Theresa Monsour (22 page)

“Duncan and I are going to mingle. Maybe Sweet will take me for a turn around the dance floor.”

“Be careful.” He picked up a piece of toast, bit off a corner.

“I dropped in on him yesterday, at the trailer park.”

“You went by yourself?”

“Me and my Glock,” she said. “His father was there, too. He lives with his father.”

“His pop as creepy as he is?”

“No, but he thinks he's hot shit. Kept getting touchy-feely with me.”

He threw his toast down on his plate. “Great. That's great. You're by yourself in this trailer park with these two creeps and one of them is a killer and the other is trying to cop a feel.”

“Don't pull a Jack on me, okay?”

His eyes narrowed; he didn't like the sound of that. “What is that? ‘Pull a Jack'?”

“That's where you freak out whenever I tell you about my day. Don't do that to me. I'll stop telling you stuff, and I don't want to do that. I like that we talk. Jack and I couldn't talk.”

He picked up his fork. “Then you promise me you won't compare me to Jack every time you turn around. I am not Jack. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said. She took another sip of juice. Decided after his reaction to hold off on telling him about the
Flintstones
coffee mug. “What's the latest on the dead folks?”

“So far looks like the ranger got his head bashed in. My guess is the weapon of choice was a BFS.”

“Come again?”

“Big fucking shovel.”

Murphy nodded, picked up her fork. “He buries Pederson. Comes across the ranger. Kills him with the same shovel he used to dig the hole.”

“Yup.”

“Cause of death on Pederson?”

Erik took another bite of omelet, chewed, swallowed. “I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say BFT.”

“Big fucking something.”

“Truck. Big fucking truck. You pick up on that medical terminology real fast, woman. Want a job at the ME's office?” He pointed his fork at her. “I got a pair of gloves with your name on them.”

“She was run over? That's it? Sexually assaulted first? Beaten? Any physical indications she'd done something to really piss someone off before she got nailed?”

“Nope. In fact, I'm thinking she was passed out on the road when she was run over.”

“Tire marks on her? Any good?”

“Not as good as the cast from the park—and that was a partial.”

She set her fork down and frowned. Killing four boys in high school out of anger and then running a woman over years later for no apparent reason. No pattern there. Was she wrong about Trip? Maybe he had nothing to do with the earlier crash and maybe he hit Bunny Pederson by accident, and then took advantage of the situation to play hero. The ranger got in the way. Could it be there were no others? No. Her gut told her there was more to it.

Erik studied her face. “Disappointed?”

She picked up her fork. “I was hoping for an MO that
might point to other murders. Signs of pent-up anger let loose. A simple hit-and-run, though. I don't know. Wish there'd been more out of the autopsy.”

“If Justice Trip did it, and then hid her body and planted her finger. Well. Shit. I'd hardly call that
simple
.” He rifled the rest of his toast in his mouth.

“What else?” She took another bite of egg.

He chewed, swallowed, took a sip of juice. “They found a knife near the grave.”

“Prints?”

“On the handle.”

“Match the one off the shoe?”

He nodded.

“What kind of knife? Hunting?”

“No. Not what you'd expect. Stiletto. Odd.”

“I'll show you odd.” She got up from the table and ran upstairs. She came back down with a slender volume in her hands. She sat down at the table, opened it and slid it over to Erik. “Check this out,” she said, pointing to a photo.

He looked at where she was pointing. A yearbook picture of a kid with black hair and dark eyes. Under the mug shot:
Justice Franklin Trip. “Sweet.” “Trippy.” Ambition: to move back to Memphis. Likes heavy metal . . . working on trucks . . . collecting knives. Remembered for blushing a lot, being the tallest kid in school
.

“Collects knives,” said Erik. “Shit.”

“Yeah. I got a gander at that knife collection yesterday. His bedroom is a sword museum or something. And the way he behaved. His dad gave me a tour of their trailer and Sweet was on edge the whole time. He's hiding something in that mobile home. I'm sure of it.” She closed the yearbook. “That tire tread from the park and the fingerprints. Can you get me copies real quick?”

Erik cut off another wedge of omelet and jabbed it with his fork. “On the sly maybe. Winter is being a prick about releasing info, even to other agencies. Yo-Yo really pissed him off.” He popped the egg into his mouth, chewed.

“Yeah. Duncan.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin,
stood up and took her plate over to the sink. “I better get to the cop shop before he does something goofy, like buys a tux for this reunion thing.”

