No Reservations Required, page 3
part #8 of Sophie Greenway Series
Chris was the niece of Vince Parillo, kitchen manager and executive chef at the Rookery Club, and a cook in her own right. Bram told Sophie that Chris was a line chef at one of Phil’s restaurants when she and Phil first met. Bram had gotten to know her because she liked to spend time with her uncle Vince at the club, liked to help out in the kitchen. Bram thought the world of her.
“And now, may the Lord bless you and keep you,” said Pastor Ewald, repeating a familiar benediction as he raised his arms to the heavens. “May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.”
“Amen,” said the crowd.
“Amen,” repeated Sophie, closing her eyes. She was still unable to get her mind around the fact that Bob was gone. When she looked up, she saw Vince and Lyle Boerichter standing by the coffin, their heads still bowed. Lyle was a pilot for Sunrise Airlines. Vince, Lyle, and Bob had all served together in Viet Nam. Bob once told Sophie that Lyle and Vince were like brothers to him.
“Look over there,” whispered Bram, bending down close to Sophie’s ear and pointing to a tree at the top of a small rise.
“Who is it?” asked Sophie, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Al Lundquist.” Al was a homicide cop, an old friend of Bram’s.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Sophie.
Bram scanned the crowd, then put his arm protectively around Sophie’s shoulders. “My guess is, he thinks one of Bob’s friends or family may also be his killer. He’s here to check out the suspects.”
As they walked back to their car, Sophie couldn’t help but shiver.
6
Most weekdays, before his afternoon radio show, Bram took several hours to peruse various newspapers—from the New York Times to the Minneapolis Times Register, and dozens of other papers from all over the country. Now that his program was in so many national markets, he couldn’t just talk about Minnesota anymore. Nonetheless, like Garrison Keillor, Bram had developed a certain “Minnesota take” on national and world events.
With his deep, expressive radio voice, Bram hosted several daily features. One of the most popular was a segment called “The Bold and the Bashful,” a run-down of colorful local news stories. There was no dearth of those in the land of ten thousand lakes— and ten billion mosquitoes. Bram put his usual ironic spin on each. He also had two running characters: Ole Bumquist, an old sugar beet farmer who gave advice to the lovelorn, and Senator Gunder Tweet. Gunder allowed Bram to comment on one of his major interests—local and national politics. What had Bram currently dialed up to high dudgeon was the Minnesota legislature’s decision to allow the good people of the state to carry concealed weapons—at the same time extending bar hours and cutting law enforcement budgets. If that didn’t say it all about conservative politics, nothing did.
Bram also spent one of his three on-air hours interviewing a guest. Today he would interview an expert from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in St. Paul, a man who’d written a book on Internet crime. He expected it to be a lively hour.
Bram had just put down the Detroit Free Press and was ready to dive into the Milwaukee whatever when he heard a knock on his office door. It wasn’t much of an office, and what there was was cluttered with books, magazines, and old newspapers. Although he was organized, Bram never made anything other than chaos out of his dusty chamber.
“Enter at your own risk,” he shouted.
The door opened and Al Lundquist, his buddy the homicide cop, stuck his head inside. “The coffeepot on?”
“Isn’t it always?”
Al had been a friend of Bram’s since childhood. Both men had grown up on Chicago’s South Side. Al looked like it, even cultivated the toughness, while Bram had tried hard to leave the rougher parts of his childhood behind.
Several years ago, Al advanced to the rank of lieutenant in the homicide division. He was plainclothes now, strictly an off-the-rack kind of guy. In that, he and Bram also departed company. Whereas Bram spent an inordinate amount of money on his appearance, Al had only one look: cheap. He was tall and lanky, with sandy blond hair, a long face, and innocent blue eyes that probably conned the hell out of evildoers everywhere.
As he entered, Bram nodded to the table next to the window. His office might be a dump, but he always kept good coffee on hand—one reason Al visited him so often. That and the stash of gourmet cookies Bram always kept in his top desk drawer.
“What’s the brew of the day?”
“Ethiopian Harrar. The bean that started the world on its coffee craze.”
“You amaze me, Baldric. You do everything with such style.” He poured himself a mug, then sat down on a threadbare chair in front of Bram’s desk. “So, tell me again, why don’t you get someone to clean this pit up?”
“I like it like this,” said Bram, tossing a sack of fresh chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies across the desktop. “It helps me think.”
“Right. I should take some photos when you’re not here and sell them to Minnesota Monthly. They’d love to skewer Mr. Suave with the real deal.”
“Is that a blackmail threat?”
Al cracked his knuckles, then opened the sack. “Maybe. I hear you’re interviewing Joel Hellstrom this afternoon. Internet crime.” He dunked the cookie in the coffee.
“You heard right.”
Al took a bite, then leaned back and made himself more comfortable.
Bram eyed him for a second. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me everything you know about Robert Fabian’s murder.” It had been the topic of conversation around his house since the night it happened.
