Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (26 page)

“Did you read it?” I guess I was fishing for praise as a novelist, rather than a journalist.

“No. I sent it to her editor and Mary Kay said the part about the afterlife was just what the story needed.”

“Did you tell her about me?”

“No, you’re the ghost.” But she promised to pay me something for my time once money settled.

I was starting to think this ghost business wasn’t so glamorous after all.

Not sure what kind of reception Laura and I would get at the cop shop, I pulled into the Government Center parking ramp rather than risk getting ticketed at a street meter. The station might pay for the fine and tow for a photographer’s vehicle because of all the heavy gear it carted, but never a reporter’s.

Prepared for a waiting game, the last thing I expected was to be settled outside the chief’s office and told he’d be with us shortly. We were even offered coffee while we waited. The chief was a known chess master and I amused myself by moving carved pieces around an antique board he kept on display in the reception area.

When Laura and I were finally shown in, I greeted the chief, introduced Laura, and asked if the homicide squad had any luck obtaining surveillance video of the library computer banks from the days the “Taunting Teresa” emails were sent.

“The video was erased.” The chief was pissed, more at me than the library. “The latest tape, the day before our request. Perhaps if you’d come to us right away, they might have proven useful.”

I wanted to answer with something like, Perhaps, if I hadn’t been suspended by idiots at the station. But I thought it best to keep quiet about that happening.

Instead, I changed the subject by mentioning Laura had some questions about how long her sister’s house would remain a crime scene.

“The homicide team is working on that,” he said. “But I’m also interested in how long you’re going to remain in Minneapolis, Ms. Warner.” He stared at Laura. He knew I wasn’t going anywhere, though he probably wished I’d leave.

Laura squirmed, but stayed silent. It seemed an unwelcoming question from a Minnesotan.

“I’m only asking,” the chief said, “because trouble seems to follow you.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Laura’s been nothing but cooperative throughout this homicide investigation. Her sister’s death has nothing to do with her.”

“Probably not.” Then Chief Capacasa explained that they’d received a call from a local man who saw Laura on the news and claimed she had filed a false police report many years ago. An allegation of rape. “And he still harbors quite a grudge.”

Clearly the chief was looking to surprise us. And it worked.

Laura said nothing, so I figured I had to speak up for her.

“She made a mistake, Chief. That was a long time ago, and really has nothing to do with the current situation.”

Laura looked grateful for my mediation and mimicked my answer. “Yes, a mistake that I’ve regretted ever since.”

The chief leaned over his desk toward her, like a dare for her to pay attention. “Did you make the same mistake in Omaha, Des Moines, Madison, Phoenix, and Houston?”

I was much more confused than Laura by his implication.

The chief kept talking. “We’ve done some digging on your background, Ms. Warner. While there’s a national crime database of suspect arrests, there’s no such record of victim reports. Which makes tracking such information difficult. So instead of one-stop checking, we had to contact law enforcement in towns where you’ve lived. In most all of them, you’ve claimed to have been raped. I don’t buy those odds.”

He explained that sometimes she’d accused men by name, and they’d land in a legal jam, their reputations a mess, before being cleared. Other times, she simply reported an assailant’s general physical description and various men would be hauled in for questioning. Once she had even been found guilty of falsely reporting a crime. No jail time, but the judge had urged her to seek help.

“That and your old college pal got us on track,” he continued.
“I don’t know if you’re looking for sympathy or revenge. But you’re not getting either here. Because we’re on to you.”

His speech stunned me. I didn’t buy those odds either. And knowing Laura, I could believe she was disturbed about sex. Her lies confirmed it. So did her attitude toward her sister’s writing. What the chief outlined was a suspicious pattern of misconduct.

The chief turned to me with a gleam of triumph. “Don’t say I never give you a story.”

Laura didn’t talk much during the car ride back to my place. She mostly just cried. “It’s not like he said, Riley.”

Though his lecture humiliated me, I believed the chief’s words more than I did Laura. She may have felt betrayed by life, but once again I felt betrayed by her.

I found myself wondering what’s up with the Warner women, sex and secrets? One sister felt comfortable enough with the subject to write erotica. But only under a pen name. The other appeared to be trying to settle an old score by crying rape. Over and over.

I dropped my old college friend off at the curb outside my house, told her I needed some space, and that our roommate arrangement must come to an end.

“I want you gone when I get back,” I said.

T
hat night Dolezal watched from outside long enough to be convinced the TV reporter was alone inside. One shadow only. The house grew still, as did the rest of the street. He picked up his bag of tools and crept from the neighboring porch across the backyard, tingling with expectation and confidence.

As a journalist, she might try to get him to open up about his feelings. Perhaps to convince him to abandon his mission. To stall the preordained. But he had made a promise that no slick reporter could subvert. So there seemed little point in listening.

When the prime crime moment came, she would probably have little to add that he hadn’t already heard.

U
sually I snooze through the early-morning newscasts. Most of the time, the stories are just a rehash from the night before. The real news of the day hasn’t happened yet unless you count an occasional overnight fire or a preview of scheduled events.

Restless animal noises woke me. Dogs whimpering. Cats hissing. Birds scratching. Also, sleeping in Noreen’s bed creeped me out, and I had nightmares that my boss lay curled on the mattress next to me. Waking up, I realized the snoring shape was Husky.

I clicked on the TV remote thinking the news might bore me back to sleep. Instead a picture of me dominated Channel 3’s screen. I turned up the volume and heard a recitation of all the national investigative awards I’d won and how much the world was a better place because of my stories. A few seconds later, news control cut live to a dark exterior of my house with police cars parked in front.

That’s when I found out I’d been murdered.

