The Dead List (5 page)

Ryberg kept the pressure on the man. “Can you check on the car keys please? Are they with the vehicle?”

The sales manager lifted the phone on the desk. He spoke abruptly into the receiver, asking someone to locate the keys for Mike Robinson’s demo car. Through the glass wall of the office, Drake could see the young receptionist at the front answering him. After Parker hung up she held the phone in the air away from her face, and looked at it. After a moment, she replaced the receiver on its cradle and shook her head, then walked across the showroom floor, her short skirt quickly swinging back and forth.

Ryberg continued being assertive. He leaned across the desk, much in the same manner the sales manager probably leaned forward when he was trying to close a deal. “Did Mr. Robinson have any enemies? Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?”

“Kill him? What the hell, I thought he fell.”

“The death is suspicious. We don’t believe it was an accident.”

“Mike had no enemies. There was no reason to kill him. None.”

Dave Parker’s answers came quickly and were positive, but not specific, and he made eye contact with each of the officers the whole time. His background as an experienced negotiator served him well. When they terminated the conversation and stood up to leave, the two policemen knew they had discovered very little information about the dead man.

When he opened the door of the office where they’d been talking, Parker held out his meaty hand for them to shake. Drake took a chance. He thought he might have remembered something after all. He recalled seeing another figure at that table in the pub when he’d done his walk-throughs.

He stared hard at the manager as he asked his question. “One last thing, Mr. Parker, how often did you personally socialize with Mr. Robinson?”

He was going to lie. He was going to deny that he associated with him away from the dealership. Drake saw the internal discussion happening. It was like watching a child decide whether or not to confess that he’d eaten the last cookie in the jar. His complexion turned a little paler, but then he gave a tight smile, alternating his nervous gaze between Ryberg and Drake.

“We had a beer together from time to time. There were a bunch of us. We’d meet at the Legacy. It was very casual. My wife attends to her church activities, and I have beers with a few of the boys. Mikey was sometimes there.”

Ryberg turned the pad on the desk toward the sales manager. “Write down the names, and contact information if you have it, of the other men please, Mr. Parker.”

Still standing, Parker awkwardly wrote two names on the piece of paper. Then he began to write a third name and crossed it out. He tore the sheet away from the pad and handed it to Ryberg.

Ryberg read the list to himself while the three men stood together, cramped in the small office.

“You almost wrote another name down; who was it?”

Parker nodded quickly.

“The waitress from the bar, Monica, I don’t know what I was thinking. She sometimes visited with us too, but she works there. That’s it, there are no other names.”

Ryberg smiled and took the pen from Parker. He asked for the waitress’ last name. Parker spread his hands apart in frustration. “I don’t know why it’s important.”

The joining eyebrows expression wasn’t necessary. He only had to look up from the piece of paper for the man to continue.

“Brown, it’s Monica Brown.”

Ryberg added the waitress’ name and then as an afterthought wrote the sales manager’s and Mike Robinson’s names at the bottom too. He spoke in a friendly, conspiratorial manner. “So it was always the same characters having beers, the four of you solving the world’s problems at the pub – these two men, yourself, and Mr. Robinson? And sometimes the waitress also – Monica? That makes it five.”

The manager’s face was still white and he mumbled when he answered. “Yes, that was it, there was no one else.”

“And last night you did not see Mr. Robinson after he left the dealership?”

He raised his voice slightly as he answered and stared directly into Ryberg’s eyes. “I did not see Mike last night.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Parker. We’ll let you get back to work. If you think of anything else that might help us, please call me or Constable Drake. One of my investigators will drop by to interview some of your staff and take another look at Mr. Robinson’s work area.”

“No problem, whatever you need, just let me know.”

Parker marched the two policemen back toward the front of the building. The receptionist had returned to her station and was sitting straight in her chair as they passed. The tears had disappeared. She dangled a set of keys in front of her and ignoring the officers, held her intense smile on the sales manager. “Found them, on the board – right where they should be.”

Parker didn’t look at her. “Good. Good. So the car stayed here all night.” He kept walking beside the officers and raised his palms as he spoke, as though that was enough to explain everything.

Once he had ushered the two policemen out the front door of the dealership, he turned, quickly pacing back toward his office and past the young woman’s desk once again. Ryberg dialed a call on his mobile phone; Drake kept watching through the glass walls of the showroom. The receptionist was on her feet now and tried to ask the sales manager a question. Parker half-turned and mumbled at the woman, but kept walking toward the rear of the building.

Even from outside Drake knew what he said when he shook her off. “Not now.” The girl tapped her long, slender fingers impatiently on the counter as she watched Parker quickly march away.

Drake wasn’t sure if he’d be reprimanded or congratulated for jumping in during the interview. Neither man spoke as they made the short drive back to the police station. When he pulled the patrol car into the parking lot at the rear of the building, Ryberg finally turned to him.

“He’s nervous as hell, and he was right on us when we started looking through Robinson’s desk. We have to be careful though. When a man like that – a man who makes his living horse-trading, selling cars – talks to us, his guilt sometimes shines through. We just have to figure out what he’s really guilty of. It might be murder – he might be involved. Or, it might be something much simpler – maybe he’s cheating on his taxes or sleeping with his secretary, I mean his customer introduction specialist.” He shook his head before continuing. “We’ll leave him for a day and then go see him again. Sometimes people remember things once they have a chance to process. If he was involved in helping Robinson bounce against the sidewalk, he’ll still be sweating in his expensive shirt and tie tomorrow. But if he’s guilty of something else, he’ll throw us a bone to appease us. You watch. He just needs time.”

Ryberg made no mention of the question Drake asked at the end of the interview. It seemed to have been expected of him. He’d done the right thing; he could see that now.