Erik stood up with his plate. “I'll say it again. Be careful.”

She scraped the scraps into the trash. “I can handle Sweet.”

Erik opened the dishwasher. “I'm talking about Yo-Yo.”

She stopped scraping. Set the plate on the counter. “Give me a break.”

“You think I'm kidding?” Erik started loading the dishwasher.

She walked to the table to retrieve the dirty glasses and silverware. “Duncan's goofy; I'll give you that. But he's got an honest heart. I really believe that.”

Erik pulled the box of soap from under the sink and filled the dispenser in the dishwasher. “The guy's legendary. He lived on the street for years. The junkies were afraid of him. He's a fucking wild man.”

She stopped in the middle of the kitchen with a fistful of silverware. “Then why did they put him in charge of Homicide? Why's he a commander?”

Erik pulled the silverware out of her hands and dropped them in the dishwasher basket. “You got me. Maybe Christianson doesn't give a shit anymore because he's on his way out. Maybe he needed to rein in the wacko before he turned into a real PR nightmare. I hear by the time they took him off the streets, he was shooting up. Mainlining serious shit.”

Murphy handed him a couple of dirty glasses. Recalled Duncan pulling off his shirt. She would have noticed needle tracks. All she saw was an athletic body. No. She didn't believe it. “You're full of shit,” she said.

Erik set the glasses in the dishwasher, shut the door, and glared at her. “I don't like how you're Yo-Yo's big defender all of a sudden. What's up with that? You don't even call him Yo-Yo anymore. It's ‘Duncan this' and ‘Duncan that,' and frankly I don't like it.”

She smiled wickedly. “He is hot. I especially like the way he dresses. That ‘slept-in' look really turns my crank.”

“Fine. Make fun. Don't blame me when Yo-Yo gets the both of you tangled in some big fucking mess.”

NO WAY. CAN'T be true, she thought. While driving to work later that morning, she mulled over what Erik had said and wanted to dismiss it as jealousy. Duncan was odd, but he was also a good cop. She'd worked with him a couple of times back when she was in Vice. He'd received more medals and commendations than anyone else on the force. Taken more dealers off the street than anyone else. She turned into the cop shop parking lot, shut off the Jeep and dropped the keys in her purse. Glanced at the Glock in her bag. Thought about Saturday night. Duncan also had more kills than anyone else on the force, but not all of them were clean. A few years back, Duncan had had a midnight meeting with a dealer in a downtown apartment. The guy smelled a bust and fled the building before Duncan came up. Duncan saw him running down the sidewalk and shot him. He said the dealer had pulled a gun on him. No weapon was found. Only a lighter, and it was still in the guy's pocket. Duncan concocted some bullshit story that the piece had tumbled down the sewer. Internal affairs and the police-civilian review panel bought it and nobody
questioned their findings. Nobody cared. The lone ranger had blown away another bad guy. Murphy closed her purse, stepped out of the Jeep, slammed the door and walked to the shop. Decided she'd have to go over Saturday night's plan in detail with Duncan. She was worried about more than his wardrobe.

She didn't bother tossing her purse and jacket on her desk. She walked through Homicide and into Duncan's office. He was getting in himself. Draping his suit coat over the back of his chair. Underneath, his usual rumpled shirt and crooked tie. The tie was out of season; it was decorated with Christmas trees and holly leaves. At least he'd stopped throwing his blazer on the floor.

“Hey, Murphy.” He pulled at the tie like it was choking him, loosened it and then took it off. Curled his upper lip and dropped the tie on top of his desk in disgust, like it was a moldy sandwich. He pointed to the chair across from his desk. “Take a load off.” He noticed her hands were empty. “Coffee?” He jogged out of his office before she could answer and returned with two foam cups. Set one down on his desk and handed her one. “Black okay?”

She took it. “Thanks.” She set hers down on the edge of his desk. “Let's talk,” she said. He watched her while she turned and closed his office door. Even though there were no other detectives in yet, they could be walking in any minute and she didn't want them to overhear her concerns about working with Duncan. He was having enough problems with his credibility in Homicide. She pulled off her jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Set her purse down on the floor and sat down. Picked up the coffee cup and sipped.

