Blown Away (4 page)

“Watch out,” Branch warned.

Emily froze, looked down. She'd nearly stepped on the tiny boot peeking from the animal burrow in the milkweeds. “Sorry,” she said, guiding her foot to a less harmful spot.

“Murder scenes are overwhelming,” he said, waving it off. “Easy to get distracted.”

Emily stuck the cold cigar in her mouth. “You don't,” she said, relighting as several deputies walked past. “Why? Experience?”

Branch smiled. “Fear. When I was at my first murder scene as a new detective, I roamed that ground like a full-back. Gonna find me a clue, yessir, gonna make me a big name. I did all right. I stepped on a shard of glass. It was hidden in the weeds, just like that boot.” He rolled his eyes. “Turned out to be the murder weapon—the guy's throat was slashed—and I'd crunched it into a jillion pieces. Destroyed its value as evidence.”

“Ow. What happened?”

“The killer confessed, so I didn't get busted back to patrol for my mistake. I treated the next crime scene like a mine-field, where one little misstep could make me a soprano. Still do.” He flagged a CSI. “My keen police instincts tell me this boot's too new to be garbage. Is our corpus delicti missing one?”

“Nah, it's wearing both shoes,” the CSI grunted as she walked over. “Geez, maybe you found a clue or something.”

“First time for everything.” Branch made introductions. The CSI nodded, then whistled across the graveyard. “Yo! Commander! Take a look!”

A giant in a tailored charcoal suit trotted over. From the road he'd looked fat, Emily thought, but up close, the bulk was solid muscle. He was a serious weight lifter. He bent from the waist and eyeballed the boot from wide, rounded toe to horizontal treads on the sole to pull-loop in back. He told the CSI to take pictures, then bag it for the lab. Finally, he tilted his face up at Branch and grinned. “If
you
found this, there must have been a sign saying
X
MARKS THE SPOT
.”

Branch grinned back, jerked his head at Emily. “Actually, my colleague here found it.”

“Good thing someone did. I'd like to wrap this up already.” He straightened to six-foot-six, casting Emily into shadow. “Hi. I'm Commander Martin Benedetti. Sheriff's chief of detectives.”

“Officer Emily Thompson,” she replied, accepting his hand, which was so big it enveloped hers in warmth. She was pleased to find he didn't shake limp-fingered as so many men did with women. “Actually, Commander, I didn't—”

“Call me Marty,” Benedetti urged. “All my friends do.” He squinted at Branch. “You, on the other hand, should keep calling me commander.”

“That might be interpreted as a sign of respect,” Branch said. “So I'll call you nothing.” His square face tightened. “I still think you're wrong. But you're gonna do what you want, anyway, so let's get it over with.”

“Fine by me,” Benedetti said. He pulled handcuffs from under his suitcoat. “Emily Thompson, you're under arrest,” he said, motioning for her wrists. “For the murder of Lucille Crawford, shot dead this morning in a silver Porsche. You have the right to remain silent….”

Chicago, Illinois
January 1965

“There she is, Miss America!” Dwight Kepp sang to the nurse's aide clipping barrettes into Alice's raven hair. “Doctor says you've been taking good care of my wife.” He tipped his fedora. “I thank you and intend to mention your fine attitude to your superiors.”

The young aide beamed. “Every patient should be so easy to care for,” she said, patting Mrs. Kepp's paper white hand. “All this woman suffered without a word of complaint.”

“I've nothing to complain about, dear,” Alice said, gazing up from the hospital bed at her handsome, perfectly groomed man. “I've got a wonderful husband, a lovely home, and a new son. What's a little pain compared to all those blessings?”

Little pain, indeed,
the aide thought, marveling at how stoically Mrs. Kepp bore her ordeal. Their boy was thirteen pounds, nine ounces, of elbows and knees turned sideways in the birth canal. Doctor struggled two hours to pull the boy out—doctor was so pious about natural childbirth!—but finally ordered Mrs. Kepp into surgery when he spotted the umbilical cord around the boy's neck. Thirty minutes later baby entered the world, pink, healthy, and howling. But Mrs. Kepp paid a terrible price—this child would be her last. The aide wasn't sure if Mr. Kepp knew that yet, but it wasn't her place to tell him. That was doctor's job. She shook off the negative thoughts. “Mr. Kepp, would you like to meet your new son?”

