Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 Page 2

  It was late October, and a fairy dusting of early snow was drifting down as I rolled up on the crime scene. A state police cruiser was pulling out as I pulled over to park on the gravel shoulder. A Vale County sheriff’s prowlie was blocking the turnout, with a deputy waving gawkers past. Bergmann.

  He shot me with his finger as I trotted past. I didn’t shoot back.

  Zina Redfern was halfway down the embankment, scanning the tire tracks. Below her, the frame and tires of Sherry’s Mustang were visible above the shallow creek. State-police evidence techs were searching the banks, though I doubted they’d find much. Most of the evidence would be in the car.

  Zee Redfern glanced up, saw me coming, then went back to studying the tread marks. We’ve been partners since she transferred up to the North Shore force from Flint. We’re good friends, a good team.

  Zee’s Native American, Anishnabeg, but she grew up in Gangland, on Flint’s north side. Doubly tough for a sidewalk Indian girl on her own. I asked her once how she stayed out of the crews.

  “I didn’t. I took Police Science courses at Mott J.C., became an auxiliary officer, then hired on to the Flint force on my nineteenth birthday. Cops wear colors, pack iron, and you’re blue till you die. Sounds like a gang to me.”

  A short, squared-off woman with raven hair, she takes the term “plainclothes officer” seriously. She was wearing her usual Johnny Cash black, a bulky nylon POLICE parka over black jeans, a black watch cap pulled down around her ears.

  Even her combat boots are the real deal. LawPro Pursuits with steel toes. She packs a Fairbairn fighting knife strapped to one ankle, a Smith Airweight .38 on the other. You’d think she’d clank when she walks. She doesn’t.

  She didn’t look surprised to see me, but she wasn’t happy either.

  “Am I going to have a problem with you?” she asked, straightening up.

  “I promised I wouldn’t put you in a situation, and I won’t. But Sherry was a friend and there’s no way I can just stand aside. So? Let’s trade. Tell me what you’ve got, I’ll swap you what I know. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “You first.”

  “Fine. There’s no way Sherry got run off this turnout accidentally. She lives in Briarwood a few miles up the road. It’s a gated community, guests have to sign in and out. This place is a lovers’ lane. Handy if you want to meet somebody on the quiet.”

  “Somebody like you, for instance?”

  “We parked here once. When we broke up. A year ago. Your turn.”

  “The car was spotted by a hiker, upside down in the creek at the bottom of the ravine. It didn’t hit hard, and the airbags would have absorbed most of the impact. She could have gotten out if she was conscious. The pathologist’s best guess is, she was already dead when the car went in.”

  “On the phone you mentioned her throat was bruised?”

  “It didn’t look like strangulation, but there was a livid mark and the hyoid was crushed. Maybe a judo strike to the larynx. You had hand-to-hand training in the service, right?”

  “Along with a million other guys. The same course you had at the Academy. Was she assaulted?”

  “There was no evidence of that, no bruises or torn clothing. Whose idea was it to break off your relationship?”

  “Mine.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s . . . a bit complicated.”

  “It always is. Give me a DD-5 version, Dylan.”

  I mulled that over for a moment. How to condense a serious slice of my life into a police report? Straight up. Tear the damn bandage off.

  “My last year in the Air Force, I came home on leave from Iraq. Sherry interviewed me for the station, a local interest story.”

  “And sparks flew?”

  “Something like that. It started as an overnight fling. But after I went back, we stayed in touch. E-mailed almost every day, hooked up whenever I could get leave.”

  “So the affair was . . . serious?”

  “It was for me. I bought a ring.”

  “Wow.” Zee’s eyebrows went up. “What happened?”

  “I got posted T.D.Y. to Barksdale Air Base in Louisiana—”

  “T.D.Y.?”

  “Temporary duty. I was an investigator with the Air Police. They flew me in to teach a course on crime scenes. The base is just up the road from New Orleans, and it was Mardi Gras week. Sherry flew down to party. I planned to pop the question over the weekend.”

