Relative Malice (6 page)

8

The five o’clock meeting went much like the one earlier: there was nothing new in the search for the baby; Sienna’s coworkers reported she’d had no enemies; everyone loved her; and nothing conclusive had come back from the ME. The baby sitter’s second trip to the house revealed nothing missing other than what they’d known the night before; cash, credit cards, and a few pieces of jewelry were all that had been taken.

Alverson strolled in as the meeting wound down, with FBI agent Gene Tarkowski on his heels. After her brief allusion to the FBI’s interest in the case at the morning gathering, Kendall felt it appropriate to give Tarkowski the floor. At least that was her plan until Alverson took over the meeting.

“I’ve got something that might be important.” He read from a small leather notebook. “A high school girl told us about an email that went around about six months ago. It was advertising for virgins, offering them top dollar for their—and I quote—introduction to womanhood. She didn’t know how many of the girls in her class got the emails, but she thought quite a few had, including Sienna Glausson.”

Lipske asked, “What’s that got to do with a whole damn family getting murdered?”

“Maybe nothing, but it needs checking out even if it isn’t related.”

Getting paid for your virginity?
What next?
Kendall wondered why this was the first they were hearing of it and if the email had been serious. Alverson was right; someone had to look into it even if it wasn’t related to the Glausson murders. And they’d have to question Sienna’s close friends and the boyfriend again.

After Alverson’s updates, Kendall introduced Tarkowski.

He took the podium. “All of you are probably aware that there have been two other home invasions similar to this one. The first one was in Green Bay a little more than a year ago, and the most recent, which you’ll probably remember, happened last March in Stillwater. The Green Bay incident didn’t get much press because there was a possible drug tie-in that made it look like the murders might have been related to a buy.”

Discussions broke out around the room.

Tarkowski held up his hands. “I know, I know—seems like it had to be one or the other—a home invasion or drug incident. But you know how it is. The simplest solution always seems like the best, especially with everyone short-staffed. In light of what’s happened here, we’re going to add manpower to both cases. I’ve given Detective Halsrud copies of the files on the other two incidents. We lifted some prints in Green Bay but got no hits from them, and we weren’t even sure they belonged to the doers. But we’ve got them for comparison if you get another print.”

“Is there anything that proves it’s the same guys here?”

“We’re pretty sure the other two invasions were done by the same unsubs, since the bullets matched in both cases. Here, there are similarities, but also some differences. We’re waiting for ballistics to confirm whether the same gun was used here. Detective Halsrud will share the details with you after she’s gone through the files. For now, I’d advise you to keep looking at the family, find out if there are any connections there.”

“Were there kids in the other ones?”

“Not in Green Bay. But in Stillwater, the family had a thirteen-year-old girl and a ten-year-old boy. None of them survived.”

“Was the girl raped?”

“No.”

Kendall added, “We haven’t gotten much back from forensics yet. Since most of our evidence gets sent out, it’s going to take a while. They did find a partial print on the daughter’s wrist; we’re waiting to see if that turns out to be enough for a match. If not for an ID, possibly a match to one from Green Bay. And they didn’t find any semen, no hairs, nothing. Our killers were careful.”

Alverson snorted. “Or just damn lucky.”

Kendall arrived at the apartment after ten, bone tired. The painters had been in, the living room walls freshly painted a nondescript shade of off-white. She hadn’t gotten back to Morrie with a color preference. It hadn’t mattered since she didn’t plan on staying. But the walls looked clean and fresh, the paint covering the ugly, aged surface.

After she’d changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, she remembered Callandra. Could Brynn be Chelsea Glausson’s fortune-teller? It hardly seemed likely the teenager with albinism, living right across the hall, could be Callandra. There was only one way to find out, and if she were going to do it tonight, she had to do it now before fatigue overcame her.

The colored glass panes in her neighbor’s door were lit from behind—Brynn must still be awake. Kendall knocked softly.

Brynn opened the door dressed in a charcoal gray sweat suit and track shoes, dark glasses still perched on her slightly hooked nose.

“Sorry to come by so late.”

“It’s okay. I’m a night person.”

“I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

Opening the door wider, Brynn motioned her inside. Even with her undeveloped appreciation for décor, Kendall liked the cozy interior. Furnished with antiques and old-fashioned memorabilia, the effect was warm and inviting.

“Actually, this is an official visit,” Kendall added, following Brynn into the small living room. A latticed teak screen carved out an alcove in the back of the room where a small, round table with two chairs on either side sat in front of two tall, narrow windows.

The white cat, comfortable in his new surroundings, perched on the table and gazed out the window while the soothing notes of a harp flowed from an iPod system on a nearby shelf.

Kendall took a seat on a sofa that had to be more than seventy-five years old, upholstered in deep maroon velvet. “Do you go by the name Callandra when you do your readings?”

