Die Buying (29 page)

Monica continued to blast the mall’s security shortcomings while I reflected that she was largely correct. With the exception of the jewelry stores, which had advanced alarm systems tied into private response companies, most of the stores in the mall worried far more about shoplifters during the day than burglars breaking in after hours. As an eagerbeaver newcomer, I’d gone to Woskowicz and Quigley after I’d worked here a couple months with a plan for beefing up security, and gone down in flames. No money, Quigley said. No need, Woskowicz said.

Pursuing the topic with Monica would clearly get me nowhere, so I stopped the flood of words by holding out the photos I’d shown Kiefer. “Actually, I’ve got some photos I want you to look at. Have you ever seen any of these people before?”

Monica gave me a suspicious look but reached for the sheaf of copies. Her eyes widened and her gaze flicked to me when she got to the photo of Henrik Dawson. “This guy. Why, he’s the one who was in the store, the one I told you about.”

“Thank you very much,” I said with satisfaction.

“Did he kill Jackson?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m on my way to the police station now to give this information to the detective in charge of the case.” Not that I expected him to be grateful.

 

 

“I suppose you
expect me to thank you for this?” Detective Helland said half an hour later, waving the photo of Henrik Dawson I’d given him. We stood by a vending machine in the Vernonville Police Department while it spewed out pale brown mystery liquid. I’d arrived at the brick building in the town’s center—two blocks of shops and restaurants in Colonial-era buildings fronted by brick sidewalks—ten minutes earlier and spent the time examining the pleasant, caramel-painted walls of the waiting area while the desk sergeant sent for Helland. A divorced husband and wife were doing a kid hand-off in one corner of the waiting room, and I thought how sad it was that some marriages ended with such hostility that the former lovers could only meet safely in a police station. The toddler wailed and reached for his father as the mother hoisted the kid in her arms and headed for the door, a slightly older child clinging to her hand. Helland came to fetch me, and I turned away from the sad scene.

“Of course I don’t expect you to be grateful,” I responded to what was probably a rhetorical question. “I’ve known you for a week now and my expectations are low.”

Helland glared at me for a moment, and then a brilliant smile lighted his face. “I’ve got to say you’re persistent.” He took a cautious sip of his coffee and made a face. Turning, he headed down a linoleumed hallway and I followed, even though he hadn’t asked me to. Instead of the official photos of cops and former police chiefs I expected, the walls were hung with landscape photographs showing scenes from around the region. I stopped in front of a particularly evocative photo of the Blue Ridge Mountains with a smear of mist hazing their outline. Tiny gold letters in the corner proclaimed “A. Helland.”

“You took this?” I asked, astonished. It was good, so good I wouldn’t have minded hanging it in my living room.

Helland glanced over his shoulder but continued down the hall. “It’s a hobby.” With an impatient gesture, he motioned me into his office. I was still thinking about the photograph and how it revealed a creative—even sensitive?—side of him I’d never have expected.

I looked around with unabashed curiosity. More landscape photos—black-and-white studies of trees—decorated the wall behind his desk. A fish bowl with a lone Siamese fighting fish sat on a credenza near a computer printer. File folders, case binders, a computer, and other office paraphernalia took up most of the available space on the desk and bookshelves. The absence of personal items made it hard to get a read on his family situation. Not that it was anything to do with me, I told myself hastily. He could be married with six kids and it wouldn’t make a difference to me.

Gesturing me to a red-padded, straight-backed chair, Helland settled into the swivel chair behind his desk and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me what you think you’ve got here.”

I pointed to the photo of Henrik Dawson in the middle of his desk. “I’m damn sure we have the guy who stole the reptiles from the Herpetology Hut. And he might be Porter’s killer.”

“How do you figure?” He raised a skeptical brow.

“I did a little online research and there’s more than one environmental group pissed off at Porter’s development activities. I know it’s a long shot, but isn’t it possible this Dawson guy thought he could stop Porter’s building projects by killing him?”

“Possible, but not likely,” Helland said dampingly. When I started to protest, he held up a hand. “Still, it’s worth talking to him. We’ll pick him up.”

