Kill Fee (4 page)

W
indermere knew two things about Allen Bryce Salazar within minutes of his arrival in the Criminal Investigative Division. First, she knew he was very angry. Then she knew he wasn’t her guy.

She was back at her desk in the new FBI building in Brooklyn Center, northwest of Minneapolis, when Mathers brought him in from the airport. Heard him as soon as the elevator doors opened, listened to him swear a blue streak from the elevators to the interview room. Mathers set him up, and then came over to Windermere, a sardonic smile on his face.

“Mr. Salazar is very displeased,” he said. “He’s using foul language. Mentioned a lawsuit. Even threw a government-issue chair.”

“I heard the commotion,” said Windermere. “You couldn’t calm him down?”

Mathers shrugged. “Cuffed him to the table. Took long enough.” His smile grew. “Had to get Doughty in there to hold the guy down.”

“Bet he loved that.”

“Doughty? Or the guy?”

“Doughty,” said Windermere. “Bet he’d cursed my name about seventy-five times before he got the poor bastard detained.”

“I lost count.” Mathers gestured down the hall. “Guy’s ready for you, anyway.”

Windermere thanked him and walked through CID toward the interview rooms. The office was long and low, carpet and cubicles, set up like an accounting firm, and she could see across the vast room to Bob Doughty’s private office on the other side. The door was closed, thank God.

Windermere had partnered with Doughty on the Carter Tomlin
investigation. It hadn’t been a particularly successful pairing, and though Windermere knew she wasn’t exactly easy to get along with, she still figured the senior agent shouldered much of the blame. In the end, he’d filed a formal complaint and put in for reassignment, and in the months since, he’d said not word one to his former partner, work-related or otherwise.

If Doughty was half as good a cop as Stevens, we’d have gotten on fine,
Windermere thought.
And since he isn’t, good riddance.
She pushed Doughty from her mind as she approached the interview room. She could hear Salazar shouting through the heavy door, something thumping in there.

Windermere paused outside the door. She let Salazar have his little tantrum, and when he’d calmed down she peeked through the small window and had a look at the guy. Then she stepped back.

It wasn’t her man.

The shooter had been slight, pale, almost sickly in appearance. Allen Bryce Salazar was none of those things. Windermere studied the man through the window again. He was a big guy, swarthy, a lot of muscle. He looked nothing like the man who’d driven off in that Chevy.

Windermere spun on her heel and crossed the office to Mathers’s desk. “Not my guy, Derek,” she said. “Someone screwed up.”

Mathers looked up from his computer. “That’s Salazar,” he said. “Omaha picked him up the minute he got off that plane. ID checks out. That’s your guy.”

“Bullshit,” said Windermere. “I
saw
the shooter. He was shorter than this guy. He was
whiter
. This isn’t our guy.”

Mathers shrugged. “That’s Allen Bryce Salazar,” he said. “What can I tell you?”

S
alazar turned out to be a decent guy, after he’d calmed down a little.

Windermere walked into the interview room with a Coke and a Quarter Pounder with cheese. Sat down and slid the food across the table, told Salazar she’d uncuff him if he promised to be good. Told him she’d kick his ass if he tried to get cute. Salazar stared at her, baleful and suspicious. Windermere held his gaze until he looked away. “Fine,” he said.

Windermere uncuffed him. Watched him scarf down the burger. Waited until she heard the rattle of ice in his Coke. Then she leaned forward. “Okay,” she said. “So who are you?”

Salazar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know who I am,” he said. “My name is Allen Bryce Salazar. I live at 82 Poplar Street in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Married, no kids.” He looked down at his hands. “My wife’s probably losing her shit right now.”

“We’ll get word to your wife that you’re fine,” Windermere told him. “If you’re as clean as you say, you’ll be home by tomorrow. So let’s figure this out. What brought you to Saint Paul?”

“Trade show,” said Salazar. “I sell fertilizer. Farm-grade.”

“Fertilizer.”

“My wife tells me I’m real good at peddling bullshit.” He met her eyes. “It’s a job. There was an agricultural trade fair all week, downtown at the RiverCentre. I came in Tuesday evening. Was supposed to get home tonight.”

Windermere studied his face. The RiverCentre was within a block of Rice Park and the Saint Paul Hotel. A two-minute walk to the Landmark
Center. Except Salazar wasn’t the man she’d seen climbing into the little gray Chevy. He wasn’t the man she’d passed on the Landmark Center steps.

She fixed her eyes on him. “You come with a partner?”

Salazar frowned. “What?”

“Did you bring a friend? To the trade fair. You work with a partner, or what?”

“Just me,” said Salazar. “It’s a pretty small business. Mom-and-pop, I guess you’d call it. Just trying to get our foot in the door.”

