The Bitter Season (8 page)

“What did you do for a living, Mr. Nilsen?” Nikki asked.

“I sold life insurance.”

“Did you ever sell any to the Duffys?”

“He was covered by the city. This has all got to be in a file somewhere,” he complained, looking frustrated.

Nikki glanced around the room as he went on, her gaze settling on old family photos on the wall above a small cabinet cluttered with mail and keys and a bulging old wallet. Nilsen had the same unpleasant expression in his family portrait from twenty-some years past: that of a man in constant pain. Despite his expression, he had been handsome in a rugged way. He hadn’t aged well.

“Is your wife around, Mr. Nilsen?” Seley asked.

“No!” he barked. “She left. I haven’t seen her in years.”

The wife had been an attractive woman with a shy, pretty smile, Nikki noted, never failing to marvel that women routinely married less than they deserved—herself included.

“Does she still live in the area?”

“I have no idea.”

“And your son?” she asked. “Was he living here at the time?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Nilsen snapped. “You don’t like my answers? You want to talk to people until you find someone who will tell you what you want to hear?”

“Not at all. But when it comes to potential witnesses in a cold case investigation, the more the merrier. We need all the help we can get to put the picture together.”

“Where’s the last detective who investigated this?” he demanded. “He at least knew what he was doing.”

“He had gender reassignment surgery and left the force,” Nikki said.

Seley doubled over, coughing to cover her laughter.

“What the hell?” Nilsen looked horrified at what Nikki had said. Seley could have fallen and died at his feet for all he cared.

“Excuse me!” Seley said hoarsely, a hand at her throat, eyes wet. “I just need to step outside.”

No one paid attention to her as she went out the front door.

“How old was your son at the time of Ted Duffy’s murder?” Nikki pressed on.

“He wasn’t here when it happened.”

“I know that, but did he know the Duffy kids or the foster kids? Looks like he might have been in high school at the time. If he knew them, they might have spoken to him about the family.”

In his high school senior picture, Young Nilsen was a lean, more refined version of his father, but with the same unhappy expression. Nikki didn’t remember seeing any mention of the boy among the interviews in the Duffy files. Kids sometimes got overlooked or discounted in investigations, as if they were invisible.

“He had some sports event that day. I’ve said it a hundred times. I was home, my wife was home, and I didn’t see anything.”

“Still, I’d like to talk to him.”

“Good luck with that. He’s dead,” he said coldly. “Now get out of my house. You’re an idiot! I don’t have anything more to say to you. If you people haven’t solved this crime in all these years, stop wasting our tax dollars and do something about the crime rate now. People are being murdered in their own homes by sword-wielding maniacs, for Christ’s sake!”

*   *   *

“M
ISOGYNISTIC PRICK
,” Nikki muttered as she descended Nilsen’s front steps.

“That’s redundant,” Seley pointed out.

“For emphasis,” Nikki said as they walked back to the car.

“Could we have some kind of signal for when you’re about to say something outrageous?” Seley asked. “I almost peed my pants!”

“A signal would require premeditation on my part. I just open my mouth and stuff comes out.”

“The mental image was too much for me. I instantly saw Grider in drag. I’ll never be able to look at him the same way again.”

“And you just know he’s hairy everywhere,” Nikki said as they got in the car. “A plunging neckline is not going to be a pretty look.”

She shuddered at the thought, and looked at Nilsen’s house. The old man was standing in the doorway, staring at them, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He was probably calling the department to complain that detectives packing vaginas had come to his house.

His original statement given at the time of Ted Duffy’s murder had been less than a page long. He didn’t know anything. He hadn’t seen anything. Nikki was puzzled: He was the kind of neighbor with his nose in everyone’s business—by his own admission, he had been bothered by the noise from the Duffy household in general—but he had not stuck his head out a window at the relentless sound of Duffy splitting wood or at the sound of two gunshots. He had spied her and Seley in the Duffy yard quickly enough, but he hadn’t seen Ted Duffy lying dead on the ground. Duffy’s body had been discovered by his wife at around six o’clock in the evening.