I
turned on my cell phone I’d powered down the night before because the vibrating noise kept the animals up, and saw numerous missed calls from the station, Garnett, and my parents. While I was far from dead, I feared this news could kill them.

I didn’t bother listening to any of the messages, but speed dialed my mom and dad and heard a raspy, exhausted voice on the other end. I couldn’t tell who was speaking or what they were trying to say.

“Mom? Dad? It’s Riley.”

Frenzied sounds came over the line. “Calm down,” I urged them. “It’s me. Your daughter.”

“Riley?” I still couldn’t be sure who picked up the line.

“I don’t know what anyone told you, but I’m fine. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“They told us you were dead,” I now recognized my dad’s voice. “Father Mountain is on his way down from the Cities to pray with us. We called him when we got the news.”

“They were wrong, but I can’t talk long. I need to straighten out this blunder. Is Mom there?”

“She fell asleep.”

“Well, wake her up and tell her you have some good news.”

“No, you better tell her yourself, she’ll think I’ve been dreaming.”

“Then put her on the other line.”

She thought she was dreaming. Then she made me prove my existence by quizzing me about the name of my favorite doll when I was a little girl. Finally, convinced I was alive, she started going on about how this horrible ordeal would never have happened if I’d let them get me a dog like they wanted.

“Then we’d know you were safe,” she said.

Being surrounded by a trio of dogs who all wanted to go outside, I insisted that her idea, while thoughtful, was unnecessary. My last words to her before I hung up were, “Don’t bring me a dog.”

They had just suffered an incredible shock, but so had I; hard to believe we were finding time to argue about pets. Then I called back, trying to be more positive.

“Tell Father Mountain hello from me.” He would be glad not to have to bury me in the country cemetery with all the other Spartz descendants, though I was curious what he would have said about me from the pulpit.

“Tell him yourself, Riley, he just pulled into the yard.” Then she passed the phone to the priest with the message that I was not dead after all.

“You must have a powerful guardian angel, Riley,” Father Mountain said. “You must never take his work for granted.”

And I had to admit, he had a point. “I have felt his presence around me, Father.”

Then in thanks to my protector, he urged me to recite with him his special prayer.
“Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom his love commits me here; ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide.”

Then on a less spiritual note, I let Husky, Blackie, and Speckles out to do their canine business while I tried brushing animal hair off my only set of clothing while searching for my car keys. Because it was early in the day, and being a weekend, traffic was light. As I drove toward my house, I called the assignment desk and demanded a retraction.

•    •    •

Dolezal could have killed her while she slept amid a tumble of blankets. But he needed to see the look of recognition in her eyes before the blow fell. Eliciting that wide-open fear was part of his mission—the money shot. So he stood over her, held the club high, and whispered, “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”

She lifted her face from the pillow, glanced in confusion toward the source of the noise, and within seconds, was literally screaming for her life.

On his end, his past pursuits were always hushed, but now a crazed wail, in harmony with hers, escaped his throat simultaneously.

The woman was not Riley Spartz. But he had to kill her anyway.

In a frenzy, he pounded her head until he could no longer tell he’d attacked the wrong target.

Her blood dominated the bedroom. The spatters ricocheted across the covers, floor, and ceiling. Seeing his image reflected in a full-length mirror on the wall, Dolezal felt more like an angel of death than on any of his previous missions. Damp and sticky, he stripped his clothing. Then he spread his arms and tilted his head downward in his well-practiced cemetery stance, but felt no pleasure because he knew he had failed his dark icon.

He turned his shirt and pants inside out, wiping the blood from his face with his underwear. Then he dressed and prepared to leave the grisly scene behind.

He longed to pose this woman’s body like his beloved matriarch and give her corpse wings for eternity like the others. But he knew better than to draw the powerful shape; he did not have permission and the Black Angel would be angry.

M
y street was crowded with law enforcement and media, roped off to gawkers. I parked around the block and walked toward the pandemonium, a scarf shielding my face. The officer in charge of crowd control would not let me pass.

“Behind the line,” he barked.

“But I live here,” I shouted. That made no difference. He figured I was one of many residents of that block and would just have to hang out elsewhere until the police gave the all clear. I needed to be more specific. I dropped the scarf. “I’m the deceased.”

That got his attention, but he just thought I was some wacko.

“I’m Riley Spartz,” I told him.

He flashed a light in my face and that was one of those times when I wished I hadn’t left the house without makeup. Because of my disheveled appearance, he seemed unsure of my identity. I reverted to my broadcast voice. “Riley Spartz, Channel 3 news, reporting.”

That did it. He grabbed my arm and marched me past the police tape and up to my house where I crashed into Detective Delmonico, who was just coming out the door.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he yelled. He could tell I wore no
badge or uniform and thus did not belong near the crime scene. “Get her out of here.”

“I think you better take a look,” my escorting officer said. “Inside.” He pushed me into the foyer and out of view of the media.

The detective’s face grew pale when he realized who was standing in front of him. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled my face close to his. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I want to know.” I shrugged his hands off me. “How come everybody thinks I’m dead?”

“Because we got a body inside your house that’s been identified as you.” He emphasized the words “body,” “your house,” and “you.”

A body? He could only be talking about Laura. I feared she must have killed herself after all the converging events. I wished I hadn’t confronted her so harshly, adding to her turmoil.

“Her name was Laura Warner,” I said. “It must have been suicide.”

“Heard her name, but can’t confirm the victim’s identity,” Detective Delmonico continued. “But I’ve seen the remains, and this was absolutely no suicide.”

“Well, somebody clearly messed up on the identification, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you guys messed up cause of death, too. By the time I get off the air, you’re all going to look like idiots.”

“You want to call someone an idiot, start with him.”

Delmonico pushed me into the dining room where a man sat in the dark, seemingly in a stupor, his face to the wall.