The Body Reader (23 page)

CHAPTER 52

F
or Uriah, every waking, sleep-deprived moment was about the murdered girls. Challenging his concentration were thoughts of his wife. And yes, Jude. He felt bad about the way things had played out.

He needed sleep. If he could just grab a few hours, then maybe his brain would function better, but his very desperation kept what he needed most from happening. Now, at 5:00 a.m., he gave up. Rather than think about the case, he forced his mind in another direction so when he returned to the puzzle he’d hopefully see it in a different light.

In the kitchen, he scooped coffee grounds into the coffeemaker, filled the reservoir with water, and hit the “On” button. While the coffee dripped, he moved through the dark apartment, keeping the light subdued. He put a vinyl record on the turntable, then perused the bookcase for something old, maybe a classic.

The books Jude had given him weren’t organized and had been shelved in a hurry to get them out of the box and off the floor. He spotted the copy of
Through the Looking-Glass
. He suspected it was a first edition, complete with black-and-white etchings. It might be something Jude would want back.

He pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully. On the title page was an ornate bookplate. The thick paper rectangle, with the name
Natalie
handwritten below a lithograph of a young boy reading under an apple tree, had obviously been attached by an inexperienced hand long after the release date. He’d guess within the last twenty or thirty years.

Maybe it was because he was sleep deprived, maybe it was because of what had happened with Jude and Ellen, not to mention the case that was weighing heavily on him, but he felt a wave of melancholy.

Uriah had this thing about antiques, especially when it came to books and music. Old books and old music comforted him, yet sometimes they made him overwhelmingly sad because they were reminders of the passage of time.

No kids.

No dog.

Ellen, dead.

His parents were getting old.

What did he have?

His job.

His job and this room full of melancholy things. And out there in the street, young girls were being murdered, young girls who would never get older and never discover who they were and never one day mourn the passage of time.

They should all have a chance to mourn.

He wasn’t doing his job.

Yesterday he’d talked to Ortega about bringing in the FBI. Should have been done earlier, but they had to prove the Holt and Masters murders were connected.

From the kitchen, the coffeemaker let out a final burst of steam while the scent of medium roast from Peace Coffee filled the tiny apartment. That scent was comforting too. He could be standing over a dead body with a cup of coffee in his hand and one whiff would soothe him.

Such a stupid thing.

With care, he turned the pages of the book. The action stirred up another fragrance he loved: old books, old paper. He smiled a little, recalling Jude’s pronouncement that it was his particular scent.

Even though he knew the odor was a toxic combination of degrading paper and mold spores, he inhaled. He’d heard of people developing lung diseases from living in close proximity to old books. A strong argument for e-books, he supposed.

He had the urge to give his father a call but had to remind himself that it was too early. His dad had never brought his work home, and Uriah found himself wondering if his father had cases he’d never solved, cases that ate away at him.

Because evil also grew in small towns.

Another turn of the page revealed an article cut from the
Star Tribune
. The paper had yellowed, and the folds, when Uriah put the book aside and opened the clipping, were impossibly flat. Hard to tell if the paper had been folded and unfolded hundreds of times, or if being pressed inside the book had created a sense of repeated viewing.

The piece was about a thirteen-year-old girl named Hope DeMars from Minneapolis, who’d gone missing twenty-seven years ago.

Uriah carried the clipping into the bright light of the kitchen to get a better look at the photo. Pretty girl with straight blond hair and a beautiful smile. She looked a little like the girl in the lake.

He opened a drawer and dug out a magnifying glass—a gift from his mother, because, in her words, “What detective doesn’t need a magnifying glass?”

He focused the glass on the girl’s necklace. A heart, engraved with her name.

In the living room, he opened his laptop. Taking advantage of open-source intelligence, he Googled the girl and brought up more articles, more photos. In many she was wearing the necklace. Then he pulled up articles on Jude’s mother’s death, which had taken place on their property in northern Minnesota. The twelve-year-old Adam Schilling had been in the woods shooting cans when Natalie Schilling walked into his line of fire. According to the article, Jude was inside the cabin when the accident occurred. On the surface, there was nothing implausible about the story. Gun accidents happened far too often.

Uriah returned to
Through the Looking-Glass
, this time going through the pages one at a time, checking for anything he might have missed. When he reached the last page, he started to close the book and felt a shift—like something sliding.

