”

“No. She thinks the old fortune-teller did and is somehow guiding her readings.”

That fit with what Brynn had told her. Fournier excused herself to take a call, speaking in a tone of voice and using vocabulary that definitely weren’t library lingo. Kendall tried not to smile.

“Sorry about that, Detective. Parolees enjoy testing their limits.”

Kendall glanced at her notes. “Brynn’s a person of interest because last spring, she did readings for Sienna Glausson and her mother, Chelsea Glausson. According to Brynn, the cards foresaw violent death for them. In the aftermath of what happened, her prediction, if that’s what you’d even call it, is suspect. You know the police aren’t big on coincidence. Or psychics.”

The probation officer gripped her hands together. “Brynn did tell me about the incident, but didn’t mention their names. She was very upset after it happened and talked about giving up her readings. I was the one who insisted she go to the police. Not that I had any illusions they would act on it, but I thought Brynn might feel better if she did something about it.”

Kendall stood to leave. “Have you ever been curious about her readings—curious enough to have her do one for you?”

“Yes. I did. Her reading was uncannily accurate. She told me someone close to me would die soon.”

“And someone did?”

“Yes. My mother. She’d been in a nursing home for years, and she passed about a week after Brynn told me about it. It was a blessing, really. My mother didn’t enjoy life anymore.”

Propped in his hospital bed, Hank Whitehouse looked as pasty as a prisoner on release day. At least he appeared to be tubeless. Kendall took a chair next to his bed.

“About time you show your face,” he growled.

“Uh, I’ve been a little busy?”

“I want every detail.”

“You’ve probably heard most of it.”

“Not from you.”

“I heard from Tarkowski on the way over here; the FBI might have a lead in the Stillwater case, but I haven’t gotten any details yet. I’ve got to admit that being in charge of a big case isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—seems like all I do is keep up with reports.”

Whitehouse adjusted his bed, moving up to eye level with Kendall. “Comes with the territory. Quit griping.”

“Glausson’s fiancée came in this morning. Someone put a threatening note on his car during the night, telling him to back off or he’d end up like his brother.”

“Back off of what?”

“He’s trying to find his niece. It sounds to me like someone’s warning him off of searching for the baby.”

“Possible. But it could be someone with a bug up his butt about the guy for some other reason, nothing to do with the murders. Glausson may have no idea she brought the note in.”

“I think you’re right about that, but it’s strange he didn’t let us know about it himself. I’m on my way to see him when I leave here. The fiancée is quite the looker—must be a replacement wife.”

“Nah. I know a little about the guy. Never been married. He’s been too busy climbing the corporate ladder at the ass-wipe company.”

Kendall chuckled. “The girlfriend is up in arms because we aren’t putting a cop on him. I told her the note wasn’t enough and he should keep an eye out, let us know if anything else suspicious happens.”

“All you can do.”

The way Hank’s eyelids were drooping, she wouldn’t have time to give him all the details he’d asked for. She’d have to get what she came for before he drifted off.

“How well do you know Adam Nashlund?”

“Nashlund? Why?”

“I thought you probably heard about it. He’s been working at CPP since he left the force; he’s head of security there. Glausson has him working the case for him, trying to find the little girl. Nashlund came to see me last night. He had the nerve to tell me he thinks we should collaborate.”

“You could do worse. Guy was a good cop.

What?
“That so-called ‘good cop’ got me shot.”

Kendall would have expanded on the subject, but a nurse in a bright green smock and white pants a size too small for her full figure pushed her way between Kendall and the bed. The nurse passed Hank a small pill container and a cup of water, watching him closely while he swallowed the pills. After she left the room, Hank pressed a button, lowering the head of his bed back to where it had been.

“I need to get some sleep.”

Kendall hadn’t expected Hank to drop the subject of the shooting so easily; she’d always refused to discuss it with him.

“Just one more thing,” Kendall said. “Back in the day, who did Nash hang with?”

“Your buddy, Alverson.” His eyes closed, signaling the conversation was over.