Theresa Monsour (12 page)

 

MURPHY pulled over to the side and parked the Jeep on the road leading to the campground. Figuring it was already jammed with cars, she didn't want to park at the campsite itself. She walked south for several yards, took a right off the road. Headed down the first loop into a sea of uniforms. BCA's crime-scene team crawling around the ranger's truck. A guy snapping pictures of the ranger's body. Another guy kneeling in the dirt making a cast. Cops and deputies poking around bushes and weeds. A couple of parks workers standing around, probably the ones who found the ranger. Then she saw him. He was the only one crouched next to the ranger. She contemplated turning around and getting back in the car. Too late. He looked up and saw her. He smiled. She told herself she was a coward for wanting to run from him. He stood up and walked toward her, peeling off his gloves as he went. He moved slowly and deliberately. His eyes never left her face. He reminded her of a lion who'd spotted his next meal. She hated to admit it, but that predatory quality intrigued her. Excited her. She didn't want that right now; she was already confused.

“Surprise,” Erik said, and stuffed his gloves into his jacket pocket.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you trying to piss me off? I can't believe you followed me up here.”

He stopped next to her and leaned into her ear. “This isn't the space you wanted?” he whispered.

She took a step away from him. She didn't want his hot breath on her neck; she enjoyed it too much. “I'm not going to be here too long,” she said, pulling some sheets of paper out of her purse. “I'm handing over a few notes and then I've got to check out of my room. Head back to the cop shop. Where did you spend the night?”

“Not with you, unfortunately. Lunch?”

“Don't have time.”

“Not even for lunch?”

“I've got to get back.” She looked past him. “The sheriff around? Who's in charge?”

“Come on. I'll introduce you to Mr. Warmth.” He led her to a big man standing next to the ranger's pickup truck. “Detective Murphy from St. Paul PD,” said Erik. “Sheriff Winter.” He looked like his name. White hair. White mustache. Ice-blue eyes.

He extended his hand—as big as a catcher's mitt—and she shook it. “What you got for me on this Chad Pederson?”

Murphy could tell he was impatient. He had better things to do than listen to a detective from St. Paul with a marginal connection to the case. She handed him her notes. “Here's everything I got. I'm sure you've already cut him loose.”

Winter grunted. “Probably halfway home by now. Tore up about his ex and madder than hell we picked him up for questioning, especially in front of his boys.”

Murphy: “How are his kids?”

“Unglued. They're staying up here with Grandma. For now. Pederson wants them, but child protection is giving him the third degree.”

“Why?”

“Why the hell do you think? 'Cause we thought he killed their mama. Hope we didn't mess things up for him.” Winter's eyes narrowed. “Tell your boss thanks for all his assistance.”

Murphy opened her mouth to apologize for Duncan, but felt strangely defensive. “He was trying to help. You must
have bought into it if you picked Pederson up.”

Winter's face reddened. “Yeah. Well.” He looked at the notes she'd handed him. “Good. This is good. County attorney thought we were too quick to rule Pederson out. This clears the decks on that issue.”

She had questions about the ranger's murder and the connection to Bunny Pederson, but she figured Winter wasn't the one to ask. She handed him her card and he stuffed it in his jacket. “Call me if you want anything else,” she said, and turned and headed to her car.

Erik went after her. “Thought you couldn't stand Yo-Yo. Why'd you pass up a chance to slam him?”

“Duncan's not so bad.”

“Since you're in such a generous mood, how about granting me an audience?”

“This isn't the time or the place.”

“I'll meet you at the hotel,” he said. “We've got to talk.”

“What about your dead guy?”

“He's got his own ride down to St. Paul. Where're you staying?”

They stopped next to the Jeep. Murphy wasn't ready to talk about their relationship—she was still angry he'd followed her to Moose Lake—but she did want to hear what Erik knew about the case. “Fill me in on the ranger's murder?”

“Sure.”

“AmericInn,” she said. She opened the driver's-side door and hopped in. “Meet me in the lobby. Under the moose head.” She slammed the door.

On her way back to the hotel, she saw Trip standing by the side of the highway talking to Cody. A news van parked in front of Cody's beater pulled away and she steered the Jeep into the space. She turned off the car and shoved the keys in her purse. Looked down at her sweatshirt. Ran her fingers over the embroidered badge. Now Trip would know what she did for a living. Good, she thought. Let's see what kind of reaction that gets. She opened the door, hopped out, walked toward Cody's truck. Trip and Cody were
leaning against the side of it, talking. She noticed the reporter wasn't taking notes; this wasn't an interview. Trip's back was turned to her, but she could see Cody's face. He was aggravated. Seemed Trip was finally wearing out his welcome with the press.

“Hello again, Sweet,” she said. Trip turned and looked at her face and then glanced down. He didn't notice her sweatshirt, she thought. She'd have to talk to him a little longer.

