Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (13 page)

“My dental school presents a copy to students when they enter the program as a symbol of the hard work ahead,” he said. “Study hard and pray to St. Apollonia. That’s the road to graduation.”

That was the perfect transition to share intimate details of Leon Akume’s murder, such as him choking on his own blood.

Dr. Mendes shuddered. “For such a bloody extraction, the gums must have been badly torn.”

Now I shuddered. “All the more blood to choke on?”

“Definitely.”

“So how hard is it to pull healthy teeth?”

“Without the patient’s cooperation? Difficult.”

“What if he were drugged?”

“That would make it easier. And determination might count for more than brute strength.”

The same thing might be said about the TV news business: in some cases tenacity can get a reporter farther than raw talent. That had always been my philosophy, anyway.

L
uther Auction House in North St. Paul resembled an indoor flea market. There was already a line for auction numbers. I didn’t intend to leave with any souvenirs, but filled out the paperwork anyway, just in case. I handed over a credit card with my driver’s license to the cashier and was told to sign across the bottom of a legal-looking form.

“It verifies you have no personal connection to the Clemens case,” she said.

That seemed a bit Big Brotherish to me. “Why would that be any of your business?”

“These are assets seized by the federal government,” she explained. “The money raised goes into a fund for the crime victims. This screening is to prevent the crooks or their friends and relatives from using insider knowledge to buy possessions back cheap.”

A flick of my pen, and bid number 139 was mine.

The auction stage was surrounded by rows of folding chairs, most of which were already occupied. I preferred to move around to check out the surrounding artwork, furniture, jewelry, and collectibles. A flyer described the items and the order in which they would be sold.

A couple of items did draw my attention. One was a framed picture, where it looked like real fish—sunnies, bullheads, and minnows
from their sizes—had been brushed with paint, then pressed against the oceans of a printed world map. A blending of actual and abstract. The scales and gills had interesting texture, but the art was too large to be practical for most homes. It hung high above an intricately carved buffet I admired before moving on.

US marshals stood near the front and back doors, and I figured they must be an extra precaution, called to duty whenever the auction house sold federal-seized property, just in case a hothead showed up.

The Channel 3 crew arrived. Malik had a live truck and ran cable inside so we could broadcast with the auction proceeding in the background. We interviewed attendees about whether an item previously owned by a white-collar criminal carried curses or cachet.

((LADY, SOT))
I’M HERE OUT OF CURIOSITY. I WANTED TO SEE HOW THE ONE PERCENT LIVE.

((MAN SOT))
I’M HOPING TO GET A DEAL ON SOMETHING UNUSUAL.

The auctioneer knew his job. He spoke fast, pointed with authority, and moved the merchandise along with plenty of personality. “The next lot contains a jeweled money clip that was once likely in the pants pocket of Jack Clemens.”

Some things went for more than I would ever have imagined, like a cement sculpture of a bull covered in one-hundred-dollar-bills—titled “Bull Market” and signed by the artist.

“Ostentatious or merely tacky? You decide,” the auctioneer said before accepting a final bid of four grand. It made me wonder if there was gold inside instead of solid concrete.

Some of the bids came in by phone. A woman sat at a table on the stage calling out-of-towners who had expressed interest in acquiring specific items.

One of them came out on top, buying a Bob Dylan vinyl album for three grand. A monogrammed briefcase with the letters JRC netted thirty bucks. A safe went for fifty. Signed sports jerseys drew multiple bids, as did a personalized memoir from a former governor thanking Jack for his “friendship during these difficult economic and political times.”

A mounted moose head and a bearskin rug from Jack’s northern Minnesota cabin also attracted considerable admiration from the crowd.

“Our featured white-collar criminal was also a great white hunter,” the auctioneer explained. “And since the hunter became the hunted, we are selling these distinctive wildlife trophies, both shot dead by Jack Clemens.”

He started with the bearskin rug, which brought an easy grand. Then he moved on to the moose head, and because the moose population in Minnesota is dwindling, bidding was fast and furious until reaching a cool five thousand dollars.

The competition between rivals was entertaining, and Malik shot video of customers nodding or waving their numbers until that magic word: “Gone!”

