Prior Bad Acts (17 page)

“Shows a pattern of behavior,” Liska argued.

“I barely know the woman.”

Liska sighed and just looked at him with a familiar mix of concern and frustration. He could tell she wanted to say more, but she bit her tongue on it.

“I have to go,” Kovac said, getting up from his chair. “What’s next on your agenda?”

“Follow-up on Bobby Haas. Unless I get an eyewitness who can put him or his buddy at the scene, I can’t connect him to the assault. I figured I would go and be supportive of him and his dad. See how they’re doing. Update them on Karl Dahl, not that there’s anything to report. Show Bobby what a kind, warm, and motherly person I am.”

“So you can break him down and feed him into the wheels of justice?”

“Exactly.”

Kovac patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

23

BOBBY HAAS WAS
in the front yard, raking leaves, when Liska pulled up to the curb in front of the Haas home. Just parking in the driveway made the skin on the back of her neck prickle, so she didn’t.

She felt a little sheepish being so weird about this place. During the course of her career, she’d been to literally hundreds of death scenes, had gone back to them, had spent time in them to try to imagine the crime as it was taking place. But this place . . . She wished she had worn a religious medal.

The boy looked up as soon as Liska got out of the car. He had an expression that told her he had received too much bad news in his young life and was bracing himself for more.

“Hey, Bobby. How’s your dad doing?”

“He’s not feeling very good.”

“Should he be going to a doctor?” she asked. “I’ll try to help you with him. I know he doesn’t want to go, but if he’s sick . . .”

Bobby Haas looked back at the house as if he were seeking permission. When he turned back to her, he sighed. “No, thanks. He’s got his medication from his regular doctor. And he’s really no worse than he ever gets. He just needs to rest. I can take care of him. I don’t mind.”

“He’s a proud man, your dad,” Liska said, though she knew nothing of the sort. “You know, when something really catastrophic happens, sometimes the strongest people get hit the hardest.”

“He feels responsible,” Bobby said. “Like he could have prevented it. But he couldn’t have. Not without being psychic. Maybe I could have stopped it from happening too, if I’d known it was going to happen.”

Liska nodded. “But you didn’t know. No one knew. No one could ever imagine something that evil, except the Karl Dahls of the world.”

“He’s still loose, isn’t he?”

“Everything possible is being done to find him,” Liska said. She nodded toward the front porch. “Can we sit down for a minute?”

He looked suspicious but went with her as she started toward the porch, suggesting he didn’t really have an option.

Liska took a spot on the top step. Bobby sat two steps down, leaning his rake against the side of the stairs. The brilliant fall sun cast a glow around him as if he were an angel.

Pretty, she thought. That was how to describe him, not as a handsome young man but beautiful. He had to have taken after his mother. She tried to remember what Marlene Haas had looked like, but the only picture she held in her mind was the garish, horrific crime scene photo showing Marlene Haas propped up on the sofa in the TV room, her face lifeless, daisies sprouting out of her chest.

“You know, Bobby, I’m sure you’ve heard this so often you don’t want to hear it anymore, but I really am sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for what you and your dad have had to go through. Especially what you had to go through, finding your mother’s body, finding the kids in the basement. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have felt like. Were you and your mom close?”

The boy squinted across the yard as if his mother might be standing over by the garage. “Marlene was my stepmother. But yeah, I liked her. She was a nice person. Really kind. She liked to bake. The house always smelled like cookies.”

“Is your mother in the area?”

“She died when I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?”

“Cancer.”

“Wow, that sucks,” Liska said. “You’ve had a really tough go of it, haven’t you?”

He shrugged a little. “I’m okay. My dad and I have each other.”

“You two are pretty tight, huh?”

“We used to do a lot of stuff together. Go to ball games, go fishing, stuff like that. He used to coach my youth hockey team. He taught me how to drive a car.”

“You don’t do so much of that since the murders.”

“He hasn’t been up to it. He took a leave from work when it happened, but he could only be gone for three weeks. I told him he should’ve quit. Retire.”