Cody checked his watch. “I'll leave you two to catch up. I've got a press conference.” Murphy and Trip stepped away from Cody's pickup. The reporter got in his truck and pulled away, following a stream of other cars and television vans headed to town. The two of them were alone next to her Jeep. They stood three feet apart—closer than strangers stand, but not as close as friends.

She forced a tight smile on her face. “Was Cody trying to wring one more quote out of you?”

“I was on my way out of t . . . town. Saw all the reporters. Thought I'd check it out.”

“They all know you now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He was still looking down, but she could see he was blushing. He loved all the attention, she thought. This didn't feel right. Not any of it. The way he enjoyed the publicity. His behavior in the bar.

Another breeze rippled the trees and sent leaves falling between them. She pulled one out of her hair. Trip's gaze moved up to her face and then her forehead. The scar. She thought she detected a small smile on his face. Then she saw Trip take in her sweatshirt. Watched his eyes widen and his face whiten. He quickly looked down. Fiddled with the baseball cap in his hands. She'd rattled the shit out of him and she was glad.

“You d . . . didn't tell me you're a c . . . cop last night,” he said.

“Didn't think you'd be interested,” she said. “Sometimes it puts people off.”

“So you're a d . . . detective. In St. Paul. Interesting work?”

“Has its days.”

“What b . . . brings you to the park?” He was pushing a rock around with the tip of his right shoe, trying hard to act casual.

“I heard the Moose Lake cops had a murder. Thought I'd check it out. I know a couple of the deputies.”

He stopped pushing the rock around and froze. “The r . . . r . . . ranger? Know anything more about it?”

“I can't talk about it.”

He started pushing the rock around with the other foot. He was trying to hide it, but he was nervous and afraid, and it had something to do with the ranger's body. She didn't believe he'd stopped outside the park to bullshit with the reporters. Killers return to the scene. Could Trip be the killer? Her amorphous suspicions jelled into a theory, and it sent a chill through her body. It all added up. The fact that he found the bridesmaid's finger. The way he enjoyed all the attention. His presence outside the park. His startled reaction when he saw her sweatshirt. She tried to beat down her own theory. Couldn't be Trip. Not somebody she went to school with, somebody she knew. In the same instant she warned herself that she didn't know him. Not really. That business with the wineglass proved it last night. Last night! Did he have time to do it last night, after their dinner? She needed more. She had to make sure he showed up at the reunion. She pulled her keys out of her purse. Saw her business cards, pulled one out and handed it to him. “Call me if you can't find your invitation.”

He took the card, put it in his pocket. “Sure you'll b . . . b . . . be there?”

“Absolutely.” She glanced at her watch; almost checkout time at the hotel. “Gotta go. How far away you parked? Need a ride to your car?”

“Got my wheels right here,” he said, pointing at his Ford parked across the road.

“Nice,” she said, and took a mental photograph of the truck.

“Was good seeing you again, Sweet.” She walked up to her car door, opened it, threw her purse inside. Over her shoulder she said, “Should have asked you last night. Can I still call you Sweet, or did you outgrow that nickname?”

He'd pulled the baseball cap on his head. “No. Pa s . . . still calls me Sweet.”

“Good.” She got in, shut the door, turned the ignition.

As he watched her drive away, he studied the make and model of her car. He said under his breath, “What goes around comes around, beautiful.”

ERIK WAS PACING impatiently under the moose head when she walked into the lobby. He looked pointedly at the clock behind the front desk. “Sorry,” she said. “I saw Justice Trip on the way back and stopped to talk.”

He frowned. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

She sat down on the couch in the lobby. She was overheating in the sweatshirt. She pulled it off, tossed it on the arm of the couch, ran her fingers through her hair. Had she forgotten to brush it this morning? Pretty soon she'd be coming to work looking like Duncan. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. A headache. She needed to eat something. The bagels in her room would be hard as rocks by now and they'd already cleared the breakfast food from the lobby. She saw a basket of fruit at the front desk.

“Toss me an apple,” she said.

Erik carried the basket over and set it on the coffee table in front of her. “Told you we should have had lunch. I'm starving, too.” He sat down next to her, peeled a banana,
ate it in three bites. He tossed the skin on the coffee table and grabbed an orange. “Who's Trip Justice?”

She picked up an apple, wiped it on her sweater and took a bite before she answered. “Justice Trip,” she said, wiping juice from her chin with her hand. “He's that tall guy who's been on television and in the newspapers for finding the finger.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I went to school with him. I bumped into him at a bar last night; we ended up having dinner together. Listen to this. I leave to use the john and when I start heading back to the table, I see him messing with my wineglass.”

“You think he put something in your drink?”