I smiled internally, but kept it off my face. “Ask about Agatha when you find him.”

“Agatha?”

“The stolen python. What else have you got? Any leads on Wedzel’s murder? Or Robbie’s death?”

Helland thumped a hand on a file folder. “The ME has ruled Robbie Porter’s death an accidental overdose. Only his fingerprints on the syringe and the rubber tubing. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle. Enough heroin in his system to take out a rhinoceros.”

I pondered that. Could Robbie have committed suicide? It seemed strange that he’d choose the mall garage as his location and set up a meeting with me, but maybe he was being considerate in an odd way by ensuring his mom or a friend didn’t find his body? “And Weasel? I mean Billy Wedzel? Anything on his death?”

“It wasn’t suicide,” Helland said, as if it hadn’t been blatantly obvious at the scene that Weasel hadn’t shot himself in the back of the head. “We’re checking into some of his associates. Did you know that he ran a very profitable eBay business?”

“Weasel? Really?” I couldn’t picture Weasel haunting garage sales and thrift shops for castoffs to resell online. Then the penny dropped—the virtual auction house was a popular place to fence stolen merchandise. “Do you think he was auctioning off stolen stuff?” That might explain where the missing Macy’s merchandise ended up. I wondered idly how Weasel had gotten a key, but then realized it wouldn’t have been that hard if he was friendly with a former employee.

Helland shrugged. “We’re checking into some of his customers.”

“So you think he was killed by a—what? Fellow thief? Dissatisfied customer?” It didn’t ring true for me. The timing—so close on the heels of Porter’s death—was too coincidental.

“I don’t think anything yet,” he said. “I don’t theorize in advance of the evidence.”

Sure he didn’t. Was he trying to convince me he was a robot? “At least tell me you’ve been able to eliminate some of the suspects in Jackson Porter’s death.”

“We’ve been able to eliminate some of the suspects.” His gaze mocked me.

The man was exasperating beyond belief. “Specifically . . . ?”

Helland stood, towering over me, even from behind the desk. A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead. “Thank you for coming in with your information, Officer Ferris. The Vernonville Police Department is always grateful when citizens take an—appropriate—interest in reducing crime in our community.” From the way his mouth tightened at the corners, I knew he was fighting a smile.

I rose and smiled sweetly even though I wanted to belt the man. “Always happy to help out, Detective Helland. It’s clear you need all the help you can get.”

I started toward home but just before turning into my neighborhood, gave the Miata some gas and sped toward Wilderness Avenue, a misnamed street that comprised a large part of Vernonville’s business district. It had a cluster of banks and office buildings, including a two-story structure with “Jackson Porter Development” in large red letters across an incongruous log-cabin façade. I’d passed the building hundreds of times but never been in. Now, I wanted to see where Jackson Porter had worked and meet some of his employees. I’d been proceeding under the assumption that there was something personal about his murder, because of the humiliating way his body was left, and I hadn’t thought much about his professional connections. But really, other than family members, who’s most likely to want to kill you? The people who put up with your donkeylike laugh for forty hours a week, the coworkers you irritate with your choice of radio channels, or the subordinates whose ideas you steal.

I opened the car door and hesitated. I had no business being here. I wasn’t a “real” cop, as Captain Woskowicz and Detective Helland frequently pointed out. I wasn’t related to Porter. Still, finding the man’s body naked in a display window had affected me. So had Weasel’s and Robbie’s deaths, even though I hadn’t liked the one and hadn’t known the other. It galled me to think that a murderer was having the last laugh, getting away with . . . well, murder. I got out of the car and strode across the parking lot, trying to think up a plausible reason for being here. I decided I’d tell whoever asked that I wanted to know if there was some place I could make a donation in Porter’s name, in lieu of flowers. Weak, but possible. I’d actually make a donation, too.

