Theresa Monsour (30 page)

SHE'D CONSIDERED WEARING something dumpy to piss off Duncan and then thought she'd show him up instead. Murphy stood in front of her bedroom dresser mirror and scrutinized her evening attire. A fuzzy three-quarter-sleeve black cashmere sweater with a high neckline and a low back. Fitted black satin skirt with a hemline that fell just above the knees. She wished she could dump the panty hose—they were too confining—but it was cold outside and the wrong season to go barelegged. She turned sideways and examined her profile. Murphy hadn't worn the outfit in a while; the material hung a little looser on her than she remembered. She hadn't been watching the scale lately and suspected she'd lost some weight since the summer. She blamed it on the surgeon's case. The “stress diet” was always effective. She took a brush off her dresser top and gave her hair a few strokes. She brushed the bangs; she'd never get used to those things. Peering into the mirror, she studied her forehead to make sure the scar wasn't visible. She didn't want
anyone seeing it and asking about it. Worse, someone staring at it while trying to act like they weren't.

She heard a knock at the door. She stepped into her black pumps and went downstairs. She pulled open the door and blinked. “Nice.”

Duncan could have been a catalogue model in the black wool crepe suit. Underneath the three-button jacket were a white shirt and a silver silk tie. Over his arm was draped a black trench coat. He stepped inside. “You like it? Went to the Mall of America this afternoon. Found the whole kit and caboodle on the clearance racks at Nordstrom's. Even the rain gear.” He was grinning like a kid showing off his trophy fish. He reached into the pocket of the coat and pulled out some paper. “Saved the receipt and the tags. Like you said.” He shoved the scraps back in the pocket.

“I think you should keep it,” she said. He pushed back his blazer and showed her his gun hanging from a shoulder holster. “Keep that, too,” she said.

He raised his brows. “Hey. You look great.”

“Thanks.” She eyed his coat. “Raining out?”

“Starting to.”

“Let me get my black trench coat. Then we can match. Plus I need my purse.”

“Why? Don't need to drag around any makeup or anything, do you?”

“I need to drag around my gun.” She ran upstairs to her bedroom.

He watched her go and said in a low voice, “Hot. Hot. Hot.”

She came back down, pulling the coat on as she went. “Did you say something?”

“Got to go.” He slipped his coat on.

“We're okay. We've got time.” She threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Fished a pair of leather gloves out of her coat pocket and pulled them on. Took her house keys out of her purse. “Don't want to be the first ones there.”

He held the door open for her and motioned her outside
with his hand. “I've got some fancy wheels to go with your fancy outfit.” She stepped outside. He followed, shutting the door behind them. She locked up and dropped the keys in her purse.

“I thought I was going to drive,” she said as they walked down the dock. She'd heard Duncan was a crazy man behind the wheel.

“Paris. Have you been listening to those naughty stories about me again?”

She was glad it was nighttime so he couldn't see her face redden. “No. No. I like my Jeep is all.”

“I like my little ride. Come on. I'll keep the needle under a hundred.”

The instant their feet touched shore the drizzle quickened. They pulled their coat collars up and dashed to his car. He opened the passenger's-side door for her. Even in the rain she had to step back and take in the car. “A black boat.” She slid inside. Red leather seats and interior, like a bar lounge. He shut her door, went around, got into the driver's side. Slammed the door. Pushed the key into the ignition and started it.

“Nineteen seventy-six Cadillac Sedan DeVille.” He pulled out of the parking lot. “Eight-banger. Automatic everything. Not a spot of rust. Bought her out in California from Jurassic Cadillac. Drove her back here. Check this out.” He reached under the seat, fished out a fat tape and pushed it into the player.

“I don't believe it,” she said. “It works?”

“Bet your ass.” He turned up the volume. “
Small World
by Huey Lewis and the News. Nineteen eighty-eight. The last eight-track released by a major label.”

“Why do you know that?”

“I don't know why I know that,” he said as he piloted the Cadillac north over the Wabasha Bridge. “I just do.” He took a left at Kellogg Boulevard downtown. “What's the plan regarding the prints?”

“We'll keep our eyes open for an opportunity.”

Duncan steered the car through downtown traffic. The streets and sidewalks were clogged with hockey fans. The Wild were playing the Red Wings at Xcel Energy Center. “This joint is down from the cathedral, right?”

“Yeah. Sits on a corner. Parking on Summit's a pain. You can probably find something on a side street. Might have to walk a ways.”

The rain pattered on the windshield. “Good night for a walk,” he said. He went up a hill and took a left onto John Ireland Boulevard, curved past the St. Paul Cathedral and got onto Summit.

“Thanks for doing this. Really. I wouldn't feel safe without someone watching my back.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don't get all mushy on me.” They drove past the hall. “Shit. Nothing on Summit.”