“Yeah,” said Windermere. “Listen, here’s the thing: A man was shot this afternoon at the Saint Paul Hotel. Somebody with a sniper rifle. You know where the hotel is? Like, a half a minute away from the RiverCentre. Literally across the street.”

Salazar’s eyes got wide. “Whoa,” he said. “I didn’t—”

“Hold up.” Windermere held up her hands. “I chased the shooter,” she said. “He got away in a little gray Chevy hatchback, a Liberty rental car. Rented from the airport by one Allen Bryce Salazar of Council Bluffs, Iowa. That’s you.”

“Bullshit.”
Salazar shoved his chair back and stood, his eyes wild. “That’s bullshit, lady. I never rented that car.”

Windermere held his gaze. “Liberty says you did.”

“They’re lying,” he said. “They’re fucking liars.”

“Prove it.”

Salazar stared at her, breathing heavy. “Prove it?” he said. “Okay, I will. I’m an Emerald Club member.
National Car Rental.
I rented a midsize sedan on Tuesday. Upgraded for free to a Chrysler 300, white. Brought it back this afternoon just before my flight. What the hell would I want with some shitty hatchback?”

Windermere said nothing. She studied Salazar and sucked her teeth, thinking. A computer would straighten out Salazar’s story. A quick call to National and she’d know if he was lying. He wasn’t acting guilty, though.
He didn’t look like he knew a damn thing about Chevy Aveos. And that meant this easy case was about to get hard.

If Salazar wasn’t the guy—if he was one hundred percent clean—then who’d mixed him up in the game? More to the point, who was the kid in the little Chevy hatchback? Who was the killer, and where the hell did he go?

Windermere pushed back from the table and stood. Salazar watched her. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t sound tough anymore. He sounded confused. Scared, even. Windermere shook her head. “Gotta call National,” she said. “Corroborate your story.” She looked at him. “I’d get comfortable. This might take a while.”

T
he phone rang again on Monday morning.

It was nearly noon. Lind was sitting on his couch, upright, trying to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t slept all night. He’d finished all the coffee. He was just slipping away, giving in, when the phone rang.

It jolted him awake.

He stood on unsteady legs and walked to the window and looked out over the city. It was still raining outside. It was still gray. The cars on the street were smeared brake lights against the wet glass.

The phone kept ringing. Lind tried to ignore it. He was awake now. He didn’t need to answer the phone.

Except that wasn’t right. If he didn’t answer, the phone would stop ringing. Sooner or later, it would stop ringing for good. And then he
would be alone with the visions, with nobody to help him. Nobody to make the visions go away.

Lind shivered. Felt the first wave of panic insinuate itself into his brain. It grew there, a pounding blackness, just behind his eyes. Quickly, Lind crossed from the window and picked up the phone.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m ready.”

TEN MINUTES LATER,
Lind drove out of the parking garage and back through the city to the airport. He parked in the short-term lot and walked into the terminal to the Delta Airlines counters. He waited in the frequent-flier line, and when he reached the front, the girl at the counter smiled and waved him over. “Hi,” she said. “On the road again?”

She was a pretty girl. She had big eyes and clear, pale skin, mahogany hair that fell just to her shoulders. There was a hint of mischief in her smile.

“Duluth.” Lind slid his fake ID across the counter. “Richard O’Brien.”

The girl smiled at Lind another moment. Then she blinked and shook her head a little, looked down at her computer, and started to type something. She stopped and looked up again.

“It’s just I’ve seen you before.” She looked away quickly, blushing. “You’re always flying somewhere. What kind of business are you in?”

Lind shifted his weight and looked around the terminal. Felt the jackhammer panic inside his skull again. He squinted. Closed his eyes. Rubbed his temples. “Insurance,” he lied. “That’s what I do.”

“I’m sorry.” The girl’s whole face was bright red now. “I just wanted to— I was just making conversation. I’m sorry.”

She thrust a ticket into Lind’s hands. Lind grabbed it. Forced a smile and then walked away quickly. He could feel her eyes following him as he hurried toward security.

S
tevens was at his desk at the BCA headquarters in Saint Paul when his phone started to ring. He was typing a report, hunt-and-peck style, a cold case he’d just closed on Friday. It seemed to be taking forever.

Distraction
, he thought as the phone rattled beside him.
Thank God.
He reached for the handset.

“Stevens?”

Stevens sat up straight. “Carla.”

“The one and only.” Windermere paused. “Listen, I hate to take you away from whatever it is you BCA people do over there, but I need you in Brooklyn Center for a while.”

Stevens frowned. Looked around the Investigations department. It was pretty quiet for a Monday. Not much going on. “What’s up?”