  “And did you?”

  “Not quite. Three in the morning, we were in a disco in the French Quarter when the DJ announced the next tune would be topless. Sherry stripped off her blouse and kept right on dancing with the rest of the wild girls. Half naked in a room full of strangers and she never missed a step. And every doubt I had about our relationship came into focus.”

  “Just because she flashed for a song?” Zee asked doubtfully. “Why? You’re no prude.”

  “Not a bit. It was Mardi Gras. The whole scene was totally hot. People were making love in the streets.”

  “Then what? It bothered you that she went overboard?”

  “That’s just it, she didn’t. It wasn’t a lapse. She needed to be out there in front of that crowd. That’s what bothered me. Sherry grew up in the foster-care system, never knew her family. Maybe that’s where the hunger came from.”

  “What hunger?”

  “Down deep, Sherry was . . . a drama queen, I suppose. She came alive in the spotlight. She was desperate to be the center of attention. All the time. Wanted to be recognized, wanted people to know her name. And I realized the things she cared the most about meant nothing at all to me. And the things I care about, my family, living in the north, weren’t important to her. I could make her smile, we had some great times, but I could never make her sparkle the way she did in front of a camera.”

  “So you ended it?”

  “Not then. Things . . . wound down on their own. Most love affairs have chemistry in the beginning, but unless there’s more to it, an affair’s all it will ever be. That’s all it was for us. A month after Mardi Gras, we were over. No Famous Final Scene, no tears, no hard feelings. I went on the Detroit force after the service and we lost touch for a while, but when I transferred up here, we hooked up again. Went out a few times.”

  “Rekindling the old flame?”

  “More like auld lang syne. We were over and we both knew it.”

  She looked down the ravine. A wrecker was winching the sedan out of the water. “You said you saw her last week?”

  “She called me. We met for coffee.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to say hi, touch base.”

  She glanced at me sharply. “You said this was a double homicide. I’m assuming she was pregnant?”

  “We talked about that,” I admitted.

  “Was it yours?”

  “No. No chance.”

  “Whose then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she know?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Did she sleep around?”

  “She was twenty-six and single. She wasn’t a nun. Beyond that, you’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “Who should I be asking?”

  I mulled that one over. “She said she was seeing Rob Gilchrist.”

  “I’ve already heard that. Anyone else?”

  This time I didn’t answer. Zee knew I was holding out, but she let me off the hook. For now.

  “Do you have any idea what Sherry was doing out here, Dylan?”

  “Meeting a source? Meeting a lover? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Which wasn’t quite true. If she’d wanted to have it out with her married boss, Jack Milano, this might be exactly the place. He couldn’t risk signing in the gate of her condo or being spotted out on the town. Their involvement would be a firing offense.

  Sherry’d asked me to check Milano out, and I’d taken my sweet time about it. If I’d been faster, she might not be in a body bag, headed for Grayling
. I’d been too slow. But I was definitely revved up now.

  Zee was staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Dylan?”

  “Not a thing.” I was lying to her face now. She knew it. And didn’t like it.

  “You’d better go home, LaCrosse. If Kaz finds you hanging around here, we’re gonna have trouble.”

  “I’ve already got trouble,” I said.

  Even by North Shore standards, Jack Milano’s lakefront home was a mansion. A Beaux-Arts brick estate with tall, ornately framed windows and multiple mansard roofs, it was isolated on its own personal peninsula. Definitely pricey. I guessed five mil, maybe more. Definitely more than a station manager could afford.

  I checked my watch as I trotted up to the front door. It was nearly eight. Zee would be stuck at the crime scene at least another hour. With luck, I could ambush Milano before he left for work.

  I pressed the buzzer.

  No answer.

  I was angry enough to kick the damned door in. I leaned on the buzzer, holding it down.

  An overhead speaker crackled to life. “Who is it?” A woman’s voice.

  “Police, ma’am. Sergeant LaCrosse. Is Mr. Milano in?”