Another search of the kitchen drawer produced a paring knife. He wouldn’t have felt bad destroying a new book, but an antique? It hurt. Feeling a great deal of guilt, he revisited the title page, running fingers across the uneven bookplate. With the knife blade, he loosened the edges of the paper and lifted it free, revealing and uncovering a cheap gold necklace. He picked it up by the chain and held it close enough to read the engraving on the heart.
Hope.

His breath caught. What did it mean? Who’d put it there?

“My mother collected books,” Jude had said.

Had the necklace been hidden there by Jude’s mother? Suddenly all the random threads that previously seemed to have no connection now formed a relationship. The murdered girls, a young teen named Hope, and yes, maybe even the reporter and Octavia Germaine.

The necklace changed everything.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Jude’s number.

Out of service.

She probably hadn’t paid her bill.

Uriah spent the next hour putting together different scenarios, the most alarming dealing with Jude’s mother. If she’d had a missing girl’s necklace in her possession, then her life could have been in danger. It could mean Jude had been on the right track. Maybe not about her father’s involvement, which still seemed far-fetched, but about her mother’s death not being an accident.

An hour past dawn, dressed in a black suit and tie, Uriah headed to the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Office Crime Lab, where he requested to see the evidence from the death of Natalie Schilling.

The clerk performed a search on her computer. Without looking up, she said, “It was destroyed five years ago.”

“Destroyed? At whose request?”

More key clicking. “Minneapolis Police Department and signed off by Judge McCall.”

Not that unusual. Evidence wasn’t kept forever, especially when that evidence hadn’t involved a murder case. There was only so much space.

“Thanks.”

In the fluorescent hallway, his cell phone vibrated. He checked the name—Ingrid Stevenson—and hit “Answer.”

“I just faxed you the results of the hair analysis on the Masters and Holt girls. They both had GHB in their system.”

GHB, a schedule 1 controlled substance, was a date-rape and sexual-assault drug. It was also a party drug, so the girls might have taken it willingly.

“It’s possible she drowned because she was high on GHB.”

“Thanks, Ingrid. Anything else?”

“Got a call from Jude Fontaine a few days ago.”

“Really.” Not something he expected to hear.

“We had an interesting conversation about flora. I’m sure she’ll tell you about it when you see her.”

“Jude Fontaine is no longer a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department.”

“She said she was still on the decapitation case.”

“Well, she isn’t. She’s out completely, so if you get another call from her, don’t disclose anything.”

“I’m sorry.” He could almost feel her mortification through the phone.

“Don’t beat yourself up. She can be convincing. What about flora?”

It took her a few moments to pull her thoughts together after getting the news about Fontaine. “She asked if Lola Holt had scratches on her legs. I told her yes.”

Why was Jude asking about the Holt case? “Anything else?”

“We discussed the area where the body was found. It’s a county known to contain dense buckthorn. The DNR recently launched a battle to eradicate it, so it’s had a lot of press.”

Uriah remembered the thorns that had ripped their clothes at the Holt crime scene. He thanked Stevenson and hung up. Then he headed for his car and Jude’s apartment.

CHAPTER 53

U
riah walked up the sidewalk in the direction of Jude’s apartment, pausing when he reached the undercover car and the private detective. They’d pulled Vang off surveillance, citing lack of funding, so Uriah had hired a PI to keep an eye on Jude, at least for a while, until he was convinced she was no longer in danger or no longer a threat to the governor. He knocked on the trunk of the car, and the PI, a young guy named Tyler Ford, lowered the window.

Bending at the waist, Uriah said, “Any action?”

Tyler shook his head. “She hasn’t been in or out today.” He checked his watch. “It’s barely past eight. That’s early for her. If I see her at all, it’s usually not till late morning.”

Outside Jude’s apartment building, Uriah didn’t get a response when he pressed the “Call” button for her unit. Since she hadn’t replied to any of his text messages, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to talk to him.

He tried the building manager. The guy took his time but finally responded with a curt “Yeah” through the ancient intercom system.

Uriah introduced himself. After a moment, the door buzzed and he stepped inside. Just off the lobby was an apartment marked
Manager
. Under that was the name Will Sebastian.

Before Uriah could knock, a big guy with long hair and a lot of tattoos opened the door. Looked like Uriah had gotten him up. Puffy face, morning breath. Without a hello, he stood there, hand high on the doorframe, eyes suspicious.