“Yes.”

The ambiance in the apartment was muted, supplied by candles and mood lighting. Nothing you could read a book by, much less a face. It was hard to tell what Brynn was thinking behind the dark glasses. Kendall thought about asking her to remove them but thought better of it. This was a preliminary interview, and Brynn wasn’t a suspect.

“Do you remember doing a reading for Chelsea Glausson?”

In nearly a whisper, Brynn said, “I was going to talk to you about that.”

“When did you see her?”

“June seventeenth. I had a booth at the psychic fair.”

Kendall remembered being invited to attend when she was still living with Nat. Way too “woo-woo” for her taste, she’d begged off. “And she came in to see you?”

“Yes.”

Kendall sighed. She was finding Brynn’s reluctant conversational style annoying. “And then what happened?”

“I was only doing one-question readings.”

“I’m going to need more than that.” Damn, she needed to see the girl’s eyes.

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“I don’t believe a psychic interpreter can claim privilege.”

“She was with her daughter. I saw the daughter first, then she made her mother come in.”

Finally used to the dim lighting, Kendall could see Brynn’s hands twisting in her lap. Kendall’s questions were upsetting her. “What happened during your readings?”

“The girl wanted to know about her boyfriend—she asked me if they would get married someday. But I saw something different in the cards . . . something she didn’t ask me about. Death.”

Naturally, Brynn didn’t expound. “Then what?”

“I had her reshuffle the cards and we did another spread. It didn’t change. I don’t like to tell people bad things, so I just answered the boyfriend question.”

She saw death in the cards. Right.
Kendall had never been a believer in the occult. “Go on.”

The cat appeared next to Brynn, rubbing against her leg. She scooped him up and held him tightly against her chest before settling him on her lap. “Malkin. Do you know what that name means?”

“Not a clue.”

“Malkin is a cat that’s a witch’s familiar. Like in that movie—
Bell, Book and Candle
.”

Kendall still had no clue.

“It’s an old movie from the ‘50s. With Kim Novak. That’s how I knew Malkin and I were destined to be together.” As if knowing he was being talked about, the big cat mewed softly and rolled over, seeking attention. Brynn rubbed his belly. “I thought Morrie told you about me.”

“He didn’t say you were a witch.”

Kendall saw her smile. Fleeting, but definitely there. A first.

“That’s funny. No, I’m not a witch. I just started doing this for the money.”

That
was
what Morrie had told her. “So, getting back to the Glaussons . . .”

“The mother told me she wanted to know what the future held for her. Her cards were nearly the same as her daughter’s. They showed death. Violent death. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing like that ever happened before. It scared me.”

Relieved Brynn had finally loosened up, Kendall had to admit the girl’s story was getting interesting. “So how did you handle it?”

“I made up some things about her future, and told her she might want to be careful; there was a possibility of danger in their lives.”

“How did she react to that?”

“She laughed.”

“So she didn’t take it seriously.”

“She promised not to walk under any ladders or let a black cat cross her path, but I knew she was kidding around. I was frightened for them. They seemed like really nice people, so I told her a ten-minute reading wasn’t very accurate and offered to have her come here for a complete session, free of charge. That’s when I gave her the card. She never called.”

Kendall shivered. In light of what she’d seen at the Glausson house, Brynn’s interpretation of the cards was eerie. “The cards didn’t tell you what was going to happen?”

“No. But telling someone when he or she is going to die? That’s kind of . . . my specialty.”

9

There were nearly a dozen private detective agencies listed in the yellow pages, but the few that Gray Glausson had been able to get through to on Sunday night either sounded like idiots or were overeager, making him suspect money as their only motivation. He didn’t pretend to know a lot about police work, but he knew the first few days in an investigation were critical.

He paced the length of his office. A solution would come to him, but he kept seeing Chelsea’s face and feeling he’d let her down. Finding her little girl was all he could do for her.

Adam Nashlund, grateful for an excuse to leave the house, showed his ID to the night guard at Chippewa Paper Products. The dark-skinned guard handed it back.

“Sorry, Mr. Nashlund. Didn’t recognize you.”

Why would he? As head of security, Nash spent most of his time traveling to CPP’s other locations in the state. “No problem.”

The VP’s message had been to come to his office ASAP—he’d added no details. Nash had heard about what happened to the Glausson family. Under the circumstances, he wondered what Graham Glausson was doing at the plant and on a Sunday night to boot. He found him standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his spacious corner office, hands laced together behind his head.

Nash tapped on the door as he entered.

Glausson turned and came over to greet him. He held out his hand. “Gray Glausson. Adam, thanks for coming. I hope I didn’t take you away from anything.”

“No problem. Call me Nash, everyone else does.” If they were going to be on a first name basis, it meant only one thing—Glausson wanted something. Nash had only met Glausson once, right after he’d been hired and was introduced to all the big muckety-mucks. “I heard about your family. I’m sorry.”