  A pause. “Wait, please. I’ll be right down.”

  She opened the door a moment later. A tall, spare woman in an azure dressing gown. Silk, I think. She was fortyish, ash blond and elegant. And a bit myopic. She peered at me through thick glasses in designer frames. Ordinarily I would have been in a sport coat and dress shirt over jeans. North-country business chic. My black leather jacket suited my mood.

  “Did you say police?” she asked.

  “Sergeant LaCrosse, ma’am. North Shore Major Crimes.” I held up my ID folder.

  “My husband is in New York, at a conference,” she said, squinting at my badge. “Perhaps I can help. This is about Miss Sinclair, isn’t it?”

  I stared at her.

  “We have constant Internet contact with the station,” she said, standing aside, waving me in. “Her death is headline news. I’m having coffee, Sergeant . . . LaCrosse, is it? Join me.”

  She wheeled and stalked off toward the breakfast bar without waiting for an answer. She was used to being obeyed.

  I followed her through the expansive living room, gleaming hardwood floors, overstuffed leather furnishings. Five wide-screen TV monitors were stacked in the living room, running live video feeds from the station. One had a schedule breakdown, a second the current programs on air. The rest showed breaking stories from the other networks. Sherry’s face stared out at me from two of them, her smile frozen in place. I looked away.

  The kitchen was worthy of a five-star chef, burnished copper pots suspended over black granite countertops wide enough to land a plane on. I doubted Mrs. Milano had ever cooked in her life. The coffee maker was a PrimaDonna 6600. Top of the line. It hissed as she poured two cups. The aroma was exquisite.

  “You said your husband is in New York?” I asked, taking a stool at the breakfast counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. “When did he leave?”

  “Jack’s been in the city all week.” She took the seat facing me across the bar and slid my cup over. “A conference at corporate headquarters. Meetings all day, every day.”

  “Do you have a number for him there? We really do need to talk to him.”

  “It won’t do you any good,” she said, eyeing me across the brim of her coffee cup. “My husband fields questions for a living, Sergeant, and I doubt he’ll be cooperative. You won’t get anything useful from him. Perhaps I can be of more help.”

  “How so?”

  “Jack will lie, trying to conceal his affair with Miss Sinclair,” she said bluntly. “I won’t.”

  Surprised, I leaned back in my chair, scanning her face. It was a good face, fine bones, wide-set eyes. She met my stare straight on.

  “So . . . you knew that Miss Sinclair and your husband were involved?”

  “It’s not the first time this situation has come up. Jack’s an alpha male, an ambitious and attractive man. That’s why I married him. But—what was that phrase Hilary Clinton used? He’s always been a hard dog to keep on the porch? That’s why I insisted on an ironclad pre-nup before we married. My family has substantial assets. Jack has always worked for wages. It limits his options.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you, Mrs. Milano.”

  “Call me Tess, please. We are discussing dark family secrets. My point is, that Jack’s affair with Miss Sinclair isn’t a secret, Sergeant, not from me, anyway. I met with Sherry last week. Frankly, I thought she might be trying to steal my husband. I intended to warn her off. To have her fired, if necessary.”

  “How did it go?”

  “We came to a meeting of the minds,” Tess Milano said drily. “Sherry was a very ambitious young woman. She said she had a job offer from a bigger station downstate and that it might be best for all concerned if she simply moved on.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Not quite. She did mention that moving is terribly expensive nowadays.”

  “So instead of scaring her off, you wound up paying her off?”

  “It was the simplest solution.”

  “Did you tell your husband about it?”

  “Of course. Jack was furious, at first. He probably had visions of eloping with his latest lady-friend, he often does. But eventually he faces the reality of living on half his salary in a shrinking job market, and comes to his senses.”

  “And comes back to you?”

  “He never actually leaves.” She sighed. “Girls like Sherry are a recurring fantasy, like running away to join the circus. I know my husband, Detective, and this may sound odd to you, but in spite of his faults, I love him dearly. In some ways, he’s like the child we never had. What do they call that syndrome? Boys who never grow up?”