In their infinite wisdom, the architects who designed the Hope police detachment had created a cluster of offices and rooms that resembled more of an activity center than a police station. Veronica or one of the other receptionists sat at a small reception desk at the front entrance. Adjacent to this area there was a counter where three interchangeable watch commanders were alternately stationed, chained to their desk. They differed in their shapes and sizes, but it didn’t matter which of the three was working, all of them had the same resigned expression as they bent over the desk, poring over rosters or time cards. It was beyond this area where the building became interesting. In the middle, there were two large, oval-shaped rooms. One of the rooms often sat empty and was occasionally loaned out to community groups when the small squad of officers had no need for the additional space. The policemen would laugh as sounds of square dancers swinging their partners or alcoholics confessing their sins drifted from one area to the other.

The two rooms had oversized windows and skylights and were joined together by two hallways. Four offices and four interview rooms with adjacent observation areas, angled off from the main rooms. These were hidden behind a wall, giving the inhabitants some privacy. Once, when the mayor visited during a civic occasion, he’d described the design as two large sunbeams with the offices spread out like rays from the sun. Other than Sergeant Thiessen none of the officers liked the layout, and when visiting policemen had to use the facilities criticisms were usually overheard. Old policemen like Ryberg were used to dank, industrial-type buildings with few windows, not bright, airy spaces. Drake assumed Ryberg’s complaints had been lodged earlier, and as the two of them walked from the reception area toward the middle of the building, he shook his head and mumbled about working at a YMCA.

One of the large, open rooms had been turned into a situation room for the investigators. There was a long conference table in the middle, surrounded by chairs, and several desks were arranged in a semicircle around it. Myron was at one of the desks working on a computer. His face was whiter than it had been the night before. Drake assumed it was a combination of being up all night, and having to deliver the news to Mrs. Robinson that her son was dead.

Pringle’s corduroy jacket was draped over an empty chair. When he walked out from one of the interview rooms, he had his shirt sleeves rolled up, and unlike Myron, he looked quite awake. He closed the door behind him, and Drake caught a glimpse of a man sitting upright in a chair. He didn’t need to see his face. From the way he was defiantly perched with his neck and back straight up it was definitely Frank “Franco” Morrison.

Some of the senior officers from the Hope squad were taking part in the activities too. Banman, with his usual lackadaisical attitude and still-rumpled shirt, was slowly writing on a whiteboard that had been placed on an easel at the end of the conference table. He stopped and shook a felt pen in the air, trying to bring it back to life. Notes were spread in front of him, and it looked as though he’d been transposing information onto the board. Michael Robinson’s name was at the top with arrows pointing in all directions, mapping out the man’s life. Another officer from the Hope detachment was setting up a computer at one of the desks.

Ryberg asked loudly to the room in general whether anything had been received from the medical examiner. Making his way back to the interview room with a file folder in his hand, Pringle answered that a preliminary report had been delivered.

“Good, we meet in ten minutes. Everyone.” He eyed Drake as he made the announcement.

The old sensations had returned. He’d had a few hours rest, and he could feel the nervous anticipation that in the old days he’d used so effectively as a weapon. He might not have the experience of Ryberg and the other investigators, but in some ways he’d been here before. A body in the street had taken him away from his anonymity, and whether he wanted it or not – it was one more dead body he was responsible for.

Drake assumed that none of the members of the Major Crime Unit, including Ryberg, had slept yet, but when the senior investigator began to speak, all of the assembled officers seemed to catch a second wind. The sergeant controlled the meeting with the same efficiency with which he conducted interviews. He took them step by step through each of the facts that had already been established, and when new information was discussed, he deferred to the officer who had procured the information and had him share it with the group.

He began by describing the state of the body when it was found. He didn’t mention the halo formed by the man’s blood, but he did spread out pictures on the conference table of the dead man. He pointed out to the group of officers that Robinson’s body had been lying on the sidewalk, facing away from the road just off the curb. Drake wondered whether Ryberg was bringing the officers who weren’t present at the scene up to date, because he spent so much time relaying information that most of them knew already. Then after a few minutes he began to understand the process. Just like he’d explained the night before – they were going backward. They had to start at the end, and revisit all of it. No matter how many times you look at something, there is always a fine point or detail that may have been missed. It was that seemingly unimportant detail they were searching for.

Ryberg slapped his hands lightly on the table and addressed the other policemen. “Please take note that a man was killed, but the body was not hidden or disposed of. And there are no obvious signs of a struggle, so there is a low probability that this was a crime of passion or a robbery. We are dealing with the worst kind of murderer, gentlemen. This is a killer who thinks he is more intelligent than the police. This body was left for us to find.” He pointed to the photos on the table. “The murderer left the body under a streetlight, in plain view – knowing that we would find it.”

Although not invited to the meeting, Sergeant Thiessen had grabbed a chair and was nodding while examining one of the pictures. As well as Drake, Banman was the only other officer present from the Hope squad.

“Now, Corporal Pringle, tell me about this body. Do we have the medical examiner’s report?”

“We have the preliminary autopsy report only, but I did encourage the good doctor to make some educated guesses in order to help expedite our investigation.”

Pringle heaved his large frame up in his chair when he spoke, and Drake could imagine how he would have subtly tried to intimidate the doctor into working a little faster.

“Looks like Mr. Robinson consumed the equivalent of three bottles of beer sometime in the evening, a hamburger, and what could possibly be described as french-fried potatoes.”

Ryberg interrupted him. “Why do you say it like that?”

Pringle didn’t hesitate. “There seems to have been more grease than potato in that particular area of his stomach.”

Ryberg held up his hand to subdue the laughter that came from Banman and one of the other officers. “So a man who sells cars and likes to drive fast – please remember the accumulation of speeding tickets – is out walking, with no car nearby. And he has eaten some fried, greasy food. What does that tell us?”