“Keep going. We'll find something farther down. Here. Take the first right.”

He turned down the narrow side street. “This isn't any good,” he grumbled. “Parking isn't even allowed on this side. Trying to get me towed in my own town?”

“Hang a U-turn and park on the other side.” They got to the end of the street. “Stop!” Murphy yelled. Duncan slammed on the brakes. Murphy opened the passenger's door and jumped out. Left the door open. Ducked her head back inside and pointed to a truck parked on the other side of the street. “This is Sweet's.” She slammed the door and Duncan waited with the engine running. She looked up and down the block. Didn't see anyone coming. She ran across the street, stepped next to the truck and peeked inside the cab. Didn't see anything weird. Went around to the rear and looked through the topper window. “Shit. Can't see.” She went back to the Cadillac, opened the passenger's door. Leaned inside. “Flashlight?”

Duncan reached under his seat, pulled one out and handed it to her. “What are you looking for?”

“I don't know,” she said. She shut the car door, flicked on the light and went to the back of the Ford. Ran the beam
around the inside of the truck bed. Jammed with stuff. Shirts. Boxes. A bunch of balled-up bed linen in that cowboy pattern the Trips favored. She flicked off the light and went back to the Cadillac. Pulled open the door, hopped inside and slammed it shut. “He's taking off, maybe right after the reunion.” She opened the glove compartment and dropped in the flashlight. Shut it.

Duncan started driving slowly, searching for parking spots while he talked. “Suitcases?”

“Trunks. Boxes. Bedspreads. He's definitely taking a hike.”

“What about Pappy?”

“Good question.”

Duncan went around the block and got back on Summit. Saw a van pulling out of a space across the street from the hall. He did a U-turn and took it. “Guess some of your classmates did pretty good for themselves,” he said, pulling into the spot between a Mercedes and a Range Rover.

“I'll bet there's not another car on the street with a working eight-track.”

He turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Any other things we need to go over before we do this?”

“Don't eat or drink anything.”

“You have go to be shitting me. I'm starving.”

“He tried to dope me up at that restaurant in Moose Lake. He could try doing it again—to both of us.”

He slipped the keys in his right pants pocket. Checked his left. Made sure he had his cell phone on him. “How about we keep an eye on our food and drinks? How about that?”

“Okay. But be careful. He's sneaky.” She paused and then asked a question she knew he wouldn't want to hear. “When do we call for backup?”

“Not until we need it,” he said.

“When's that?”

He put his hand on the driver's-side door. “When I say.”

“Did you tell the bosses about this?”

He opened his door and set one foot on the street. “I am the boss.”

TRIP WAS ON his third shot of whiskey by the time the two detectives crossed the street and entered the hall. By the time they paid the cover and hung up their coats and went down to the basement bar, he was on his fourth. Murphy asked for a glass of Chardonnay and Trip looked up. Recognized her from behind. The long, black hair. Like Snow White. The Snow White who'd been his dream. Who'd turned out to be his nightmare. The boyfriend had big shoulders. Big arms. Trip was sure they didn't see him; he was a shadow hunched in a dark corner. Still, he felt perspiration collecting above his lip and on his forehead. He took the bar napkin from under his glass and wiped his face. Dropped the napkin on the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle. Keeping his hands under the table, he unscrewed the cap. Set the cap on his lap. Poured all the pills into his left hand and set the empty bottle on his lap. He couldn't see well in the dim light and with his hand under the table. He looked up. They'd already left with their drinks. He raised his cupped hand from under the table and poked around the tablets and
capsules. They were sticking to his sweaty palm. With his right fingertips, he picked out eight Roofies and dropped them into his pants pocket. Four each would surely do the job. That still left him with six. No sense in wasting good pills. He dumped the remaining Roofies and the rest of the pills back in the bottle, screwed the cap back on, put the bottle back in his jacket pocket. He wanted to hang the jacket up after all. His mission might take a while and even in the cool basement, he was sweating like a pig.

 

MURPHY and Duncan spoke in low voices as they walked upstairs from the bar.

“See him?” he asked.

“Yup. In the corner, hiding,” she said. They reached the top of the stairs and stepped into a small side room. It contained one round dining table surrounded by chairs. No one else was there.

Duncan looked over his shoulder to make sure Trip wasn't coming up behind him. “Why didn't you go talk to him?”

“Sweet and his father are big boozers. Give him time and he'll get loose. We'll mingle and munch and keep an eye out for him. When he comes up from the bar, I'll back him into a corner. Get him talking about old times.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Duncan looked through the doorway into the dining room. “I'm hungry. Come on.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I'm going to plant myself near the basement doorway.”