He lowered himself into his chair and clasped his hands together, resting them on top of his desk. His face took on a serious expression. Furrowed brows and down-turned mouth. He spoke in a low voice. A priest offering counseling to a penitent. “I'm glad you feel comfortable coming to me, Paris. Like I said, I know the stress this job can place on a marriage. Have you talked to a shrink? I'm pretty sure
our medical covers it. Nothing to be ashamed of. They tried to set me up with one once or twice. I didn't go, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't.”

She set the cup down. Held up both palms defensively. “Stop. That is not what this is about. I appreciate it, but I can handle everything on the home front.”

He smiled grimly and nodded. “That's what
I
thought. Then I come home one night and all the furniture is gone and so is the wife.” He picked up his cup and sipped.

“Saturday night,” she said.

His eyes lit up. The priest was elbowed aside by the excited boy. “Yeah. Saturday.” He leaned forward. “Sure this Trip is going to be there?”

“Took an invitation to him yesterday afternoon. Visited him at the family estate. Lives in a trailer park on the north side of town with his dad.”

“How'd that go? What'd you see? Anything sound an alarm?”

“Sweet was nervous as hell. All he wanted to do was get me out of there. Meantime, his creepy dad is giving me the grand tour of the place and hitting on me at the same time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sweet's bedroom took the prize. Enough knives and daggers and swords to outfit an army.”

“This dude's gotta be the killer.”

“He's been a killer going back to high school.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She took a breath. She didn't know it would be so hard to talk about it. “He served me tea from this coffee mug. When I was in high school, I gave the mug to this kid. My boyfriend. Denny.” She took another breath. “Denny and three of his buddies died in a car wreck. Lost control and flew into a lake. The only way Trip could have the mug is if he stole it from the car right before the accident.”

Duncan's eyes widened. “Am I understanding you right?”

“I'm thinking the accident wasn't an accident. Sweet messed with the car so it would crash. Fucked up the brakes or the steering or something.”

“Why would Sweetie take the mug? A sick souvenir?”

“Maybe. More likely he stole the mug because it was filled with change.” She sipped her coffee. “One thing I don't get. Why was he stupid enough to serve me tea in the mug?”

“Did he know you gave your boyfriend the mug?”

“No.”

“Then he didn't know it was a big deal. Plus he probably had it sitting around his house so long, he forgot where he got it from.”

“Sweet remembered Denny liked cartoons. He made a crack about it in Moose Lake.”

“Just because a guy remembers a goofy fact doesn't mean he remembers
how
he acquired that fact in the first place. Hell. I'm a font of useless information. I have no idea why I know certain shit.”

She took another sip of coffee and nodded. “Yeah. I buy that.”

“And you know, it is possible he stole the mug and didn't mess with the car. Could be the timing of the accident was a coincidence.”

“No,” she said. “I'm sure he did it.”

“Why are you sure?”

She thought about it. Her intuition and instincts had always served her well in navigating cases. The times she'd ignored them had led to disaster. “I just am.”

Duncan nodded. “Okay. We'll get something out of him at the reunion.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Saturday night. What do I wear?”

“What you've got on is fine,” she said. She pointed to the heap of silk on the desk. “Except a different tie.”

He took another sip of coffee, held the cup between both hands. “What are you wearing?”

“A dress.”

“A fancy one?”

“God no. We're not going to the opera. A cocktail dress.”

“Then I should wear a suit.” He slurped his coffee. “Gotta get a suit. A suit coat would hide my piece.”

“Duncan.” She paused. Clearly he was looking for an excuse to get dressed up. “Okay. Get a suit. But save the receipt.”

“Good idea.” He polished off the coffee and tossed the cup toward the wastebasket. It hit the wall and bounced in.

“Now let's talk strategy,” she said.

“Strategy,” he repeated. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. The running shoes were still part of his uniform.

“Wait,” she said. She pointed to his feet. “Lose those, okay? I hate jokers who wear sneakers with suits. They think it's cute and it's not. Dress shoes, okay?”

He gave her the thumbs-up signal with his right hand. “Got it, Chief. Next?”

“ ‘Chief' is the operative word here. I'm in charge of this operation.” She took another sip of coffee and set the cup back down on the edge of his desk. “No cowboy stuff.” She braced herself for an angry comeback but he only nodded. She kept talking. “I'm getting a copy of the cast from the tire treads. Before I knocked on Sweet's door, I took some photos of his truck tires. We'll use those to compare. If we're still not sure we'll take the cast copy to the reunion and compare it to the actual treads on Sweet's truck. As far as getting Sweet's fingerprints, we'll have to be sneaky about it. Maybe give him a clean wineglass and take it back after he handles it.”