  “Peter Pan,” I said.

  “That’s Jack, my eternal teenager. I’m sorry about what happened to Miss Sinclair, Detective, but my husband was not involved, nor was I. If you could keep our problems out of the press, I would be very grateful.”

  The stress on very raised my eyebrows.

  “A scandal could cost Jack his job and his work is terribly important to him. If any expenses come up, I’ll be happy to cover them.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Milano. If I run into any expenses, I’ll let you know. Thanks for your time.”

  She walked me to the door. I half expected her to slip me a tenner, like a bellhop.

  Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been annoyed at being offered a payoff. Not this time. If she hadn’t offered, I would have asked.

  I wanted that particular door left open. If it turned out that I wanted to meet her husband in some secluded spot, collecting a bribe would be a useful excuse.

  But I didn’t think I’d need it. Lying is a social skill that requires practice. Tess Milano was a handsome woman born to a family with money. She was used to giving orders and seeing people jump. She probably didn’t lie often enough to get good at it.

  She’d told me her story straight out, no signs of evasion. Didn’t echo questions, look away, or stammer. Her hands were rock steady. I was fairly sure she’d told me the truth.

  Or what she believed the truth to be.

  Sherry wasn’t a problem for the Milanos because Tess bought her off. Would Sherry have taken the money? In a heartbeat.

  A quick check of her bank account would confirm the story, but I didn’t doubt it much. Milano wasn’t the man Sherry wanted in her life, and if she could cash out while getting rid of him, all the better.

  Not the Milanos, then.

  As I walked out, Sherry’s face was on all three screens. And it occurred to me that for the first time, she was exactly where she’d always wanted to be. Right in the middle of things.

  But not like this. Not like this.

  If Milano was out of the picture, that moved Rob Gilch
rist directly into my sights. A trickier business. I’d been able to beat Zina to the Milanos because I had inside information and Milano wasn’t an obvious suspect. But as Sherry’s current boyfriend, Rob would be at the top of the suspect list. Approaching him openly could get me suspended, maybe fired, and I didn’t want that. Not yet, anyway.

  The problem solved itself. Rob found me first.

  I was in my office at Hauser Center when I got a buzz from the corporal on the front desk.

  “Sergeant LaCrosse? You’ve got a visitor, says he’s an old friend. A Mr. Gilchrist?”

  “Rob Gilchrist? Send him up.”

  Calling us friends was a little strong. Robbie Gilchrist was a local legend. Two years ahead of me in Valhalla High School, he was a basketball star, a deadeye shooting guard. I played hockey. Our sports shared the same season, so we passed in the locker room and hit some of the same parties. We weren’t pals, but I knew who he was.

  Everybody knew who Rob was. The Gilchrists are old Valhalla lumber money. They arrived with the timber trains that harvested the virgin forest like a field of wheat.

  My people, the Metis, showed up around the same time, fleeing a failed rebellion against the Canadian government. In Canada, we’d been woodsmen, trappers, and traders. Voyageurs.

  In Michigan, we became loggers, axe men, saw men, top men. The LaCrosses and our kin did the grueling, dangerous work that made the Gilchrists rich. When the timber was gone, the Metis stayed on, doing whatever work came to hand.

  Merchants, mechanics, carpenters.

  Cops.

  I hadn’t seen Robbie in a few years. Tall and blond, he was a golden boy, blessed with looks and the money to dress well. He didn’t flaunt it, though. He was wearing a lambskin sport coat over a blue chambray shirt, fashionably faded jeans, no tie. North-country high fashion.

  In school, he’d been a party animal, but it hadn’t marked him much. Only his eyes had changed. They were wary now. Haunted. Maybe by Sherry’s death. Maybe something else.

  “Dylan,” he said curtly. We shook hands and he dropped into the chair facing my desk.

  “I’ve got a huge problem,” he said. “Can we talk off the record?”

  “That depends. Are we talking about Sherry?”