He sighed heavily, the weight of his world bearing down on him. “I thought we could’ve moved somewhere, like Arizona, and just started over. Here, all he can think about is what happened. But we have to stay in this creepy house. He won’t do anything about it.”

“It’s a pretty tough sell, Bobby,” Nikki said. “Unless your dad is a lot better off than I am, he can’t buy a house without selling a house.”

“But we wouldn’t need a house,” the boy said. “We could just get an apartment or something. I don’t get it. I mean, what happened was horrible, but we have to go on with our lives.”

Frighteningly well-adjusted,
this kid, Liska thought. He had dealt with his own grief, put it away, and moved on. In many ways, he was now the adult in the family, while painful memories and grief incapacitated his father. And yet he was still a boy, and he just wanted his dad back.

“Has your dad been able to work with someone from Victim Services? They can hook him up with grief counseling—”

“He won’t go,” Bobby mumbled, looking down at the crumbling old concrete step. “He doesn’t believe in shrinks.”

“How about you? Did you go? Would you go?”

“I’m okay. I talked with a grief counselor a couple of times. She didn’t really get it. But who could, I guess.”

Liska watched him fiddle with the end of a shoelace, a nervous gesture. He wasn’t a happy kid. She had rubbed at some sore spots, reopened still-raw wounds.

He glanced up at her. “What happened with the judge?”

“She’ll be all right. We’re following up on what leads we have.”

“Is that why you’re really here?” Bobby asked. “To ask me again if I did it?”

“I need to corroborate your story to clear you, Bobby,” Liska said. “Did you or Stench happen to talk to any teachers or school staff when you were at the basketball game last night?”

“No. Why would we?”

“Just asking.”

“I bumped into one of the janitors when we came in. Mr. Dorset. I don’t know, maybe he’d remember seeing us.”

“Did you have to pay to get into the game?”

“No.”

“What time did the game start?”

“Seven.”

“Were you there for the whole thing?”

“Yeah.”

It was Liska’s turn to sigh.

“Okay,” she said, getting up from the step. “You know, I’m not trying to prove you did it, Bobby. I’m trying to prove that you didn’t.

“I have a son almost your age,” she said. “When I think if he had to go through all this . . . I’d want to know somebody was looking out for him. You don’t have anybody like that, do you?”

He looked away. “I have my dad.”

“Not really. It’s more like he has you. He’s lucky you’re a good kid.”

The kid looked down, scratched his rake in the grass. “He’s my dad. I’d do anything for him.”

“Bobby, do you know who Ethan Pratt is?” Liska asked, changing tracks.

Bobby Haas looked confused. “Yeah. I know his name. He’s—was—Brittany and Ashton’s dad. Why?”

“Has he ever come around or called?”

“No. Why would he?”

Liska shrugged. “Just covering my bases. Call me if you think of someone who can back you up about last night,” she said. “I’ll check with the janitor. Thanks, Bobby.”

The boy didn’t say anything.

Liska walked away, wondering if Bobby Haas’s devotion to his father might extend to revenge.

24

KOVAC WAS A GREAT
believer in the element of surprise. Forewarning only gave people time to get their lies straight. He didn’t like to make appointments for interviews. Better to just show up. The sudden appearance of a homicide cop with a lot of questions tended to rattle the average citizen.

Of course, he knew he wasn’t going to get the jump entirely on David Moore’s alibi witnesses. Kovac had no doubt that Moore had been on his cell phone the minute he had gone out the door the night before. But they wouldn’t be looking for him to just show up.

After Liska had gone, he ran Edmund Ivors and Ginnie Bird through the system. Both came up blank for any known criminal activity.

Ivors turned up on Google. As David Moore had said, Edmund Ivors was an entrepreneur, fifty-seven, had made his fortune in multiplex movie theaters in the Twin Cities and Chicago. He had offices downtown, a home in the pricey suburb of Edina, and a place on Lake Minnetonka, where mansions had dotted the shoreline for more than a hundred years. He sat on the boards of several film councils and half a dozen charities. A man seemingly above reproach, but then, in Kovac’s experience, those were the people who often had the weirdest skeletons in their closets.