“I wasn't sure last night. Didn't take any chances. Didn't touch it. Now I'm sure he tried to slip me something. He's acting so bizarre.”

“How so?”

“Hanging around outside the park for no good reason this morning. Then his eyes bug out when he sees I'm a cop. On top of all that, he isn't the person he's pretending to be in all the news stories.”

“Rewriting his own history?”

“More like giving himself a personality makeover. In the stories, he acts the part of this noble do-gooder. Volunteering for this search party and that. Helping the cops by finding clues. He's really a mouse. He's doctoring up even dumb little stuff about himself. Claims he's a lifelong Elvis fan, same as the bridesmaid. But he never—”

“Whoa. What did you say?” Erik stopped peeling the orange.

“The bridesmaid. Bunny Pederson. He says she liked Elvis and so did he and they could have been soul mates or some stupid crap like that.” She took another bite of apple, chewed, swallowed.

“Paris.” He touched her arm. “That's a tidbit only the cops up here know.”

“What?”

“She had the lyrics to an Elvis song stuffed inside her purse when she went missing, but that's not general knowledge,” said Erik. “As far as I know, nothing that was in her bag has been made public. A couple of her friends from the wedding party know what she was carrying, but that's about it.”

“Shit,” she said.

“Think he's the one?” Erik shoved an orange section in his mouth.

“I've been thinking he could be,” she said in a low voice. “Explains the finger turning up minus the rest of her.”

“He planted it.”

“Kills her, cuts off the pinkie, ditches the rest of her somewhere. Then he volunteers for the search party so he can ‘find' the finger. Could have been carrying it. Waiting for the right time to drop it.”

Erik nodded. “The condition of the pinkie. Pretty damn pristine for sitting out in the woods. No insect bites. No animal bites. Winter wondered if the finger had been removed by a raccoon or something. No way, I told him. The cut was clean. Baffled the hell out of us. Who would have suspected the guy who found it? Brilliant and ballsy in a way.”

Murphy: “Brilliant and ballsy. Two words I'd never use to describe Justice Trip.”

“But why? What's the motive?”

“So he could be king for a day? I read the stories about him. He played hero before and loved it. Helped hunt for a missing girl outside Eau Claire.”

“Think he killed her, too?”

“No, no. They found her after Sweet found her necklace.”

“Sweet?”

“His nickname.” She took another bite out of the apple. Chewed and swallowed. “Which song?”

Erik: “What?”

“Which Elvis song in her purse?”

“Why?”

“Curious. Bet it was ‘Can't Help Falling in Love.' ”

“How'd you know?”

“Every couple has it at their wedding.”

“I wouldn't know. Never been married.” He stared at her and she quickly looked away. “You'll need more than an Elvis song. Hell. He could say he overheard somebody in town talking about it.” He popped two orange sections into his mouth.

“I know.” She took another bite of the apple, chewed, swallowed. “What about that cast they took?”

“Tire tread. A partial. They're trying to figure out if it's the killer's or whoever camped there last.”

“I saw a sign. Thought camping was done for the year.”

“A few people have been sneaking in anyway.” He picked up a second orange. Started peeling, adding to the garbage pile on the coffee table.

Murphy: “Car?”

“Looks like it was a truck.” He pulled an orange section off, stuffed it in his mouth, chewed twice, swallowed, wiped his mouth with his hand.

“Sweet drives a truck,” she said.

“So does half the state.” He rifled more orange sections into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed.

“What else they find?”

“A print. On the bridesmaid's shoe. Some black hairs. The BCA lab boys are doing their thing.” He shoved the last piece of orange in his mouth.

“Sweet's losing black hair a strand a second,” she said. “But if he's as devious as I think he is, he's never been caught doing anything. His prints and DNA aren't in the system.” She chewed her bottom lip. “My only question is timing. I saw him last night. We had a late dinner.”

“How late?”

“Seven or so.”

“He would have had plenty of time to do the ranger.” Erik swept the mound of orange and banana peelings off the coffee table and into the wastebasket. “What's your game plan, lady? Gonna run your theory by the locals?”

“I'm not saying anything to that prick Winter until I've got more. That's for damn sure.” She ran her fingers
through her hair again. “God. Somebody from high school. How weird would that be if he is the killer?”

He wiped one hand on his pants. “A guy I went to high school with is in prison.”

“Murder?”

“Nah. Big-time embezzlement. Credit union.”

She tossed the apple core in the wastebasket, picked up a pear. Polished it on her sweater sleeve. “When do you suppose we stop keeping tabs on the kids we went to high school with?”

“What do you mean?”

“You might not stay in touch, but you're always keeping score in your head.
I hope I'm doing better than he is. I'll bet I look better for my age than she does
. It's only four years out of your life. What's the big deal about high school?” She took a bite and chewed. The pear was hard and green.