“See if you can find his ex-wife,” Nikki said. “I want to know more about the Nilsens.”

“Will do. What next?”

“We meet the Widow Duffy.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Forrest Foster, chair of the History Department, had turned the color of chalk. He sank down into the chair behind his desk looking like he might pass out. He was a rail-thin man in his fifties, dressed like a history professor from Central Casting: shirt and bow tie, burgundy sweater vest, tweed jacket, horn-rimmed glasses. His hands were trembling as he placed them on the desktop.

Located in Heller Hall on the U of M’s West Bank campus, Foster’s office was small, with a tall, narrow window that allowed him a view of the next brick building.

“I knew when Lucien didn’t show up for the meeting this morning something had to be wrong,” he said quietly. “I thought an illness, maybe, or a car accident. With the way the roads were . . . But then when Sondra didn’t answer her phone, either, or the house phone . . .”

The Chamberlains’ landline had been cut. The fact that the wife had not called 911 on her cell phone suggested the murder of her husband had been as quick and efficient as it was brutal. Chargers had been found on the nightstands in the master bedroom, but no phones. No laptop computers. No iPads or tablets of any kind. The wallets of both Professor and Mrs. Chamberlain had been cleaned out of cash and credit cards. Jewelry boxes had been raided. A lockbox in the master bedroom closet had been forced open and
left on the floor. Anything in it that might have been valuable was gone.

A nice slick burglary with an unexpected side of murder.

“What was the nature of the meeting?” Taylor asked.

Foster blinked like a man waking from a nightmare, relieved for the distraction of a mundane question. “A very generous alumnus has donated a substantial amount of money to the university to be used to expand our programs in East Asian history and art history. It’s very exciting,” he said with no excitement at all. “We’ll be adding two faculty positions, and will be naming a head of East Asia studies. Lucien was one of our final four candidates.”

“Does this new job carry a lot of prestige?” Kovac asked.

“Our Asian studies program has always been small but well regarded,” said Foster. “With this new influx of money, and expansion, yes, the title will carry cachet in the academic world.”

“And money?”

Foster’s answer stuck in his throat as the implication struck him. “You don’t think— Surely you can’t believe— No. No, no. That’s insane.”

“Yeah,” Kovac said, nodding. “So is what happened to the Chamberlains. We’ll need to speak to the three other candidates.”

Foster pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling, “Oh my God. This is unbelievable.”

“It’s routine procedure, Professor,” Taylor assured him. “We have to examine every possibility, even the far-fetched variety.”

“Ken Sato,” Foster said, looking through a file on his desk. Too nervous and flustered, he sat back again. “Ken is already on staff here. A very dedicated, innovative teacher. Dynamic. Popular with the students. Then we have a candidate currently teaching at the University of California–Los Angeles. Hanh Luu. Our interviews with her have been via Skype up to this point. She’s flying in this Friday.”

“And the fourth one?” Taylor asked, glancing up from his note
taking. “You said there were four finalists. Chamberlain, Sato, Luu, and . . .”

“There
were
four. This is just all the more tragic . . .” He shook his head in disbelief. “Stuart Kaufman. Professor of East Asian art history. He passed away suddenly about two weeks ago. We’re all still reeling from his loss.”

“Passed away of what?” Kovac asked, on point.

“Pancreatitis and kidney failure. It was terrible. He went home with the stomach flu one day, and the next day he was dead. We were all so shocked.”

“Had he been ill prior to that?” Taylor asked.

“He had been hospitalized for pancreatitis once before several years ago. I understand once you’ve had it, you’re susceptible to it.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He died of natural causes.”

Kovac just stared at him.

Foster blinked and looked away. “I can’t believe any of this is happening.”

“These three professors—Chamberlain, Sato, and Kaufman—how did they get along with each other?”

“They were professional acquaintances. Lucien and Ken Sato, being in the same department, had their differences, but they went to all the same functions and never tried to kill one another. That’s just absurd even to consider. Stuart ran with the Art History crowd. He didn’t have that much to do with either Lucien or Ken.”