Ginnie Bird, on the other hand, did not exist. Kovac couldn’t find her anywhere. He tried running variations on her first name—Virginia, Ginnifer, Jenny, Jennifer . . . nothing. Tried alternate spellings on her last name. Nothing. She was not in a phone directory, didn’t have a car registered in that name. She wasn’t on the list of registered voters, nor on the tax rolls for the State of Minnesota.

Moore claimed Ginnie Bird was an “associate” of Ivors’s, so Ivors should have her address and phone number.

Kovac glanced at his watch. His stomach was growling like a dog. He needed lunch and a gallon of coffee, and about three packs of cigarettes. If he hadn’t thought he would dislocate his shoulder doing it, he would have patted himself on the back for his restraint with the smokes. He had always run a big investigation on caffeine, nicotine, and adrenaline.

His cell phone went off before he could think too much about falling off the wagon.

“Kovac.”

“Detective Kovac, my name is Edmund Ivors.”

The element of surprise had just turned around and bitten him. A preemptive strike. He immediately believed this to be a sign of something rotten.

“Mr. Ivors. I guess you’ve spoken with David Moore.”

“Yes. I heard about the attack on Judge Moore last night. I called David right away, of course. He told me you’d have some questions.”

“Yeah, I do,” Kovac said. “I was just on my way out. Can we meet somewhere?”

“I’m at my office. Do you have the address?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Edmund Ivors’s downtown offices were sleek, modern, expensively decorated, as was the man himself. A small, immaculate man with a closely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a navy blue pin-striped suit that would have set Kovac back a month’s pay. A subtly striped shirt, a purple tie and pocket square. Kovac never trusted a guy with a matching pocket square—they always thought too much of themselves. The shoes were probably handmade by blind monks in the Italian Alps.

Kovac took one look at him and thought: Asshole.

Ivors met him in the reception area with a too-friendly smile and a strong shake with a soft hand. This was the kind of guy who got manicures every week.

“Detective,” Ivors said, “I’m glad I was able to get hold of you.”

“Why is that?” Kovac asked. “Most people try to avoid me.”

“I wanted to be able to put to rest any suspicion you might have regarding David.”

Kovac raised a brow. “You’re tight, you and Dave?”

Ivors smiled like a politician. “I’ve known David for a couple of years. He’s a nice man. Couldn’t possibly do anything along the lines of what happened to his wife last night.”

“He was with you.”

“Yes. We met for drinks in the lobby bar of the Marquette. Sevenish.”

“How did he seem? Nervous, anxious, relaxed . . .”

“He seemed perfectly normal.”

“Did he say anything about his wife?”

“Not that I recall. We were discussing business.” Ivors gestured toward a hall. “Let’s go into my office, Detective. We can be comfortable. Is there anything I can get you? Water? A soft drink? I’d offer you coffee, but I’m completely inept at making it. If it weren’t for my staff, I would have to take up drinking tea. I can manage to boil water, but that’s about it.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

The office at the end of the hall had a stunning view of the city. Two walls of floor-to-ceiling glass. There was a huge art deco-style mahogany desk, and a visitor’s chair with a woman in it.

Kovac gave her the once-over. Ginnie Bird, he presumed. Another preemptive strike. He liked this less and less. It was a setup, and so obvious they had to think he was as dumb as a post.

She didn’t look like she would hold up to much. She was petite—thin, really, except for the store-bought breasts; attractive, but in a way that didn’t appeal to him. It wasn’t any one thing. She was dressed well in camel slacks and a rust-colored silk blouse. She was nicely made-up. But there was something about her that made him think
cheap
. Something in the gaunt hollows of her long face, the shape and set of her eyes, the limp blond hair shagged off at shoulder length.

Or maybe it was just that Kovac had taken an instant hatred to her because he had it in his head that this was the woman David Moore had been screwing while his wife was lying in a hospital bed.

“Detective Kovac,” Ivors said, “this is Ginnie Bird. Ginnie was there last night.”

“Ms. Bird.”

The woman didn’t move other than to offer Kovac a limp hand when he reached out to her. She didn’t want to be here, and she certainly didn’t want anything to do with a police detective.

The end of her nose was red as if she had a cold or had been crying.