“Can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I’m involved in an ongoing investigation, Baldric. Meg Corrigan and I are the primaries on the case.” Al crossed one long leg over the other. “I took charge of the crime scene at Fabian’s house. Meg was over at the Shepard Road scene. I assume you’ve heard that Fabian and Loy were shot with the same gun.”
“I don’t spend my days in a hermetically sealed vault, Al. Yes, I’ve heard. With Fabian’s connections to the community, you’re probably getting leaned on pretty hard to come up with an arrest. Sophie adored him, you know. She’s been listening to the news every night hoping to hear more details. Got any hot suspects?”
Al coughed into his fist. “All I can say is what I’ve told everyone else. The matter is under investigation.”
“Al, it’s me. Your old buddy. Whatever you say won’t leave this room.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, then I’ll talk. You listen. I’ve got a few ideas. Why don’t I tell you what they are. You might learn something.”
“Sure, pal. Whatever you say.” He finished his first cookie, then started on a second, pushing the sack back across the desk.
“One of the reports I read said Bob’s house hadn’t been broken into. That means he must have let his killer in, so he probably knew him.”
“Could be.”
“Might have been a friend, or a member of his family.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? You won’t confirm anything?”
“Nope. Can’t.”
Bram drummed his fingers on the desk for a second. “All right. Let’s change gears, then. Who had a motive for Loy’s murder?”
“It’s your dime, Baldric. You tell me.”
“Valerie Fabian’s family, that’s who. They all thought Loy was responsible for her death.”
“It’s kind of a stretch to suggest that this family member, whoever he was, was so angry that he was willing to whack Loy.”
“He? It was a man? A male relative?”
“No comment.”
But Bram could see he’d struck pay dirt. “All right, let’s just say for a moment that whoever shot Loy went straight to Bob’s house. Maybe Bob was in on it. Maybe he paid this guy to do it. Whatever the case, they got together and they got into a fight. Suppose our bad boy walked in and announced what he’d done, and Bob thought, Hell, I’ve got to call the police. Maybe he threatened to turn the murderer in.”
“Possible.”
Bram watched Al’s face for hints that he was going in the right direction. “So this man, this . . . relative . . . shoots Bob.”
“Someone sure did.”
“Bob’s taken to the emergency room, where he dies of the gunshot wound.”
Al just stared at him.
“What?”
“I didn’t say a word.”
Bram could tell he’d taken a wrong turn, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. “I’m missing something.”
“You’re missing a lot.”
“Have you talked to any of the suspects yet?”
“No comment.”
“Come on, Al. Give me a crumb. What would it cost you?”
“Well, let’s see. My job?”
“You’ve got to be all over Bob’s family. You’re the one who’s always saying that the colder the trail becomes, the harder it is to nail the perpetrator.”
“Don’t repeat my words back to me, Baldric. It’s not nice.”
“I suppose if Bob’s murderer was a relative, fingerprints, fibers, that sort of thing are all useless because there would be a reason why those people—men— would have been in the house. They’re family.”
“I wish it were that simple. This is the most convoluted case I’ve ever worked on.”
“Why? Two murders, both tied together. One perpetrator.”
“I wish.”
Now Bram was confused. “More than one shooter?”
“No. Just one.”
“Then—”
“I can’t talk about it. We’re not sure what we’ve got yet. It’s more complicated than what you’re reading in the papers.”
“In what way?”
Al lowered his eyes.
“Use me, Al. I’m here for you.”
The cop gave him a disgusted grunt.
“Want another cookie?” Bram rattled the sack.
“Save the charm, Baldric. It doesn’t work on me.” But he grabbed the sack. “Okay, look. You’ll find this out in a matter of hours anyway, so I might as well tell you. I learned a few hours ago that somebody leaked one of our main pieces of evidence to the press. We’re in possession of a taped 911 call Fabian placed the night he was shot. He called to report a murder down on Shepard Road.”
“Loy.”
Al nodded.
“Did he say who did it?”
“He was about to, but somebody stopped him. There was another man’s voice on the tape in the background, but it was garbled, so we don’t know who it was.”
“That had to have been Bob’s killer.”
“No comment.”
“But Bob must have said something to give you a lead.”
“Maybe.”
“Will that be in the newspaper or do I have to beat it out of you?”
Al studied Bram for a moment, then took a sip of coffee. “It sounded like Fabian was about to say his brother killed Loy.”
Bram whistled.
“But he didn’t finish his sentence. So, for all we know, he may have been going somewhere else with it. A good defense lawyer could drive a truck through a hole that big. And even if he did mean to say that his brother was the one who killed Loy, that still leaves us with a problem. Which brother? Fabian’s brother-in-law, Phil Banks, or his half brother, Andy Gladstone.”
“Was the entire 911 tape leaked to the press, or just the fact of its existence?”
“We’ve got the tape locked up. Nobody’s got access to it but us. But yeah, I think the press has a transcript.”
Bram tapped a finger to his lips. “I saw you at Bob’s funeral the other day. I figured you weren’t there just to pay your respects.”