“How long have the three of them worked here?”

“Stuart had been on the faculty for twenty-five years. Lucien came here from Macalester College in 2001. Ken has been with us only the last five years—”

“And he was being considered for head of this new department?” Taylor asked.

“He came to us highly recommended by one of our retired
professors, Hiroshi Ito, whose brother had Ken as a student in the graduate program at the University of Washington. At thirty-eight, he’s already published two well-received books on Japanese history. Like I said, Ken is a very dynamic individual. He’s the face of the future for the department.”

“What did Lucien Chamberlain think of that idea?”

Foster’s mouth turned like he’d tasted something sour. “Lucien was predictably not happy about that. He felt Ken was jumping the food chain. But it wasn’t his decision to make. Hiroshi Ito is on the committee, so of course Ken would be considered for the position.”

“What was Professor Chamberlain like?” Kovac asked. “Was he a nice guy? Did he get along with his co-workers?”

“Lucien . . . was a very intelligent man,” Foster said, obviously choosing his words with the care of a man walking across a minefield. “Very professional.”

“You don’t have to be diplomatic with us,” Kovac said. “I’m sure you don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but we’re not the media. We’re investigating a double homicide here. Let’s call a spade a spade. If he was a pompous ass, then we need to know that.”

“He could be difficult,” Foster admitted. “He held his students and his peers to a high standard, and tended to put himself on a pedestal.”

“Did he have any enemies in particular?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call anyone an enemy.”

“But people didn’t like him.”

“He isn’t the kind of man who has friends. He has—
had
colleagues, rivals. He was a bit of a narcissist.”

“That’s like being a little pregnant,” Kovac said. “What you’re saying is people didn’t like the guy, and not without reason.”

Foster sighed. “This is so uncomfortable. Egos are a common commodity in the academic world, Detective. Lucien’s was bigger than some and smaller than others. We’re educators, not thugs.”

“And yet we have a dead professor.”

“I thought it was a burglary,” Foster said. “That’s what they were saying on the news: that Lucien and Sondra probably interrupted a burglar.”

“That very well might be,” Kovac said. “There appeared to be things missing from the house, including pieces from the professor’s collection. Do you know of anyone who can help us understand the significance of what we’re looking for?”

“Lucien’s collection is impressive.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The tour was always the highlight of their annual dinner party. Ken Sato will be able to help you understand what you’re looking at there. He was practically drooling when we walked through the house last winter. Chinese New Year,” he added, thinking back on a happier event. “They always have their party on Chinese New Year.”

“We’ll need contact numbers for the Chamberlains’ next of kin,” Kovac said. “By the family photos, it looks like they have a couple of kids.”

“Yes, a son and a daughter. My secretary can give you their information. Charles and Diana.” He made a bit of a face. “Sondra was caught up with all things royal and British. Her family name was ‘Spencer.’ They were somehow distantly related to the family of Princess Di.”

“Thank you for your time, Professor,” Taylor said as they all rose. “Sorry for your loss.”

Kovac placed his business card on the desk. “If you think of anything we should know, just call. We’ll be in touch.”

“Was Professor Chamberlain going to get the job?” Taylor asked as they moved toward the door.

Foster’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “We haven’t made the decision yet.”

“But . . . ?” Kovac prompted.

“He was high on the list, and then his student assistant filed a complaint against him with the Office for Conflict Resolution.”

“A complaint about what?”

“She alleges his behavior is—
was
demeaning, condescending, and sexist, and created a hostile work environment. You can imagine we don’t want to start off this new chapter in East Asian studies with something like that making the news.”

“Who should we speak with about that situation?” Kovac asked.

“Inez Ngoukani. The office is in this building, on the sixth floor. I’ll call down and let her know you’ll be coming.”

“How did the professor feel about his assistant ratting him out like that?” Taylor asked.

“Lucien was extremely upset about it, as you might imagine, but the girl wouldn’t back down. He finally agreed to go through mediation in the hope of ending it. We wanted the matter settled and put to rest before we had to make our decision.”