Some items drew little interest. A treadmill brought no bids despite the auctioneer insisting it still had Jack’s sweat on its surface.

Then the fish painting came up on the stage. The crowd was told, “This was from Jack’s home office.” On an impulse, I decided to go for the experience of bidding so Scott could ask me a question about it after my live shot. News directors like reporter participation in stories.

The auctioneer called out, “Sixty. Anybody give me sixty?”

I held up my number. He pointed toward me. “I have sixty dollars. Anybody give me seventy?”

“Seventy here,” the auctioneer called out. I scanned the room to size up my competition, and noticed the woman with the phone was holding up a bidding card.

“Do I have eighty?” the auctioneer looked over. Malik nudged me in the shoulder, so I raised my card again to make good TV.

“Eighty dollars,” the auctioneer repeated. “How about ninety?” He looked toward the phone clerk. She shook her head and shrugged like the mystery bidder had hung up.

“Eighty once.” He eyeballed the crowd. “A very unique piece of artwork. Eighty twice.” He paused three seconds before proclaiming, “Gone. Sold to the bidder by the camera.”

I glanced around in case he was talking about someone else, but Malik shook his head. “Not me. You. You just bought one crazy huge fish painting. Good thing we have a van.”

A couple of people laughed as I claimed my prize and leaned it against the wall behind us as I finished writing my story for the news. The fish painting would be a good prop to hold up on the air. Then maybe I could write it off on my taxes.

((RILEY, LIVE))
A BIG CROWD TURNED OUT FOR THE SALE OF ITEMS BELONGING TO WHITE-COLLAR CRIMINAL JACK CLEMENS.

((RILEY, NATURAL SOUND))
THE GOODS WERE SEIZED BY THE GOVERNMENT . . . AND ALL MONEY RAISED GOES INTO A VICTIM’S FUND.

Sound bites from people at the auction aired next, and I finished my report with pictures of items and the amount they netted.

((RILEY, LIVE))
IT’S REALLY PENNIES ON THE DOLLAR COMPARED TO THE MILLIONS IN FRAUD.

((SCOTT, DOUBLE BOX))
WERE YOU TEMPTED TO BUY ANYTHING, RILEY?

I’d fed him that question ahead of time.

((RILEY, LIVE))
AS A MATTER OF FACT, SCOTT . . . I’M THE PROUD OWNER OF THIS ARTWORK.

I’d recruited two spectators to hold the fish painting in front of the camera and signaled some others to applaud in the background.

((SCOTT, DOUBLE BOX))
WELL, IT’S CERTAINLY DIFFERENT. HOW MUCH DID YOU PAY?

((RILEY, LIVE))
EIGHTY BUCKS . . . WHAT CAN I SAY . . . I CAUGHT A CASE OF AUCTION FEVER.

Already I regretted the purchase. Loading and unloading the painting was a two-person job, so I was grateful for Malik’s help transporting the picture to the station.

“Maybe you should buy it from me,” I said. “You were the one who urged me to keep bidding.”

“No way,” he said. “Missy would kill me if I brought home something that big and ugly.”

I took down a cluttered bulletin board from a wall in my office and we gingerly centered the painting’s wire on the nail.

We both stepped back to survey the result. “Maybe it will remind me to always be fishing for stories,” I said.

“Luckily, in news,” Malik said, “there’s no limit to that.”

W
inter may have been late coming to Minnesota, but Mother Nature was making up for lost time with an overnight storm aggregating six inches of white stuff with strong winds. By morning the city had declared a snow emergency, unleashing plows and complicated rules regarding which side of the street cars could park on.

I paid a neighbor with a plow blade on the front of his pickup to clear my driveway but had to shovel the back sidewalk to reach my garage before sitting in rush hour traffic. A leased monthly parking space was waiting for me in a downtown ramp; however, that didn’t stop my face from becoming red and chapped from having to run through subzero wind to reach the station.

Bryce’s commute was easier. As boss, he’d reserved a space for himself in the basement of Channel 3. So while most of us were cold and crabby at the news huddle, he was in a cheerful mood.

“People are calling to complain about being towed,” Ozzie said. “That always happens after the first storm.”