“I've waited nine months to answer that,” Dwight said, face glowing. “It's yes, emphatically.”

“Then I'll fetch him from the nursery. I won't be long.” As she left, Dwight gently took Alice's hand and bent to whisper in her ear.

 

“Your papa's wonderful,” the aide told the sleepy infant as she plucked him from the warmed blankets. “Handsomer than Cary Grant! Thoughtful! Attentive! Devoted to mother. You're a lucky one to have such a fine dad!”

Mrs. Hoffmeyer, head nurse of the maternity ward, asked jokingly whether Mr. Wonderful just happened to have a twin brother who wanted to take an unmarried nurse's aide to dinner and dancing. The aide eagerly told her about the handsome couple. “He took his wife's hand to whisper in her ear,” she finished. “It was so romantic—they looked just like Jackie and our president before…you know.”

“God rest his soul,” Mrs. Hoffmeyer said, crossing herself.

“God rest,” the aide agreed, clutching the boy to her bosom and finger-whisking blanket fuzz off his unusually large ears. “Let's go see your folks, darling,” she cooed. “I'll bet Daddy is telling Mommy right now how much he loves her for bringing you into his world. Oh, someday I'll have a husband so handsome and fine, just you wait and see.”

 

“No more children?” Dwight whispered through his frozen smile. “Is that some kind of joke?”

“It's not my fault, darling,” Alice whimpered, tears welling from the pain of his thumb on her incision. “He was so turned around inside me—”

“You knew I wanted sons,” Dwight hissed. “Plural. Sons are the measure of a man. Thanks to this, I'm stuck with one. One!” His breathing was shallow, his eyes bright. “Pray to the Blessed Goddamn Virgin he's a good one. I will not tolerate a loser. Ah, here he is now!” His sour demeanor turned sunny as he took the infant from the aide. “I name you Brady Maurice Kepp,” he cooed, waltzing him around the room. “After your great-grandfather, who came to America penniless and built a good life with his own two hands.” He planted a kiss on Brady's furrowed forehead. “Let's walk down the hall and get to know each other a little. Then we'll come back and introduce ourselves formally to Mother and her friend.”

The aide turned to Alice as they trotted away. “You're so lucky, Mrs. Kepp. Your husband's one in a million.” She frowned at the pallor of her patient's face. “Are you all right? Should I get Mrs. Hoffmeyer?”

“No,” Alice breathed, patting the aide's hand. “The incision hurts a bit, that's all. Get me an aspirin, and I'll make do just fine.” She watched her husband and son disappear. “It's a wife's job to make do.”

Monday, 9
A.M
.
Sixty-nine hours till Emily's birthday

“Very funny,” Emily said. “You sing and dance, too?”

Benedetti looked sourly at Branch. “This was your idea. You said she'd laugh. Thanks for getting her mad at me.”

Branch grinned. “What are friends for?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Benedetti tugged at the bulletproof vest under his suitcoat. “All right, here's what we know so far. It's 3
A.M
. Some kid's out party hopping, stops by the cemetery to drain the lizard. He notices the wrecked race car and calls 911. Then skedaddles 'cause, well, he's DUI and doesn't need the hassle.” The look on his face said he was still trying to sort these cards. “Sheriff rousts me out of a sound sleep, and here I am.”

Emily nodded, recalling Branch was telephoned by someone named Marty. “But why us, Commander? What do we bring to the party?”

“I found something puzzling,” Benedetti replied. “I needed somebody to tell me what it means. Nobody smart was available, so I called Branch.” His grin showed even white teeth. “We've got history.”

“Working undercover on joint task forces, among other things,” Branch explained, touching the thin gray scar that half-mooned his jaw. “That's where I got this beauty mark. You should have seen the other guy when Marty got through kicking his ass…uh…” Embarrassed at the hint of emotion he'd let show, Branch steered back to business. “Marty buzzed me, I took a look, then called you.”

“So what did you find, Commander?” Emily said, impatient at the maddeningly slow answers.

“Your police card,” Benedetti said. “In the dead gal's purse.”