“That’s why I wanted to see you. You were a police detective in Eau Claire before you came to work for us, isn’t that right?”

“I was.”

Glausson wiped his face with his hands. “Okay, here’s the thing. I need some advice. I’m not very confident about the police in Eau Claire. I made some calls, checked into detective agencies, and so far, I have to tell you they didn’t sound any more promising.”

“Who’s handling the case?”

“A Detective Whitehouse at first. But when I was there today, they told me he was in the hospital. His partner, a woman, is in charge now.” He handed Nash a business card. “Do you know anything about her?”

Kendall Halsrud. “Never worked with her. But I still see some of the guys. If there were anything bad to know about Halsrud, it would have been discussed.”

Glausson leaned forward. “That’s reassuring, but I’d like to hire you. You were highly recommended when we brought you on board for your security position, and I’d be more comfortable if someone I trusted was working on this. I want you to find my niece.”

It occurred to Nash that “someone he trusted” more likely meant someone he could control. “I’m not a detective anymore.”

“But you’d have insights no one else would have.”

“I can give you some names. A lot of the PIs in this area are retired cops—they know the ropes.”

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars an hour for the time you put into it—on top of your regular pay.”

A hundred an hour.
Glausson was speaking his language. But there were things to negotiate. “What about my job?”

“I’ll personally see to it that most of it is delegated to others. You can attend to whatever you have time for, but the murder of my family and finding their baby takes top priority.”

Getting involved seemed a little crazy, but the Glausson home invasion was big. He would be back doing—well, sort of doing—the work he loved. His wife wouldn’t be happy about it, but he’d worry about that later. “One more thing. The extra money you pay me? I want it in cash.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And just so you know, I won’t be doing any end runs around the cops. I’ll get as much as I can from them, try to find out if they’re doing everything they should be. I’ll do my own thing. Anything I find I’ll have to turn over to them.” Kendall Halsrud could be a problem, but not one Glausson needed to know about.

Glausson offered his hand to confirm their deal. “I understand. I’ll feel better knowing you’re on it. You’ll have to keep me abreast of what you’re doing, of course.”

“Sure, no problem.” Now he had to hope that the Halsrud woman would be open to working with him. And if not
with
him, then staying the hell out of his way.

Kendall wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Death was Brynn’s specialty? “What does that mean?”

Brynn stood and moved toward the adjoining kitchen. “Let’s have some tea.”

Were they back to that again—avoidance? Perhaps Brynn was just being sociable, but Kendall doubted it. She may need to be reminded that Kendall came over here officially and she
had
to answer her questions. She followed Brynn into the small kitchen, a mirror image of the one across the hall, except this one was painted a soft aqua with one wall covered in sepia photos from what looked like the turn of the previous century.

“Tell me, how is death your specialty?”

Brynn had her back to Kendall, busy preparing tea. “It was Madam Vadoma’s specialty. Her real name was Ethel Weissbrodt.”

That had to be the old fortune-teller whose name was still on a sign outside the building, the one Morrie told Kendall about. “Wasn’t she dead by the time you moved in?”

“Morrie put a For Rent sign in the window right after she died.”

Brynn
was
back to avoidance. Kendall wanted to shake her. “So, if you never met her, how did you start telling fortunes?”

“Morrie had a hard time renting the apartment because all of her things were still in it and he didn’t have time to get rid of them. I rented it as it was.”

Kendall gritted her teeth. “Please. Answer the question.”

“I didn’t exactly start.” She served Kendall a cup of fragrant tea in a paper-thin, white china cup and saucer.

Kendall could have used something stronger than tea to help her through the exasperating conversation. “What does that mean?”

Brynn sipped her tea. “The day I moved in, an old lady came to the door. I guess she didn’t see very well because she thought I was Vadoma. I explained who I was, but her hearing wasn’t too good, either. She begged me to do a reading for her. She wanted to know when she was going to ‘pass’ and told me that was what Vadoma did for people.”

A fortune-telling death-predictor? Too weird.
“How did you know what to do?”

“I told her I didn’t know how, but she started crying, so I brought her inside and made her tea. She told me she needed to know when she was going to die because she wanted to plan her funeral and get her will in order.”

Intrigued with the story, Kendall realized it had taken the fortune-telling experience to get Brynn talking. “Then what happened?”

“I told her again I wasn’t a card reader, but she said it didn’t matter, because the cards read themselves. She said Vadoma’s spirit was still here and would help us. She told me how to shuffle and spread the cards.”

“Did you have a Tarot deck?”

“No. Vadoma didn’t use a Tarot deck. I used a deck of cards I found in the secretary desk.”

“But how did you interpret the cards?”

“I didn’t. I just told her the cards didn’t say exactly when it would happen,

but they said she should be prepared.”

