Through the Grinder (13 page)

“Follow me,” I told the detective, and made a beeline for the back service staircase and my second floor office. Quinn’s heavy shoes fell right behind.

A
S
we entered my small, utilitarian office, I thrust a cup into Quinn’s hand.

“Have a seat and drink this,” I said.

The store’s safe was here, along with a somewhat battered wooden desk, a computer, and files of our employee and general business paperwork.

He slumped into the easy chair next to my desk and held the cup under his nose. The aroma slightly eased his grim expression, and after he sipped I could see the full-bodied brew wash some of the tension out of his wind-burned face.

“This is good,” he said.

“It’s a medium brown roast in the West Coast style, but we use a nice blend of Indonesian and Costa Rican.” I set my own cup on the desk, untied my blue apron, and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. “You get a fruit-toned complexity from the Indonesian, and a nice resonance from the less subtle Latin American bean, with just the right amount of dry acidity. In my opinion, most breakfast blends are bitter and dry. But not ours.”

“Right.”

I closed the door, then smoothed my khaki slacks, adjusted my pink long-sleeved jersey, and sat down in the desk chair. “Too much information?”

He raised an eyebrow. “In my opinion, you can never give a detective too much information.”

I raised my own eyebrow. “Then you should also know we change the blend every year—mainly because the Indonesian beans tend to be inconsistent from season to season due to the old fashioned way they’re processed.”

Quinn took another sip and sat back. “Ah, the vagaries of international agriculture.”

I sampled my own cup and we sat quietly for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to be short with you downstairs,” he said.

“It’s okay. You look like hell. I gather you were over near the West Tenth accident this morning?”

Quinn’s face froze in mid-yawn. “And you know that
how?
”

“Esther Best, one of my part-timers, lives on that street. She got here a little while ago and told us what happened.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” Quinn said. “Find out if she saw or heard anything.”

“She didn’t,” I replied. “Just the gory aftermath. Has her pretty rattled, though.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Quinn sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“I didn’t know you investigated traffic accidents.”

“I don’t. This morning’s ‘accident’ was a homicide.”

I stiffened. The idea of someone being crushed accidentally under the wheels of a ten ton sanitation truck was bad enough—hearing Quinn confirm it was no accident gave me an unnatural chill.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

Quinn nodded. “We have two witnesses. The assistant manager at a nearby bar came in early to clean up. Heard a woman scream the word ‘no’ and glanced out the window just in time to see Ms. McNeil fall under the truck’s wheels.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did you say
McNeil?
”

Quinn reached into his pocket and drew out a dog-eared leather-covered rectangular note pad.

“Sally McNeil, a.k.a. ‘Sahara’ McNeil. West Tenth Street, apartment number—”

“I know the name,” I said.

Quinn closed his pad. “You want to tell me how you know her? Regular customer?”

“Yes, I’ve seen her here before, but it was more than that. She came here last Saturday night for our Cappuccino Connection.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You see her leave alone.”

“No. She left with a…mutual friend.”

Quinn sat up. “Male or female?”

“A man,” I replied. “An old college friend of hers…I understand.”

“His name?”

“Bruce Bowman. But I don’t think—”

It was Quinn’s turn to blink. “You know Bruce Bowman?” His tone was even but his eyes were hard. I suddenly felt like one of his collars sitting under an interrogation room spotlight.

“I just met him…during this last Cappuccino Connection,” I stammered, smoothing my khaki slacks compulsively now.

“Did you meet Bowman professionally, as the manager of this place?”

“Well, actually, I participated in the Cappuccino thing, too…just because, you know, Joy wanted to do it and I wanted to screen the men who’d signed up…screen them for my daughter, but then—”

“But then you made a date with Bowman yourself?”

Though Quinn was wearing his detective hat, his questions were getting far too personal.