They left the room, Murphy heading for her post and Duncan aiming for the food. A table filled with memorabilia caught her eye on the way. She picked up a framed eight-by-ten photo of Denny and his three buddies. The same picture they'd used on the memorial page in the yearbook. Arms around each other. They should be here, she thought. She set it down with an even stronger resolve to nail Trip.

“Paris. Where's Jack?”

She turned to see who was behind her. Father Leo, the priest who'd taught religion at the school for years and who officiated at her wedding. She smiled. “How's retirement treating you?” She extended her right hand. He took it in both of his. She'd run into him several times over the years and to her eyes, he never aged. He had the same thick gray hair. Same wire-rimmed glasses. Same tall, lean figure.

He laughed. “What retirement? The archdiocese has got me running from one parish to the other. Teaching was more relaxing.”

“The priest shortage?”

He nodded and released her hand. “Back to my original question. Where's Jack?”

She hesitated and then answered. “We're split.”

“Again?”

“This time for good.”

“Want to talk?”

“Nothing to say.”

“Bull.” He pointed to his collar. “If this is the problem, I'll take it off. Meet you for beer.”

“We'll see,” she said.

“I'm shuffling between St. Luke's and Immaculate Heart of Mary. Hearing confessions and saying a few masses. Call either rectory.”

She saw Duncan coming toward her; he was talking on his cell phone. He looked excited. “Gotta go,” she said, touching the priest's arm.

Duncan pulled her back into the side room. “Interesting development.” He shoved his cell phone back in his pants pocket. “That was Bergen. A home health-care nurse is missing. Keri Ingmar. Her employer just called it in. Last time they heard from her was Tuesday. She was supposed to check in Friday, see if they needed help for the weekend.”

“So?”

“The last patient she visited was Frank Trip.”

“Shit,” she breathed. In her mind's eye, she saw Frank's hand resting on the white lid. “The freezer.”

“Say again?”

“Remember that visit I made to their trailer? Last stop on the grand tour was a back bedroom with this huge chest freezer.”

“You think Nurse Ingmar is cooling her heels in the freezer?”

“Maybe. Sweet's father was pulling some kind of crap while I was there. Egging Sweet on. Tormenting him. Taking his time showing me the place when it was obvious Sweet wanted me out of there. We get to this bedroom and Frank puts his hand on the freezer lid. I thought Sweet was going to have a heart attack.”

“Pappy didn't actually open it?”

“No. I don't know if he really intended to open it. I think he was rattling Sweet's cage. Definitely some weird shit going on between father and son. I bolted before they sucked me into their family feud. Planned to get in there with a search warrant after the reunion. Figured we'd find a dope stash in the freezer since Sweet was a pothead in high school. At most, maybe some stolen money. Never thought of a body. Too bizarre.”

“The thing was big enough to hold a body?”

“Hell yeah. Three bodies.”

Duncan pulled his cell phone out again. “We've got to get into that trailer.”

Murphy spotted Trip coming up from the basement. “I see Sweet.” He started taking the stairs to the second floor, his jacket draped over his right arm. “I'm going to follow him. You stay down here, in case he gets past me.”

Duncan nodded while holding the cell phone to his ear.

She let a few people get ahead of her on the stairs. She didn't want him to see her yet. She got to the top of the stairs and saw Trip go into the coatroom at the end of the hall. She ducked into the women's rest room off the hallway so he wouldn't see her. She stood on the other side of the door. Figured she'd give him a couple of minutes to hang up his jacket and go back downstairs. She waited. Opened the bathroom door. Ran her eyes up and down the hall. Saw Trip's
back; he was headed back downstairs. He was hanging on to the rails. He was drunk. Good. She ran into the coatroom. Scanned the racks lining the walls. Saw his gray suede hanging toward the end of a rack. She looked behind her; no one was coming in. She stepped over to her own coat, took out her gloves and pulled them on. Went over to Trip's jacket. Slipped her right hand into the left pocket. Nothing. Slipped her hand into his right pocket. Felt something. A bottle. She pulled it out, read the label and gasped. The patient's name: “Ingmar, Keri M.”

He killed her, Murphy thought. He killed her and took her pills. She looked at the prescription. “Prilosec.” Common acid reducer. Half the people in the office were on it. She opened the jar and spilled some pills into her gloved hand. Saw more than the purple capsules. Couple of Valium. Tylenol with codeine. Some capsules she didn't recognize. Some scored white pills she recognized immediately. Rohypnol. She counted them. Six. Was this his entire supply or did he have more on him? She dumped all the pills back in the jar, screwed the cap on. Slipped it back in his pocket. She wanted to arrest him with Ingmar's prescription in his possession.

She heard music coming from downstairs. Pulled off the gloves and slipped them into her purse. Headed for the steps. She'd take a spin with Duncan. Then take a turn around the dance floor with a drunken murderer. Let him know what she knew. Get him to spill his guts. If he didn't, she'd still slap the cuffs on him.