Emily felt like she'd touched a live wire. Modeled on the Pokemon types so popular with kids, the wallet-size police cards displayed an officer's photograph, career highlights, vital statistics, and hobbies. They came in boxes of 1,000 and were showered on the public like confetti. Officers routinely lectured at churches, schools, homeowners associations, scout meetings, and Safety Town, the miniature Naperville that sat kitty-corner from the police station, and they handed out their cards to promote a positive image. She'd handed out hundreds of her own in her eleven months on the job. “You're kidding,” she said, for lack of anything better.

“Nope. She knew you. Or planned to talk to you. Or…” The thought trailed off, and he thumbed through his notebook. “Vic's name is Lucille Crawford,” he said. “Goes by Lucy. She lives—lived—in Fox Valley Villages. Know the place?”

North of here, near the mall
…” “Sure,” Emily said. “But I've never heard of a Lucille Crawford, from there or anywhere else.” She paused to think—cops ran across a lot of names in the course of their work—but decided she'd never heard this one. “That last ‘or' implies a third possibility,” she continued. “What is it?”

Benedetti's lips formed an O as he sucked in air. “Your card wasn't mixed up with the hair spray and Juicy Fruit at the bottom of her purse,” he said. “It was right on top, in plain sight. Lucy may have put it there to keep it handy.” Pause. “Or it could have been planted by her killer.”

Emily took a step back. “Planted? You mean as in framing me?”

Benedetti shrugged. “More a message, I think,” he said. “To you. Or about you.”

Emily shook her head so vigorously, her chestnut hair danced. “Kill someone to send me a message? That's a little, uh, extreme, don't you think?” Her arrests were numerous but dull—speeders, burglars, Peeping Toms, drunks, and check-kiters. Not killers! And she only had a handful of stalkers, the lonely social inepts who dropped by the station with undying professions of love. They were harmless, and a minute or two of chitchat was all they really wanted. The one stalker who grabbed her got busted hard and fast by the desk officers. But the man never vowed vengeance. As Annie explained one night over salsa and chips washed down by margaritas, “The guy loved it. Handcuffing is the ultimate ‘I love you' for a stalker.” Emily glanced back at the wreck and felt electricity drip down her backbone.
What's this all about, Lucy?
she wondered.

“Want me to roust Emily's jailbirds?” Branch was saying. “Run down her stalkers and see what they're up to?”

Benedetti shook his head. “I didn't bring you guys here to work. Just wanted to size up my clue in person, see if anything rang a bell.” He turned to Emily. “How many stalkers do you have, anyway?”

“Seven,” she replied. “That I know of. Five men, two women. I can call later with names.”

Benedetti nodded. “Do that. Probably won't amount to anything. Stalkers are usually lovers, not fighters.” He thumbed a page, cleared his throat. “Lucy lived on Prancing Pony Lane. Jesus, where do they come up with these silly goddamn names, huh? Worked as a mechanic.”

“Auto?” Branch asked.

“Truck.”

“Where?”

“Mall,” Benedetti said. “Night supervisor at Great Lakes Engines. Four to midnight. Last two hours by herself, doing paperwork and setting up the computer for the next day. Boss can't praise her enough. She's hardworking, dependable. Just got a double-digit raise.”

“She still doesn't sound familiar. What else do we know about her?” Emily said.

“Recently divorced,” Benedetti said. “Ex lives in Los Angeles. Got his name from the address book in her purse. I talked to him an hour ago. Also talked to their son, who runs the London branch of a New York brokerage firm. He was in his flat—that's Brit for apartment—an hour ago.” He added details from Lucy's driver's license, explaining he'd pulled it from her purse on the backseat. Along with a Visa, Master-Card, and $147.30 in cash, all of which ruled out robbery. “Anything ring a bell?”

“No,” Emily said. “I've never heard of this woman.”

Benedetti closed his notebook. “So much for doing this the easy way. Ready to meet her?”

Emily clenched her jaw and nodded, neck hairs stiffening in protest. She marched toward the convertible, stopped abruptly as her nose recoiled from a horrid smell. “Branch?” she said, holding the cigar out to her side like half a crucifix. “My, um, gas mask went cold. I need a light.”

Branch roasted the tip till Emily was shrouded in a thick blue fog.

Then all three went to see Lucy Crawford.