Junkie, Kovac thought. The pallor, the thinness . . . That was it, he thought. She looked like a junkie whore someone had tried to pass off as something better, something legitimate.

“So the three of you were out on the town until two in the morning,” Kovac said. “That’s a long evening.”

“We were talking about David’s new project,” Ivors said, walking over to a credenza to pour himself a glass of water from a clear pitcher with a dozen lemon slices floating inside. “He’s putting together a documentary juxtaposing—”

“I don’t care what it’s about,” Kovac said bluntly. “Are you backing it?”

“Yes.”

“And, Ms. Bird, what’s your part in all of this?”

She looked startled to have him turn his attention on her. As she opened her mouth to answer, Ivors said, “Ginnie is a casting director. She’ll be casting the actors for the reenactment segments of the film.”

“And this gets you in on the deal making?” Kovac asked, openly dubious.

“Ginnie’s very talented, great instincts. I wanted her insights on the project.”

Kovac stared directly at the woman. “Do her talents include the ability to speak?”

Ivors laughed, the jovial host. “I’m sorry, Ginnie. My wife always tells me I won’t let anyone else get a word in sideways. I’m afraid I can’t help myself.”

“Try,” Kovac said, unamused. He turned back to the Bird woman. “Are you new to the area, Ms. Bird?”

“No,” she said, brow knitting. Her voice was as strong as her handshake.

“Newly married?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, you know, I was looking you up this morning, trying to find a phone number for you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. The State of Minnesota doesn’t seem to know you exist.”

“I’m from Wisconsin,” she said quickly. “I live in Hudson.”

Just across the St. Croix River from the easternmost commuter towns to the Twin Cities.

“Really?” Kovac said. “Nice place. I have a buddy in Hudson. Ray Farmer. He’s chief of police there. Maybe you know him?”

“No, I don’t,” Ginnie Bird said, glancing at Ivors. “I haven’t lived there very long.”

And yet she wasn’t new to the area. Whatever else she was, she was a poor liar.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Illinois.”

Kovac raised his brows as if he thought people from Illinois to be particularly suspect.

“You know, I checked with the restaurant,” he said. “They told me they close at eleven-thirty Friday nights.”

“Yes,” Ivors said. “We took our conversation to their bar.”

“So if I ask someone working in the bar, they’ll tell me the three of you were there until closing?”

Ivors’s gracious mood was starting to fray around the edges. “And why would you do that, Detective? Did we break a law I don’t know about? I thought you were interested in where David Moore was at the time of his wife’s attack. What does it matter to you that we were sitting in a bar until two o’clock?”

“Just covering all my bases, Mr. Ivors,” Kovac said. “Let’s say—hypothetically—that someone paid someone else to attack Judge Moore. The first guy might meet the second guy later on to pay him off.”

“David would never do that.” Ginnie spoke up, angry on Moore’s behalf.

Kovac gave her the eye. “You know him that well?”

“He’s just not that kind of person.”

“I’ve been a cop a long time, Ms. Bird. I can tell you, I’ve seen people do the goddamnedest things. People you would never imagine. Someone gets pushed far enough, gets backed into a corner, you can’t say what they might do. Some guys, they see someone standing between them and freedom, or them and a lot of money, they’ll take the shortest route between two points and to hell with who’s standing in the way.”

“You’re talking about David like he’s a criminal,” she said, incensed.

“I don’t know that he’s not,” Kovac said. “I don’t know that you’re not. That’s the whole point of an investigation, isn’t it? To pry open the closet door and take a look at the skeletons. Everybody has at least one.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ivors said, openly irritated. “Carey Moore was mugged in a parking ramp. Her husband was with us from seven o’clock on. That’s what you needed to know, Detective Kovac?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Now you know it.”

“I guess I’m being asked to leave,” Kovac said.

“There’s a triple murderer running loose in the streets,” Ivors said. “I’m sure you have better things to do than stand around asking pointless questions.”

Kovac smiled a little as he backed toward the door. “But you see, Mr. Ivors, that’s the beauty of my job. No question is ever pointless.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, and gave a little nod toward the Bird woman. “You’ve been very helpful.”