“You saying I got no compassion?”
Bram spread his arms wide. “Why don’t you haul Andy and Phil in, shine a bright light in their eyes, and apply your thumbscrews?”
“You watch too many dumb movies.”
“But you’ve talked to them, right?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.” Al took the last cookie out of the sack.
“And I wouldn’t understand.”
“No, you’d probably get it, but I can’t talk about it. I’ve already said too much.”
“You eat all my cookies and then you have the nerve to hold out on me?”
“Guess so,” said Al, crunching up the sack and tossing it at Bram’s chest.
Bram thought he’d had the real story nailed, but now he wasn’t so sure. What the press had reported so far must be only the tip of the iceberg. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had a little over a minute to get to the sound booth before his program started. “Between you and me, just give me a hint.”
“Between you and me?”
“Goes no farther than this room.”
Al rose from the chair, dropping the last cookie into his side pocket of his suit coat. “Okay. Listen carefully, pal. I’m only going to say this once.” He placed his hands on the desk, bent closer to Bram, and whispered, “Rosebud.” Then he winked.
“Asshole.”
“No comment.”
7
Chris walked out of the bedroom, toweling her long, curly brown hair dry. As she stood on the balcony that enclosed a section of the second floor, she looked down into the living room. Phil was crouched low next to the front windows, gazing at the street in front of the house through a crack in the curtains. “What’s going on?” she asked, curious about what might be happening outside.
“It’s that damn car again.”
“What car?”
“The one that followed us home last night.”
“I didn’t see a car.”
“That’s because you weren’t looking. I’m being tailed. Have been for several days.”
This was the first Chris had heard of it. “By who?”
“The cops.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got to nail somebody for those two murders.”
Chris was aghast. “But you were nowhere near those locations that night. I should know.”
“You think that matters to them?” He jabbed his forefinger at the curtain. “They just need a warm body with a potential motive.”
“What motive? You liked your brother-in-law. And the idea that you’d ever hurt someone—it’s ridiculous.”
“Tell that to the plainclothes jerk out in the car.”
“Fine,” said Chris, marching down the stairs into the living room. “I will.”
Phil turned around and grabbed her by the waist just as she steamed past him toward the front door. “God, but you’re a sexy woman.” With one flick of his hand, he untied her robe. He slipped his arms around her naked body, running his palms up and down her back.
“And you’re my guy. I gotta protect you.”
“I’ll handle the cop.”
Chris had dated only casually before meeting Phil, and she’d never been in love before. Phil told her right off that he was used goods. He’d been divorced twice, and freely admitted that the problems in his marriages had been mostly his fault. That admission only made Chris love him all the more. Honesty was important to her, and Phil might not be perfect, but he was an honest man. He was her silver fox, a superconfident older guy who would never let her down. None of the younger men she’d dated could hold a candle to him. The difference in their ages didn’t matter a bit to her. He was in better shape than most twenty-year-olds.
Chris was the second child of a hardworking mom and a father who’d dumped her before she was even born. Her first memories were of an apartment over a dentist’s office. Tiny rooms. A TV set that didn’t work. Lots of canned spaghetti for dinner. When she was nine, she and her mom and her older brother had moved to another apartment, this one above the Lakeside Pavilion in South Minneapolis. It was a cheap dollar theater that, in the ’80s, before VCRs were in every home, had made money showing old movies. Chris had grown up watching Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Davis and Jimmy Stewart. Her favorite was Errol Flynn. When she was twelve, she got a job helping the manager at the theater clean up between showings. By the time she was fifteen, she was working the concessions. At sixteen, she manned the ticket booth. One of the perks of her job was a free pass to any movie she wanted to see—and she wanted to see them all. It was a glamorous world totally unlike her everyday life. She always suspected that when she met “the” man, it would be incredibly romantic, just like what she saw in the movies. It turned out that she was right.
Two summers ago, she’d been jogging around Lake Harriet early one morning when she’d turned into Super Klutz, tripped over a rock, and landed in a bush. A man who’d been sitting on one of the benches came over and helped her up. Branches had scraped her legs, but other than that, she was fine.
“If you hadn’t been checking me out so carefully, you would have seen the rock,” he said. When he grinned at her, she saw that he had a beautiful smile. He looked just like Errol Flynn.
She smiled back at him. And that was how it started. She sat down on the bench and they began talking. He told her he owned a construction company. She said she worked for Cafe Aldo as a line chef. He laughed, said it was a small world. As it turned out, he was part owner of that restaurant. And that’s when they realized they’d met before. He’d walked through the kitchen one day a few months before and asked her to grill him a steak. She remembered thinking he was handsome, but that was as far as it went.
They couldn’t seem to stop talking that first morning. He invited her to have breakfast with him. She had the day off, so she took him up on his offer. Later, they ended up in Hudson at another restaurant for lunch—one more cafe in which he had a part interest. They spent the afternoon antiquing along the St. Croix, the evening sitting on Phil’s deck, and then she stayed the night.