“Here's my theory on that: High school's important because the person you become then is the person you stay for the rest of your life.”

Murphy: “Bullshit. People change. Grow.”

“Not all that much. Some traits and habits amplify or lessen when you become an adult. But the whole package is still the same.”

“That guy you went to school with. Was he a thief in high school?”

“Bet your ass he was. Stole my calculator. Was this Justice character a creep in high school?” She didn't answer. “I'll take that as a yes. See what I mean?”

She shook her head. “I still don't know if I buy it.”

He threw up his hands. “Hey. That's my theory. Take it or leave it.”

She sat back in the couch with the pear in her hand. “I'm wiped out.”

“Me too,” he said. He leaned back and shut his eyes.

Both sat still on the couch for a moment. Murphy wondered when she'd last had a conversation this long with Jack, especially about work. She'd even forgotten about the
stupid bangs covering her forehead. She touched them. They were all screwed up, but Erik hadn't once looked at her scar. She had to keep reminding herself that he'd followed her up there and that it pissed her off.

Murphy nudged him in the side with her elbow. “Wake up. We better get our butts moving.” She stood, tossed the pear in the wastebasket. Picked up her sweatshirt and purse off the couch. Eric opened his eyes and yawned. “Talk to me while I pack,” she said, and he got up and followed her down the hall. She was excited. Someone interested in her job. In her ideas. She slid the key card into the lock and pushed open the door. Threw her purse and sweatshirt on the bed.

“Nice room,” he said, and sat on the edge of the four-poster while she stuffed her clothes into the duffel bag on the end of the bed.

“Tell me more about the case,” she said, bending over to pick up her socks and jeans off the floor.

“First tell me about last night,” he said. She stood up with the clothes in her arms. Erik was holding a champagne glass in each hand. “Jack?” he asked, searching her face for a response. She dropped the clothes and nodded. “Jack,” he said again. Not a question this time. A statement. Then angrily: “Jack!” He hurled one of the glasses against the fireplace. It shattered against the brick. He dropped the other glass on the floor. Bolted from the bed. Grabbed her hard by the arms. “You didn't want my company last night but you were happy to summon Jack. Run to me when you need a shoulder to cry on. A pal. Then go fuck Jack. Is that how it works?” His voice was low and deep. He was struggling to contain it. “Stop doing this to me. Stop doing it to Jack. Make up your mind.”

She'd never seen him this furious. She struggled to push his hands off her, but he only gripped her harder. “You're hurting me,” she said.

“No,” he said. “You're hurting me.” He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly on the mouth. He cradled the back of her head with his left hand. With his right, he
pressed the small of her back; he wanted her to feel his hardness. He eased her backward onto the bed and fell on top of her. His mouth covered hers again and then moved to the curve of her neck. His left hand stayed tangled in her hair. His right moved up under her sweater. Cupped her left breast over her bra. Slid under her bra. He pushed her knees apart with his and moaned as he rubbed his crotch against hers.

She could still smell Jack's cologne on the sheets. “Erik,” she said. “Please.”

His hand moved from her breast to her stomach. Slid under her jeans and panties. “Please keep going?” He sounded groggy. Lost in the passion.

She raised her voice. “Stop. Get off me. We can't do this.”

“Sure we can.” He pulled on her left ear with his teeth.

Even louder: “No!”

“Damn,” he muttered. He withdrew his hand from her panties. “
No
forever? Or
no
right now?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Let me help you make up your mind,” he said into her ear. His right hand moved back to her breast; he squeezed it as hard as he could over her sweater. “Break it off with Jack or I'll do it for you.” The lion coming in for the kill. “I'll tell him we slept together. So help me God I will.”

“Bastard!” she said. She tried to push him off with both hands but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them against the bed. He kissed her on the mouth while she cursed him. “Bastard!” He released her wrists. She rolled him off of her and stood up. Her legs felt weak and wobbly; she grabbed the bedpost for support. He sat up on the bed, smiling. She drew her right hand back and slapped him. The smile was still there. So was the lion. She drew her hand back again and he grabbed it and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her on the mouth. He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“You son of a bitch,” she murmured. “I hate you.”

He rested his head between her breasts. “Paris. I have to know if we have anything together. Life's too short. I want to enjoy you in public. I want to look ahead with you. Make plans. I'll tell him if you don't. I mean it.”

“Tell him what? That we slept together once?”

“There's more to it. More to us. I know there is.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. There was more, but she couldn't put a name to it. Maybe it was simple lust. Whatever it was, it made her guilty and miserable. Behind his back, she held up her left hand. She half expected the gold circle to crack and fall off her finger right before her eyes. She untangled her arms from his neck and got up off his lap. Turned her back to him while she talked. She couldn't look into his hazel eyes. Not while the lion was awake. “I can't write off eight years of marriage so easily.”