“So we can compare it to the print off the shoe?”

“And the stiletto,” she said.

He held up his hand to stop her. “Stiletto?”

She felt bad for Duncan; that bastard Winter was doing a good job of keeping him in the dark. “They found a stiletto near Pederson's body.”

“Part of Sweetie's knife collection?”

She nodded. “Got prints off the handle.” Then, so Duncan would know she wasn't talking to Winter behind his back: “Erik Mason told me.”

He snapped his fingers. “Mason. That's who I heard when I called you this morning. Knew I recognized the voice. You two move in together or what?”

“No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I'm not ready to have anyone move in.” She looked up, could feel her face growing hot. “Can we talk about my personal life some other time?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Been saying that to you a lot lately.” He took his feet off the desk and stood up. Unbuttoned his left shirt cuff and started rolling up the sleeve while he talked. “I take it Mason is the one slipping us the copies of the treads and prints.”

She stared at his left arm. No tracks. “Yeah. Erik,” she said distractedly. “Keep it under your hat. If Winter found out, he'd be pissed.”

“What time should I pick you up?” He unbuttoned his right shirt cuff.

“Seven,” she said. “Cocktails and appetizers at seven, dancing at eight.”

“Dancing, huh? I better warn you. I'm a damn good dancer. Better keep up.” He rolled up his right shirt cuff. “Where's it at?”

She studied his right arm. Again, no tracks. “Reception hall on Summit Avenue.”

“The one with the wrought-iron fence, right? I know the place. Nice joint.” He sat back down, rested his arms on the desk and caught her studying them. A tight smile stretched across his face. “You heard that bullshit story, too.” Her mouth fell open; she didn't know how to respond. “I'm surprised you swallowed it. A smart cop like you. How long would I have lasted on the streets if I was doing that shit? Who fed you that crap? Your new boyfriend? Tell Mason he can kiss my ass.”

She stood up. The cordial meeting had turned ugly. “My turn to say it. I'm sorry.” She picked up her purse, threw the strap over her shoulder and turned to walk out. She put her right hand on the knob, pulled the door open a crack.

He bolted out of his chair and was right behind her.
Pushed the door shut with his right hand. “Not so fast,” he said in a low voice. “That hurts, Paris. That really fucking hurts. We worked together.”

She kept her back turned to him. She wondered how he'd guessed Erik was the one who told her; they must have crossed paths before. It didn't matter. Erik was the one who told her, but she was the one who believed it, if even for an instant. She said again in a low voice, “I'm sorry.”

He planted his left hand on the other side of her. “Well ‘I'm sorry' ain't gonna fix it.”

They were standing too close. She felt trapped. Wished there was someone else in the office. At the same time she noticed he smelled good. Irish Spring soap and a cologne she recognized but couldn't place.

“Listen,” he said. “I'm only gonna give you this speech once. I'm fucking sick of defending my undercover work. Sure I dressed like a dope fiend. Hung out with them. Acted like a dope fiend. But that's all it was. A fucking act, and a good one at that.”

She turned and looked at him. He was genuinely hurt, and she felt bad. For the first time she noticed he had blue eyes. Not dark blue like hers. Light blue. Then she silently berated herself for noticing his eyes. Noticing his scent.

With her facing him, he suddenly realized how close they were and it seemed to embarrass him. He quickly took his hands off the door and lowered his arms. Took a step back from her. Folded his arms across his chest. “My record speaks for itself.”

She didn't know what to say. Had no good excuse. “I'm sorry. I really am. I told Erik he was full of shit.”

“But you had to see for yourself. Didn't you? Had to check out the junkie's arms. Look for the lines.” He took a step toward her, turned both his arms and raised them so she could see the inside of his forearms. “Here. Take a closer peek. Push the sleeves up more if you want.” She lowered her eyes and shook her head. He stepped closer. Raised his arms higher. “Really. I insist.”

She grabbed each of his wrists with her hands and pushed his arms down. “Duncan. Stop.”

He pulled his arms away from her and paced the width of the room once. “Jesus Christ. How about a little common sense? Would that tight-ass Christianson have put an addict in charge of Homicide?” He stopped walking and stood in front of her, even closer than before.

“No,” she said. She couldn't keep from looking in his eyes. Bloodshot. Angry. Incredibly blue. If Jack was young James Caan and Erik was old James Dean, Duncan was Robert Redford after a rough weekend.