“We’ll need the name and contact information for the student, too,” Kovac said.

“Yes, of course,” Foster said with a rueful look. “It’s Diana Chamberlain. Lucien’s daughter.”

*   *   *

“S
O THIS GUY WAS
some kind of a dick,” Kovac said as they got on the elevator. “His own kid reports him for being an ass right when he’s up for a big promotion. Families. Gotta love ’em.”

“You don’t think the daughter could have killed them, do you?” Taylor said. “Beating the old man to death with a pair of nunchucks? Running her mother through with a sword? Hard to picture a woman doing that.”

Kovac shrugged. “She could be a freaking Amazon for all we know. I’m not going to think anything until we meet her, except that dear old narcissist Dad must have been royally pissed with her for messing up his chances for the big dream job.”

“It had to take something pretty obnoxious for the daughter to make a formal complaint. I mean, she’s his grad student. Why
would she take that on in the first place—and why would he have her in his department—if they didn’t have a good relationship to start with?”

“I had a feeling about that guy,” Kovac muttered. They walked out of the building, and he stepped off to the side, digging a cigarette out of his coat pocket.

“Which guy? Foster?”

“Our stiff. Murdered in a silk dressing robe.” He lit up, thought of Liska, felt guilty, and then took a long, satisfying drag and blew it out slowly. “What kind of guy puts on a silk dressing robe to go downstairs in the middle of the night? He’s gotta be gay or he’s gotta be a prick.”

“I know what not to get you for Christmas.”

“I don’t want pajamas, either,” Kovac said. “I don’t see the point of wearing clothes to bed.”

“That’s more information than I needed.”

Kovac took another pull on his smoke, imagining the bruise he would have ended up with if Liska had been there. She would have hauled off and socked him in the arm as hard as she could.

“What’s your story, anyway, Stench?”

Taylor’s eyebrows sketched upward. “You want to know what I wear to bed? This is getting weird.”

“No. What’s your story? Your family background.”

“I grew up in Plymouth. Mom, dad, kid sister.”

“Nice family? Good family?”

“Nice family, yeah, middle class, living in the ’burbs. My dad worked for Pillsbury. My mom made us go to church on Sunday.”

“Your parents loved you, raised you right.”

“Yeah.”

“You joined the army, but you came back here to settle down, to be near the family.”

“My dad passed away. Head-on crash with a drunk driver. I came back to help my mom out.”

“You’re a good kid,” Kovac said. “You probably never did anything to give your parents ulcers.”

“I don’t know about that.”

Kovac laughed. “Oh come on. I know. I can tell by your haircut. You were captain of the football team, lettered in three sports, took the homecoming queen to prom, and always used a condom.”

Taylor scowled a little. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Sure,” Kovac said. He blew out one last hard jet stream of toxic fumes. If he smoked only half the cigarette, that wasn’t
so
bad. He stubbed it out on the sidewalk and palmed the dead butt. At least he wasn’t a litterbug.

“Here’s your lesson for the day, Junior. If there’s one thing I can assure you about working Homicide, it’s that you are going to see some of the most mentally fucked-up people and family situations you can imagine. After all the years I’ve been doing this job, just when I say I’ve seen everything, somebody comes up with some new and different way to be a sick, perverted wack job.

“Never judge a family by their address or bank account,” he went on. “And never underestimate the power of the American public to utterly shock and disappoint you.”

*   *   *

T
HE DIRECTOR OF THE
Office for Conflict Resolution was waiting for them. Inez Ngoukani was tall and elegant, an ebony sculpture with long slender limbs and full features beneath a tight cap of steel gray hair. She invited them into a conference room as graciously as if they were at her home for a pleasant chat.

“May I offer you something to drink, gentlemen?” she asked in a beautiful, cultured accent. Kovac felt like he should have gone and washed up and brushed his teeth before coming in the room.

“We have cucumber water,” she said, gesturing gracefully to a glass pitcher on the table. “It’s very refreshing.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Taylor said, and poured glasses for all three of them.

Kovac took a long drink, hoping to wash the smoke out of his mouth.