Kendall was impressed by Brynn’s compassion for the woman. “You told her what she wanted to hear. She was okay with that?”

“That made her happy. She made me take fifty dollars.”

“So that’s how death became
your
specialty?

“Yes. I needed the money, so when other people came by, I told them I was taking Vadoma’s place. They mostly asked questions about death. And Vadoma, Ethel, had a journal with notes about the cards. It was easy.”

Brynn quickly picked up their cups without offering a refill. Apparently, she’d reached her limit of extended conversation. She edged toward the door, sending Kendall the message it was time to leave. Though wanting to hear more about Brynn’s transformation into Madam Vadoma’s replacement, Kendall figured that could wait. In the meantime, she’d run a background on the younger woman.

Brynn flipped up the hood of her sweatshirt, covering her white hair. “I have to go for my walk now.”

A walk this late at night?
Kendall stepped into the hall, holding back a police officer’s caution about walking alone after dark.

“Morrie has dollar-burgers on Monday nights. Until ten,” Brynn said.

A bit of information she hadn’t even asked for. “Good to know.”

Kendall entered her apartment thinking there really wasn’t much she could do with Brynn’s story. But she would have to find out how Brynn knew something was going to happen to the Glaussons before the murders took place. She was pretty sure Madam Vadoma hadn’t told her.

When Brynn left the building, the temperature had dropped. She felt the chill through her sweat suit and picked up her pace. She hated leaving Malkin alone so soon after bringing him into a strange home, but he seemed content.

She welcomed the darkness; daylight bothered her weakly pigmented eyes. Her vision wasn’t 20-20, but she didn’t need to wear prescription glasses. Nighttime was her friend. She blended in after sundown when no one noticed her unorthodox appearance.

Kendall seemed nice, but she asked too many questions. Brynn wasn’t used to people asking personal questions—it made her nervous.

Kendall’s cell phone buzzed as she was about to take a shower. She didn’t recognize the number. “Halsrud.”

“It’s me, Hank.”

“You shouldn’t be on the phone.; you just had surgery.”

“I snagged the wife’s cell phone—I can’t talk long.”

“How are you doing?”

“Just peachy. I’ve got a zipper in my chest and a tube up my dick, how do you think I’m doing? Tell me about the case, but keep it short.”

“Tarkowski thinks it might be the same perps here that did the invasions in Green Bay and Stillwater. The Feds are working that angle now, so we’ve been focusing on the Glaussons until we hear more from them. We haven’t found much, and, so far, forensics is a bust, except the blood we found in the baby’s room has been identified as Philly Glausson’s. The search teams haven’t turned up any sign of her. And one rather bizarre thing—Chelsea Glausson saw a psychic six months ago who told Chelsea and her daughter they were in danger.”

“Fuck me! That fortune-teller—a little white ghost, about five-three, nineteen or so?”

Kendall dropped onto a chair. “You met her?”

“She came in to warn us that two women were going to meet with violent deaths.”

“And?”

“I blew her off, what do you think I did?”

“You didn’t ask their names or file a report?”

Before he could answer, she heard an exchange of voices that didn’t sound pleasant. A feminine voice spoke. “Kenny?”

It was Hank’s wife. That was the end of the shoptalk. “Yes, Diane, it’s me. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault, dear. I know how he can be.”

“So everything went well?”

“It did. They’re going to put him in a regular room soon. I’ll let you know when he can have visitors.”

Kendall couldn’t believe it. Hank Whitehouse hadn’t filed a report. That had to be a first. But she knew how he felt about psychics assisting the police; apparently his cynicism extended to all forms of the occult. Brynn hadn’t mentioned going to the police, although Brynn rarely said anything she didn’t have to.

Before she closed the phone, she saw she had a message. It was from Betty Ruffalo, asking Kendall to call her. Good, she wanted to ask Betty about Brynn. She connected to the number.

“Oh. Detective Halsrud. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. You told me to call you if I thought of anything else.”

“Sure. Any time.”

“I just remembered something. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but a few months ago, Chels and Sienna had psychic readings done. The psychic warned them they might be in danger.”

Kendall decided not to share the fact that she already knew about it. “How did she handle that?”

“She only told me about it after she realized it bothered her daughter. Sienna had just gotten her driver’s license and loved driving, and after the warning she was afraid to get in a car. And when Mark and Chels told her they couldn’t afford a security system, she wanted them to put deadbolt locks on all the doors.”

“And did they?”

Betty started to choke up. “No, but Chels started keeping the doors locked when she was home alone with the kids.”

“Thank you for letting me know, Betty. I’ll look into it.”

Betty’s voice trembled. “The last time I was at the house Sienna said something to Chels about the patio doors being unlocked when she came home. Chels said, ‘It’s been months, Sienna. I told you it was all nonsense.’”