 

WATCHING her glide across the wood floor. Her black hair shining in the dim room like it had a light source all its own. Seeing her smile at her boyfriend. Her handsome, golden boyfriend. Knowing she was happy and having a good time. It all freshened his hate for Paris Murphy. Reminded him of the time he was doing a sales demonstration and splashed cleaning solution on a scab. It burned
his hand down to the bone. This reunion was the same thing. Solvent poured on an old wound. Making it worse was the setting. A party crowded with her old friends. His old enemies. Most of them had aged well. The men still had their hair. The women, their figures. One person from their class had died since they graduated. Breast cancer. He heard a knot of women talking about it in low, reverent voices. He recognized the dead woman's name. She'd been a class officer and a volleyball player. It wasn't as good as hearing about a former cheerleader or football player dying, but it still gave him a twinge of joy. He was sure any misery that any of them had suffered over the years was a fraction of what he had tolerated in his hellish years at St. Brice's. Their fucking school. It had never been his school. Never. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall and waited for an opportunity. Every so often he uncrossed his arms and slipped his right hand into his pants pocket. Felt the pills resting alongside the straight-edge.

 

WHILE they danced, Murphy told Duncan about finding the pill bottle. “Perfect,” he said. He guided her around the floor during the old-fashioned waltz. “Sunrise, Sunset” from
Fiddler on the Roof
. At the same time, he monitored Trip. Didn't like what he saw. “The way he's glaring at you. He's gonna burn a hole right through you. Careful around him. Homicidal maniac.”

“I know,” she said.

“Sure it was that fight? It was high school, for God's sake. Wasn't even your fault.”

“I think he's been stewing over it all these years, imagining I played some big role in the whole deal.”

“Must have been quite a beating.” He lifted her right hand over her head and spun her around once.

“It was bad enough that he killed those boys over it,” she said as she finished the turn and returned her right hand
to the palm of his left hand. She felt awkward doing the move with the purse over her shoulder.

Both his hands slid down to her waist and hers went to rest on his shoulders. “How sure are you of that?”

“My gut and the Flintstones coffee mug tell me I'm right,” she said. “I need something to back it up.”

“Forensic stuff after all these years? Hard to come by.”

“I was hoping for something a little easier,” she said.

“A confession?”

She nodded. The music stopped. They stood and clapped. Found themselves standing in front of the nearly empty punch bowl at the end of the banquet table. Duncan turned around, picked up a glass and ladled some of the dregs of the red drink into it. Handed it to her. She sipped. So sugary it made her shudder, but she was thirsty. “You wore me out.”

He poured a glass for himself. “You kept up. Very light on your feet.” He gulped it. Set the empty glass on the table. The music started up again.

Murphy took another sip of punch. “Where's my other dance partner?” She stepped away from the table and looked across the room at where Trip had been standing. He was gone. “Shit.”

Duncan ran his eyes around the room. “How'd we lose someone that big? Where'd he go?”

“His jacket,” she said.

Duncan ran for the stairs. “I'll check the coatroom.”

Murphy turned around and went back to the table to set her glass down. Saw Trip standing on the other side of the punch bowl in the narrow space between the back wall and the table. His right hand was over the punch. He was about to drop something into it. Only a glass or two left in the bowl and Murphy figured Trip was counting on her and Duncan drinking it. Murphy grabbed his right hand, digging her nails into his flesh. Put her open left palm underneath to catch the pills.

“Drop it,” she said in a low voice. In the background, the band was playing “Unchained Melody.”

He grimaced but didn't move. “Drop what? I g . . . got nothing.”

At that moment, she figured she hated him even more than he hated her. “You've got a fistful of dope,” she said. “Drop it.”

He yanked his hand out of hers and dropped the pills on the floor. “Fuck you, b . . . bitch,” he growled. With both hands, he grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it toward her, sending the bowl and glasses and platters of food crashing onto the wood floor. Murphy stumbled backward to avoid getting hit. She felt herself bumping into other people. Heard gasps and screams from horrified dancers. The other end of the room didn't know what was going on. The band kept playing. Other partygoers continued dancing.

Trip dashed through the first opening he could find behind the table. The kitchen door. Murphy pulled out her gun and dropped her purse on the floor. She hopped around the table and the spilled food and broken plates and ran after him. Trip knocked over a young woman in a white apron and tipped an empty bread rack on its side to block Murphy's path. She jumped over it, slid on the kitchen floor but regained her balance. Trip pushed the back door open and ran outside. She was on his heels. As she clattered down the steps she heard another set of feet running behind her. She looked over her right shoulder and saw Duncan at her back. She wondered why his gun wasn't drawn.