“The Cappuccino Connection is just a neighborhood social introduction group,” I told him defensively. “It’s run by a local church. Bruce Bowman was there, Joy was there, too. And everybody meets everybody for a couple of minutes. It’s all innocent fun…”

Quinn gave me a look he probably gave pickpockets who claimed they had “absolutely no idea” how that woman’s wallet and credit cards got inside their coat. “The reason I ask,” he finally said, “is because Bowman’s name has turned up during my background checks of two women: the late Valerie Lathem and the late Inga Berg.”

“How is Bruce connected?”

“Bruce…” repeated Quinn, leaning slightly forward.

I shrank back in my seat, suddenly feeling like Alice after she’d eaten the mushroom.

Quinn continued. “
Mr. Bowman
dated Valerie Lathem for about three weeks in October. They met through her job at an executive travel agency.”

“And Inga Berg?”

Quinn paused and took another sip of coffee, a lengthy one. He set the cup down and observed me long enough to make my palms sweat.

“What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential. But if you or your daughter is considering a date with Mr. Bowman, consider this first: Bowman was involved with Inga Berg for a short time. Starting in late October and ending at the beginning of November, just before Ms. Berg’s death. This relationship with Ms. Berg was sexual. And Ms. Berg was not always discrete in her encounters.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘not always discrete.’” I said, not sure I wanted to know either.

“One of the tenants in Ms. Berg’s buildings saw Ms. Berg having sex in her brand new sports utility vehicle on the rooftop parking lot a few days before she died. Now, why the hell she chose to mess around in her car when she had a nice cozy bed in her apartment five floors below is a mystery to me—unless you want to factor in Ms. Berg having a particularly interesting kink.”

I didn’t believe it. “You’re not saying it was Bruce in the car with her?”

“We don’t know that,” Quinn replied. “The tenant didn’t see the man’s face. I’m just saying it’s possible, if she was into this sort of behavior, and he was involved with her sexually, that it could have happened. I have Ms. Berg’s phone records, and she called his number the day before this incident occurred. Unfortunately our witness can’t remember much beyond naked bodies flailing around.”

“Well, then, you don’t know it was Bruce,” I said.

“We also found a ripped-up note addressed to Inga in the rooftop garbage can,” said Quinn. “We know it was put there on the night of Ms. Berg’s death because all older garbage had been emptied a few hours prior. The note was an invitation to come up to the rooftop lot and meet someone by her car for a “special surprise” of some sort. Given what we’ve uncovered, it’s not hard to guess what Ms. Berg thought she was getting—quite different from what she actually got. Or maybe the same, depending on your use of vernacular.”

I frowned. Why was it that Quinn’s gallows humor always reared its ugly head when I least felt like laughing?

“Have you analyzed the handwriting?” I asked.

“It wasn’t handwritten—and, of course, you’d expect it of a note like that, a supposedly casual and personal note. The person who wrote that note to Inga used a Hewlett Packard DeskJet, a small computer printer, model…” Quinn checked his notebook. “Model 840C. The lab is still working on identifying factors in the stationery’s composition.”

“And you’re sure Inga’s death wasn’t a suicide—and Valerie Lathem’s, too, for that matter?”

“I was never convinced Ms. Lathem’s death was a suicide. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to produce enough evidence to convince my captain otherwise, but in the case of Inga Berg there is enough physical and circumstantial evidence to warrant further investigation.”

“But wasn’t Inga dating a lot of men? She told me herself that she was. With her it was almost a point of pride. Why pin it on Bruce?”

“Just how well do you know
Bruce?
”

“I’ve spent a lot of time with him since we met last week, and I feel I know him well enough to say I think you’re barking up the wrong suspect’s tree.”

Quinn just gave me that infuriating cop stare of his.

Thank goodness I wasn’t guilty of anything—I mean, here I sat, innocent as an Easter lamb and still I was quaking as if Quinn were accusing me of these alleged murders. Suddenly, I felt as though I were closeted in a confessional with the toughest priest in the diocese.

“Clare, the note was signed.”

“How?”

“With a B.”

I shook my head. “That still doesn’t tie it to Bruce beyond a shadow of a doubt and you know it. What about your second witness to the death of Sahara McNeil? What did that person see?”