Monday, 10
A.M
.
Sixty-eight hours till Emily's birthday

Bile rose in Emily's throat as the odor of the decomposing body penetrated her cigar smoke. “Come here often, Commander?” she joked, noticing Benedetti had no tobacco. Nor were his nostrils plugged with cigarette filters or Vicks Vapo-Rub, two other cop-tested odor blockers.

“Sure,” Benedetti said, crinkling his wide-set hazel eyes. “Unlike you Goody Two-shoes in Naperville, there's loads of murderous citizens in my jurisdiction.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Death?” he said. “Like anything else in this business, you get used—”

“No. The stink.”

Benedetti tapped his camel's-back nose. “A few years back my basement flooded in that eighteen-inch thunderstorm. I cleaned it up real nice with bleach and elbow grease, but that damn black mold kept reappearing. Smart me decided battery acid was just the ticket.”

Emily stared. “You washed your basement in battery acid?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Benedetti said. “Worked great, too. The acid cleaned that concrete down to the white.” His expression turned rueful. “But I was too manly to wear one of those sissy respirators. Only a paint mask. The fumes burned away my sense of smell.”

Emily wrinkled her nose in sympathy. “I'm sorry. That must be terrible.”

Benedetti's shrug said, “Whaddaya gonna do?” “Has its advantages. I couldn't smell Lucy if I picked her up for a polka. On the other hand, everything I eat tastes like cardboard. I'd give anything to enjoy my famous jalapeno pork chops again.” He nodded at the Porsche. “Time you two got acquainted.”

Emily worked up a huge cloud of smoke and began her examination of Lucille Crawford.

The middle-aged woman's hair was long. Strawberry blond. Neatly trimmed, held in a ponytail by a spangled purple scrunchie. Emily looked for signs of dye. Nope, Lucy was real to the roots. Pale blue eyes, widely spaced. Broad shoulders just this side of butch. No jewelry except a thin gold wedding band on her left ring finger. Interesting that a divorcée still wore it. Carpenter-style blue jeans with a bit more room in the seat, sopping from the release of her bladder and bowels at the moment of death. Red-striped work shirt with “Lucy” embroidered over the left breast. A support bra—Emily could see the wide, heavy strap through the more faded of the stripes—and steel-toe shoes laced tightly to her feet. She estimated Lucy's weight and smiled. Nice to know one other person lies on her driver's license! Flies dive-bombed the stiff body.

She worked up more smoke, then ran a latexed finger down Lucy's left cheek. Blemish-free and smooth as varnished teak, the pores fine and clear. The skin of a supermodel, someone used to pampering. But Lucy's hands were horned with scarred yellow calluses. She humped engine blocks for a living. Nobody had pampered her for a long time. Her expression in death seemed much like the Scottie pup's—utter disbelief at the situation she'd found herself in. All in all, Emily decided, Lucy was an ordinary, hardworking, pleasant-looking woman.

As pleasant as anyone with two extra holes in her head.

Emily's gaze shifted to the handgun on the passenger seat. “The victim was shot with a Glock,” Benedetti recited from his notes. “A 9-millimeter Model 17.”

Emily nodded, staring at the mirror image of the pistol she pulled on the birds just hours ago. The 17 was the most popular sidearm in law enforcement because it was light, reliable, ergonomic, inexpensive, and held lots of bullets. It had a chunky black plastic frame and a carbon steel slide. Just like hers. Glow-in-the-dark night sights. Just like hers. Skateboard tape wrapped around the handle to keep wet fingers from slipping…

Just like mine. Weird.
She thought back on how weightless her pistol felt when she aimed it at the decapitated birds. Was it as light in Lucy's hand? Or did it weigh a ton, a crushing anvil of hopelessness and despair? She shook her head. “The only thing I know for certain is Lucy's gun is the spitting image of mine, down to the homemade tape job.”

“Say what?” Benedetti said.

“Oh!” Emily yipped, flustered she'd said it aloud. “I carry the same pistol, that's all.” She stuck out her right hip so he could see it, eliciting a grunt. “You were saying, Commander?”

“One round was fired. Straight into her head, as you can see.”