“Long story,” said Windermere. “Anyway, listen, I’ll get you back to work in an hour or two, tops. Just come on in, would you?”

Stevens looked at the report on his desk, and then across the office to Tim Lesley’s door. Lesley was the Special Agent in Charge of Investigations, and he’d be waiting on the report. Right now, though, Stevens figured he could use a break. “Sure,” he said. “On my way.”

“Good. And, Stevens?”

Stevens paused. “Yeah?”

“Bring lunch.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER,
Stevens parked his Cherokee in front of the FBI’s regional headquarters in Brooklyn Center. An imposing, five-story
structure ringed with high fences and security checkpoints, the building was markedly more secure than the Bureau’s old offices, housed as they were in a commercial skyscraper in downtown Minneapolis. The FBI had just moved in a month or so prior, and Stevens was halfway into the city before he realized his mistake.

Was a hell of a time finding the place anyway. Stevens missed his exit off I-94, had to retrace his route along surface roads, past a couple truck-stop motels and light industrial warehouses before he found the place. He parked, showed his badge to a couple security guards, navigated the metal detector, and rode the elevator up to Criminal Investigations and cut through the office to Windermere’s cubicle. Set a paper bag of takeout Thai on her desk and grinned at her. “Brand-new building and they still can’t get you a real office, huh?”

Windermere scowled. “Nope. I took down Arthur Pender and Carter Tomlin and I still can’t get any privacy, Stevens.”

“Wait a second,” said Stevens. “
We
took down Pender and Tomlin. I think I helped a little.”

“You got an office yet? I rest my case.” Windermere eyed the bag. “What’d you bring me?”

“Pad Thai,” said Stevens. “It’s decent.”

Windermere rolled her eyes. “It’s Minnesota, Stevens.”

“Better than Taco Bell. What’s the story?”

“Yeah.” Windermere unpacked the bag. Set a foil takeout plate on her desk and removed the cardboard top. Studied the contents for a moment, her face impassive. Then she glanced at him. “Pull up a chair.”

Stevens pulled a chair over. Sat down and listened as Windermere explained the situation in between bites of pad Thai.

“So the rental car guy, Salazar,” she said, chewing, “he’s not the shooter. Omaha brought him in, flew him back here. He had a little tantrum in the interview room. Broke an FBI chair, but he never killed anyone.”

“But he rented the car.”

Windermere shook her head. “He didn’t even. And he got pretty mad when I had the gall to suggest he would ever rent from Liberty. Apparently he’s an Emerald Club member, whatever that means.”

“National?”

“Rented a white Chrysler 300C,” said Windermere. “Had it all week. Brought it back a half hour before our shooter returned his Chevy hatchback.”

Stevens reached into the bag and pulled out a second foil container. Cashew chicken. “A half hour.”

“A half hour, Stevens. Right about the time our shooter was giving me the cold shoulder in the parking lot.”

“So what’s Salazar’s play? How does he fit?”

“He doesn’t,” she said. “He swears he’s innocent. Right now, I have no reason to suspect otherwise.”

“You account for his whereabouts on Saturday? Do a background check, all that? Look for any ties to Spenser Pyatt?”

Windermere pointed across the office to a young kid bent over a computer. “Mathers’s on it,” she said. “We’re working this case. So far, we have nothing. Salazar spent the whole week selling manure at some trade show. Has witnesses putting him at the RiverCentre all Saturday morning. And then he was in transit at the time of the shooting.”

“Guy’s got a clean background.” Stevens looked up to find Windermere’s new partner standing beside him. Mathers, she’d called him. The kid was clean-cut and damned tall. He nodded at Stevens and then turned to Windermere. “No criminal record anywhere. No ties to Pyatt, at least not superficially. Maybe there’s something in his background.”

“Keep looking,” said Windermere. “A Minnesota TV billionaire and a fertilizer salesman from Iowa. Who the hell knows?”

Mathers nodded again and walked back to his workstation. Stevens watched him go. “Your new partner?” he asked Windermere.

Windermere grinned at him.

“Where’d you find him, the Bureau day care?”

“He’s a good kid,” she said. “Kind of goofy, but he saves me the grunt work.” Her smile faded. “Anyway, Stevens, this damn case is starting to give me a headache. I can’t hold Salazar, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“You think he’s clean.”

She nodded. “My instinct says yes.”

“You check out the airport? Maybe they have something on tape.”

“Just about to,” she said. “Was just waiting on you.”

Stevens stared at her. “That’s why you called me in? To ride out to the airport?”

Windermere shook her head. “No,” she said. “I need a statement. You witnessed the shooting, remember?” She grinned at him. “I just figured maybe I’d take your statement in the car.”