The inside of Jackson Porter Development could just as well have been a dentist’s office or an accounting firm. Nondescript furniture and wall hangings in a small waiting area anchored halls leading off to the right and left. A vaguely familiar scent, sharp and unpleasant, permeated the room. A receptionist’s desk sat directly across from the doors, but no one sat at it as I entered. A sappy orchestration of “Muskrat Love”—one of the stupidest songs ever recorded—filtered through hidden speakers. Other than that, the office was quiet. Too quiet. Maybe the firm
had
gone out of business when Porter died? But no, the front door was unlocked.

“Hello?” I called.

“Oh!”

The sound came from behind the desk, but still I saw no one. I started across the tan carpet toward the receptionist’s desk just as a head popped up. It was a woman with frizzy, carrot-colored hair, a wide mouth, and brows penciled on in thin arcs that gave her a permanent look of surprise. “Just a minute,” she said, her voice as reedy as a piccolo. “I’m—that is—I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

The head disappeared for a moment, and then she stood, placing a bottle of daffodil yellow nail polish on the desk.
That’s
what the smell was—acetone.

“I was doing my toenails,” the woman said. She put one bare foot, with tissue woven between the toes, on the desk so I could admire the yellow-painted nails.

“Nice,” I said, completely at a loss.

“It’s my spring color,” she confided, tightening the top on the polish bottle. “I know it’s technically still winter, but I’m ready for sunshine and tulips. Aren’t you?” She smiled, displaying a mouthful of braces despite the fact that she had to be close to thirty.

“Uh, yes.”

She held out a slim hand. “I’m Kitty Heisterkemp. Can I help you?”

I shook her hand. “Emma-Joy Ferris. I’m here about Jackson Porter—”

Kitty’s eyes widened in her thin face. “Didn’t you hear? He
died
.” She said it with such astonishment I’d’ve thought Porter’s death was the first in the history of humankind if I didn’t know better.

“Yes, I—”

“That’s why there’s no one here,” she said with an expansive gesture. “The boss gave everyone the week off. She said we need to regroup, give the lawyers and accountants time to do their thing. Whatever that is.” She wrinkled her nose. “But not me. I’m here to answer the phones and keep up with the mail. It’s pretty lonely.” She pointed to a romance novel splayed on the desk, a bodice ripper if the cover was anything to go by.

“Have you worked here long?” I asked, trying to feel my way toward a question or two about Porter.

“Almost nine years,” she said proudly. “Since I graduated from Vernonville High.” She waggled the fourth finger of her right hand to show off a class ring set with a red stone. “It’s been great. I’ve gotten raises almost every year. I’ve learned so much you wouldn’t believe it. And I like everybody here. We’re just really close, you know? Like a family. Except . . .” She trailed off, then resumed with a bright smile. “And Jackson is—was—a super boss. He didn’t get all uptight if you came in a few minutes late, you know? And he was always friendly. Not in an inappropriate way,” she hastened to add, “except . . .” She shook her head, swishing her carroty hair around her ears. “I’ve never had a better boss.”

She’d probably never had another boss, period, if she started working here right after high school.

“Who’s the boss now that Porter’s dead?” I asked, deciding to go with the flow of Kitty’s artless prattle.

“Catherine,” she said. She pulled at her lower lip. “Well, she’s not really the boss boss, not the owner, but she’s the office manager and she’s the one who gave us the week off. I guess the owner would be Elena, right? Jackson’s wife.” She nodded as if pleased to have figured that out.

“Catherine?”

“Catherine Lang. She started working here after her husband died—about three years ago. Wasn’t that just awful what happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” I was still taking in the news that Catherine Lang worked for Jackson Porter. I don’t know why I was surprised—there was no reason it should have come up in my conversations with either Elena or Catherine—but I was. Maybe because Catherine Lang hadn’t struck me as the worker-bee type.

“You know. It was in all the papers because he was rich or famous or something, although I never heard of him. It’s not like he was ever
People
’s sexiest man, you know.” She giggled, sounding more like a teenager than a woman almost my age. “That’s my favorite magazine—
People
.”

Shocker.

The phone rang and Kitty reached for it. “Jackson Porter Development,” she said, sounding surprisingly mature and professional.

“I’ll come back next week when the office is open,” I mouthed at her, slipping away as she reached for a message pad.