Emily nodded, swallowing the fresh rise of bile. The entry hole in Lucy's right temple was the size of a pencil eraser. The surrounding flesh was a charred sunburst, indicating the muzzle had been near the head. The hole in the opposite temple was the exit wound. It was ragged and crusty, the size of a quarter. Emily followed the trajectory to the gore on the driver's window. It was mealy, like cold oatmeal, and shot through with whitish grit. Lucy's brains and blood, blended with skull fragments. Emily tried to imagine the moment the supersonic tip of the bullet pierced Lucy's flash-roasted skin—Pain? Panic? Regret for life unlived?—but couldn't. Even ten years after Jack's death, such imaginings were too exquisitely painful to dwell on. She shook her head, praying Jack died instantly.

Uh, I mean Lucy.

“Sexual?” Branch asked.

“Jeans were zipped and belted, shirt buttoned,” Benedetti said. “That's all I can tell right now. Coroner hasn't shown yet to authorize moving the body.”

Branch looked at his watch, surprised. “You called him, right?”

“Twice. He's sorting a twenty-car pileup at the Joliet Arsenal. I'll be lucky if he shows by supper.” He looked at Emily. “For what it's worth, I'm betting no sexual assault.”

“Good,” she said, relieved. Even a dead woman should keep that dignity. “Was there a farewell note?”

“Suicide?” Branch asked, brows arching in surprise. “Rather than murder?”

Emily nodded.

“Explain.”

She puffed to combat the odor. “There was a single shot. A professional killer would pull the trigger at least twice to guarantee her death. Someone killing out of fury or revenge would have emptied the gun, then beat her with it.” Branch nodded, and she kept going. “A Glock's the kind of pistol a civilian might buy—familiar, something she's seen on a million TV shows. She probably bought it for self-protection.” She pursed her lips at the irony. “I know the ex was home when you called. But there's hourly service between O'Hare and LAX. I presume he has an alibi?”

Benedetti nodded.

“OK.” She pointed to the Glock. “The gun is still in the car. A killer would have taken it. The position on the passenger seat is consistent with falling from her hand after a self-inflicted gunshot. Did you find the ejected shell casing?”

“Wedged at the bottom of the windshield,” Branch said. “Next?”

Emily pointed at the right temple. “The bullet entered the skull there. Meaning she held the gun in her right hand. That's consistent with being right-handed.”

“We don't know she's a rightie,” Benedetti objected.

“She's got bigger calluses on her right fingers, and the palm and nails are more heavily worn. She uses that hand much more often. Making her right-handed.”

Benedetti looked impressed. “What else?”

Emily took a drag of her cigar. It tasted like burnt rope. “Her money and credit cards were intact, so it wasn't robbery. She's intact, so it wasn't rape. She works nights, the last few hours by herself, which explains her having the gun. As for opportunity, Lucy had it 24/7.”

“So we've got means and opportunity,” Benedetti said. “But what's her motive? Why would this lady kill herself?”

“The divorce.”

Both detectives blinked at the bald assertion.

“It's not a crisis with the kids,” Emily explained. “Her son's grown and doing well. It's not about work. She got a nice raise in a down economy. She looks healthy. Well, except for
that
,” she said in answer to Benedetti's smirk. “So unless she had some incurable disease, that leaves her marriage.” She stopped to play the argument through and, satisfied, continued. “I don't care how common divorce is nowadays. It's still an emotional nightmare. Especially for middle-aged women who grew up believing marriage is till death do us part. No matter who wanted the divorce and for what reason, Lucy thinks it's her fault the marriage ended. Her fault she was abandoned.”

The word brought the familiar catch in her throat.

“It ate at Lucy, made her sick with loneliness,” she said. “She couldn't take it anymore and decided to call it a life.” She shook her head at the sadness of Lucy's decision. “Murder just doesn't make sense in this case, guys. It's too risky. The killer would have had to overpower a blue-collar worker surrounded by power tools, stuff her in that tiny trunk, and drive to the cemetery in the middle of the night. What's he going to say if a bored cop pulls him over for a safety check? ‘Gee, Officer, I thought she seemed a little quiet tonight.'” She shooed flies from Lucy's crotch, looked at Benedetti. “So I think suicide. But you're calling it homicide. Why?”

“Suicides
are
homicides,” Benedetti replied. “So we treat 'em that way till proven otherwise. But, yeah, I'm ready to rule this suicide, too.”