“I need to see Jude Fontaine.” Uriah flashed his badge.

“I know who you are, and I’m pretty sure Jude doesn’t want to see you.”

“That’s irrelevant.” Without waiting for the confrontation that was brewing, Uriah took the stairs to the fourth floor. When his repeated and loud knocks went unanswered, he checked the roof, then returned to her apartment, where the manager now stood in front of her door.

“Unlock it,” Uriah said.

“Can’t do that.” Without taking his eyes off Uriah, Sebastian knocked hard and called Jude’s name.

“She might be in trouble,” Uriah said. “She might have overmedicated herself. Unlock the door.”

The tattooed guy raked back the long hair that had escaped his ponytail, let out a sigh, and dug a set of keys from the front pocket of his jeans.

Together the men searched the small space.

“Not here.” Sebastian seemed agitated by the discovery.

There were signs of a hasty departure. Open drawers, open closet, open cupboards. On the kitchen counter were three prescription bottles.

Uriah read the labels. “Wow.” Strong stuff.

“I think she quit taking that,” Sebastian said. “I suspected it, anyway.”

Uriah gave him his card. “Call me if you see or hear anything, day or night.” Then he jogged down the stairs and exited the building. On the street, he paused at the private detective’s car and the open window. “You might as well go home.”

Tyler craned his neck. “Huh?”

“Jude Fontaine is gone. Probably slipped out last night or early this morning. I won’t be needing your services any longer.”

“Oh, man.” Understandably sheepish.

As Uriah watched the car pull away, he tried Jude’s phone again and got the same inactive message. Then he put in a call to the department’s private-data specialist. “I need somebody to run Jude Fontaine’s credit cards.” The specialist was young, and he was good, and he was fast when it came to subpoenas. “I also need phone and bank information for the past forty-eight hours.”

Thirty minutes later, as Uriah pulled his unmarked car into the police-department parking ramp, he had a response to his request.

“No credit card purchases,” the specialist said. “But it looks like she might have maxed out her ATM card. Two withdrawals, both within a few blocks of each other. Both shortly after midnight. No trail after that. Nothing on her phone since a couple of days ago, and that was to someone named Will Sebastian.”

Uriah thanked him, then called the chief of police.

“Fontaine has gone dark,” he told Ortega. “Killed her phone and maxed out her ATM card.” He added something he didn’t want to add. “Someone needs to contact the governor and advise him to stick close to home today. His life could be in danger.” Maybe Jude just wanted to disappear and start over, but that seemed unlikely. Not when her obsession with her father had only intensified over the years.

After ending the call to Ortega, he sent a text to Vang, filling him in on the situation.

Uriah pounded on the front door of a rundown shack in Frogtown, a neighborhood that had slipped back into neglect after the light-rail began running, and was now one of the higher-crime areas of Saint Paul.

The woman who answered looked like she’d been beaten down by life. Tired hair, giving off the scent of cheap cigarettes. She hadn’t been awake long either. He flashed his badge, introduced himself, and said, “I need to speak to Ava Germaine.”

“I’m Ava Germaine.”

Uriah could be charming and persuasive, and ten minutes later, suspicions confirmed, he was walking swiftly to his car, phone to his ear, talking to Molly, his information expert at MPD. “Find out if the governor still owns property up north.”

As he slid behind the wheel of the unmarked car, he heard the click of a keyboard, followed by Molly’s reply. “He’s owned the same property for over thirty years. Fifty acres and a three-bedroom cabin on a lake east of Little Falls. It’s less than two hours from Minneapolis and not a great area. You’d think the governor would have something on the North Shore.” More key clicks. “But then again, if I lived in the governor’s mansion, I’d never leave town.” He was just about to stop her personal commentary, when she added, “Back when I was in high school, they used to hold parties there for his aides. Let me tell you, that place is something.”

“Did you go swimming, by any chance? Was it a pool party?”

“God no! It was boring and lame and formal. Are you kidding?”

That lead quickly snuffed, he said, “Molly, I need the property address.”

“Oh, right!” As she gave it to him, Uriah entered the location into his vehicle’s GPS.

“Thanks.” Before she could launch into another story, he disconnected, then made another call, this one to order an APB on Jude, giving the dispatcher color, make, model, and license of the car.