“Send a crew to the impound lot,” Bryce said.

I dodged that field assignment, knowing that people who get towed yell at everybody around them. Once our camera was even pelted with a snowball during a live shot by a man upset by the long line to reclaim his vehicle. Instead, I offered to check
around, calculating the storm basics—number of cars towed, number of accidents, and severity of injuries. Actually, I used the phone time as a cover while trying to reach Lisa and lock in her identity-fraud interview.

My desk phone rang as I was walking into my office. Most people I want to talk to have my cell number, so I often let desk calls roll to my voicemail to screen out the junk and crazies. But I remembered there was a chance inmate Jack Clemens could be calling collect from prison. Reaching for the phone, I was disappointed to see the caller ID indicated the call was being transferred from the Channel 3 switchboard.

It was some guy who’d seen me on the news the night before. “Are you the woman who bought the fish painting?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I collect art and would love to purchase it from you.”

There’s nothing like having someone express interest in something you don’t want to make you treasure it. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in selling.”

“Perhaps I can change your mind. Since we share the same taste in art, perhaps we could share lunch and discuss an offer.”

I wasn’t into meeting strangers, even if it was in a public place, unless an intriguing story was on the line. Too many stalkers presume an intimacy with TV reporters simply because they’ve watched us on the air or are friends on Facebook.

“I work in TV news. I rarely get time for lunch. And I’m especially busy with storm coverage.”

“How about joining me for dinner, then?” The man was persistent and I was about to hang up when he softened his sell. “I understand your hesitation. You don’t know me, but if you advertised the painting on Craigslist, you’d be showing it to strangers at your house.”

“That would never happen. I’m smarter than that.” I’d covered several Craigslist crimes, ranging from robbery to murder, and knew the risk of answering or posting such ads.

“Exactly. So how about we meet tonight at Stella’s? They’re known for their fresh fish, and that symbolism might bode well for me. Say eight o’clock?”

Stella’s was a popular seafood restaurant in south Minneapolis. I’d only been there once, with Garnett, celebrating our first anniversary of dating. That evening still ranked as one of my favorite meals. I’d ordered the scallops, he’d gone for wild caught salmon. But it was our mood rather than the food that made the night special. We’d started with a champagne toast to our future and ended by boxing up our dinners to rush back to my place.

I decided the best way to erase an old memory was to create a new one. If Garnett was moving on, maybe I should as well. And I had promised my mom I’d say yes to the next man who asked me out. Even though this was a business meeting, I decided to think of this guy as dating practice.

“All right, I’ll swing by, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to stay for dinner.”

“Excellent. The reservation will be under the name Johnson.”

“In the interests of full disclosure, Mr. Johnson, I’m not inclined to part with my fish art.” That wasn’t exactly true. Everything had a price. I may have bought it for a bargain, but that didn’t mean I would sell it cheap. “I’ve developed a sentimental attachment to the painting.”

“You’ve only owned the artwork about twelve hours. I wouldn’t have pegged you to fall in love so fast.”

I was beginning to rue agreeing to the meeting, but figured even if my dining companion turned out to be insufferable, the food was sure to be splendid. And, as before, I could always eat and run.

H
ollywood proved me wrong. I had underestimated the interest real people had in pledging to love and cherish each other until death as part of a wedding stunt.

The word from the Minnesota Film and TV Board later that day was that hundreds of couples had applied to be extras by submitting photos of themselves dressed in their would-be wedding garb. The only apparent rule—men in black, women in white. Getting the moviemakers to use Minnesota as a location was a victory for the state, which had recently approved ten million dollars in tax rebates to create jobs by luring film projects here.

Scott had already parlayed his reporting assignment into a cameo in the film as a news reporter covering the event. He was bragging to the rest of the Channel 3 staff that he even had a line of dialogue in the screenplay. Because there would be no teleprompter on-site, he kept practicing at his desk, in the halls and even, sources told me, in the men’s room.

He had left the script on his desk while anchoring the newscast, so I took a peek to see what his role looked like on paper.

INTERIOR—MALL OF AMERICA

Camera pans a giant crowd of brides and grooms before pausing at a TV reporter with microphone in hand.