“You are?” Emily said, wishing she hadn't wasted all that time laying out connections he'd already made on his own. “Why didn't you say so, save me from running my big mouth?”

“'Cause I wanted to hear what you thought,” Branch answered. “I didn't call you here only for my bad joke. As it happens, we agree with you. Lucy's a suicide.”

“Though I'd like to see her farewell note,” Benedetti said.

“If she bothered to write one,” Branch warned. “Sometimes they don't.”

Benedetti wagged a finger north. “A team is searching Lucy's town house. So let's discuss our next problem.” He thumped the Porsche's macerated hood. “These wheels were borrowed.”

“Stolen?” Emily said.

“Yeah. Last night, from the mall parking lot. Lady had primo taste in race cars.”

Emily agreed. Leather galore, triple-digit horsepower, the deep polished silver, which looked so elegant on a powerful vehicle. But its racing days were over. Granite does not forgive its trespassers. “But why bother stealing a car?” she asked. “Lucy had one already—”

“Commander!” shouted the grizzled deputy from the ditch.

Benedetti squinted through the chain links. “Yeah?”

“Boys just found the suicide note.”

“Excellent! Where?”

The deputy spoke into his cell phone, then back at Benedetti. “In an e-mail.”

“Christ on a crutch, a
cyber
-cide?”

“Appears so. The e-mail was in her computer at work.”

Benedetti stared. “The engine place? Where I sent Luerchen?”

The deputy grinned. “Sergeant Luerchen made dynamic entry into the building. The office computer was on, and the screen indicated e-mail. Sergeant Luerchen investigated.”

Benedetti groaned like he'd stubbed his toe. “What'd he do?”

“Clicked on the mail folder. Saw the suicide note. It was written but not sent.”

“Gimme the Cliff's version.”

“‘Hubby dumped me for a trophy wife, so I'm outta here. Tell my son I love him.'”

Benedetti nodded. “OK. Thanks. Tell Luerchen, uh, good job.” Under his breath, “For a fat, lazy bastard who'd be pawing through Lucy's panty drawers if I'd been retarded enough to send him to the town house.” Louder, to the deputy, “Call LAPD, ask 'em to confirm the ex's alibi. Likewise Scotland Yard for sonny.”

The deputy nodded. Benedetti turned back. “If that don't beat all,” he complained. “Rayford Luerchen doing smart police work.”

“Who's Rayford Luerchen?” Emily said.

Benedetti looked like he'd bitten into a worm. “Just the stupidest man I've ever met in my entire life,” he said. “He's cocky, mean, and lazy, and the only badge he's fit to wear says Mattel. He's also the sheriff's wife's son from her first marriage, which makes him untouchable.” He shook his head. “I send him to the garage 'cause he can't step on his dick there, and he goes and finds the suicide note that closes this case. I'll probably have to give the jerk a commendation.” He made a little smirk at Emily. “Course, maybe I shouldn't be telling you this.”

“Why not?”

“I hear you like ol' Rayford.”

Emily couldn't imagine where that came from. Luerchen sounded like someone she'd just as soon shoot as talk to! “What do you mean, like him?”

“Well, you know, that pet name you've got for him.” The smirk widened. “Doughboy?”

The sergeant from the ditch!
She looked around, didn't see him, and felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. “You weren't supposed to hear that.”

“Us chiefs of detectives hear everything,” Benedetti said. “Don't we, Branch?”

Branch nodded. “Course, it helps that Ray's deputies like him about as much as you do, and one of them ‘accidentally' thumbed his radio so we could enjoy the show.”

Emily shook her head. “Cops.”

“Cops,” Branch agreed. He looked at his watch and frowned. “Let's finish up, Marty.”

“Yeah, I know you've got that meeting,” Benedetti said, slapping his notebook in his palm. “The farewell clears up a lot of doubt about suicide. But not all.”

“Meaning?” Emily asked.

“Gun suicides are a guy thing. Women almost always choose something less violent, like carbon monoxide or sleeping pills.”

“Lucy was a mechanic,” Branch countered. “She's comfortable in a male world. And her gun was right there with her.”

“Something to be said for convenience,” Benedetti agreed. “But then there's Emily's question. Why steal a car when her own is fifty feet away?”