“Nothing, like the bartender. A dental hygienist in a first floor apartment was getting ready to go to work. She heard the scream. She also heard someone running on the sidewalk. But by the time she got her window open enough to stick her head out and look down the street, the person doing the running had vanished around the corner.”

Quinn gulped more coffee, then drained his entire cup.

“There’s a third witness, but less convincing. The driver of the sanitation truck heard the victim scream, too, and claimed she flew in front of the truck like she was pushed. But any judge would say he’s just covering his ass.”

Quinn stood up. So did I.

“I’ll still speak with your employee…Best was it?”

“Esther.”

“Esther Best. But I thank you. You’ve given me more to go on than I expected.”

I crossed the office and stood in front of him.

“Just why
did
you come by today, Mike?” I asked. “You haven’t been here in two weeks. Why today?”

“Been busy,” said Quinn. “And I actually came by to follow up on some notations in Ms. McNeil’s date book. She’d written down the address of the Village Blend along with last Saturday’s date and a time. It was a long shot, but you came through with the explanation—your Singles group—and an even bigger lead.”

“Bruce.”

Quinn nodded. “With your help, I’ve now linked Mr. Bowman to three suspicious deaths. One death could be happenstance. Two might be construed as a coincidence—although you know what I always say about coincidence.”

“I know, in your business you don’t think there are any. But, Mike, you’re reaching and you know it.”

“Three deaths, Clare? In my book, that’s not a reach. And if I’m right, the violence is only going to escalate.”

“How?”

“Look, the killer’s working out what looks to me like a lot of rage. These women may have been killed as a result of a disappointment or perceived betrayal. Or it could be the killer just snaps based on a trigger. With Inga, there was a note left behind that confounds the issue.”

“How does the note confound the issue of rage?”

“Because it points to premeditation. Yes, the killer may have used the note to lure Inga to the roof for sex only, then disposed of the note in the rooftop garbage after the encounter went bad—”

“Went bad? You’re saying the killer snapped, went into a rage, and pushed her? Then picked up the note, threw it away, and fled?”

“Maybe. Or the killer may have planned to murder Inga from the start, luring her to the roof with the promise of sex, then all of a sudden she’s airborne. Either way, the killer obviously fled the scene and got rid of any connection to the crime as soon as possible—specifically that note. Better to throw it away than be caught holding it, which was a distinct possibility if the killer had been seen coming down from the roof by a tenant and then was stopped, questioned, and searched by the police. It’s also probable the murderer assumed Inga’s death would be instantly ruled a suicide—just like Valerie Latham’s—and never expected us to search every inch of that rooftop and find that evidence. But we found it, which was a break for us. And a few hours ago it’s likely that same killer committed a murder in broad daylight in front of witnesses, which was another break for us. Now those witnesses didn’t give us much to go on, but it’s enough for us to treat Sahara McNeil’s death as a homicide instead of an accident, and I’m sure the murderer never thought that would happen either…It’s sloppy, it’s reckless, and I think this killer is unraveling. The next time, the killer may not worry about witnesses or evidence or trying to make it look like anything in particular. The next time, the killer may just compulsively want to kill first and worry about consequences later. And that’s when I’ll nail the son of a bitch.”

“But another woman has to die first.”

Quinn’s eyes met mine.

“Stay away from him, Clare. Though I’ll grant you I can’t prove a thing yet, certainly nothing that would hold up in court, there is one fact that is indisputable: the women who get close to Bruce Bowman end up dead.”

“But, Mike, it makes no sense. Bruce is an accomplished, successful, seemingly well-adjusted architect. What in the world would motivate him to murder these women?”

“If I had to guess? I’d say the man’s looking for Ms. Right. And when she turns into Ms. Wrong in some way, he takes the disappointment very badly.”

Quinn turned and reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

D
AMN
you, Quinn,
I thought.
Damn you and your messed-up marriage.

I didn’t go back downstairs right away. I spent the next half hour pacing my office, trying to process everything Quinn had just told me—and my feelings about it…and my feelings about Bruce…and Quinn.