Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (4 page)

While sitting in my car, I checked my cell phone and noticed a missed call. My heart gave a pang when I saw the source. I hit Send, and he answered.

“I was just thinking about you a few minutes ago, honey,” I said.

“I like the sound of that, Riley. Hold that thought a couple more days, and we’ll go from thinking to acting.” His voice held a playful tone, and I knew what game he had in mind.

“Not
that
kind of thought, Nick.” Playing hard to get was easy, a thousand miles apart.

“You said I was to do the thinking for both of us.”

“Humphrey Bogart,
Casablanca,
1942.”

In the last year, Nick Garnett had moved from a source of news to a source of affection. We had a long tradition of working famous movie quotes into our conversations and guessing the origin of the line.

“Ingrid Bergman may have put Bogie in charge of the decision making that night in Casablanca, but that hasn’t happened with you and me,” I continued.

“There’s still time,” he laughed. “So what
were
you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about what a smart cop you are.” I emphasized the word “smart.”

“And here I was hoping for something a little more intimate than intellectual.”

When Garnett turned fifty, he left his job as a homicide investigator to run security for the world-famous Mall of America.

He now worked in Washington, DC, as part of Homeland Security, but we had an understanding that he’d finish up the year on the East Coast and find a job back in Minnesota.

And then if we were still on speaking terms, we might even get married.

“There’s plenty of time for personal later, Nick. Right now I need a biohazard team to clean up a murder scene, and hoped you could recommend someone.”

“Who’d you kill? That surly boss of yours?”

“Nobody you know. Actually the victim is the sister of a long-ago friend.”

He wanted to hear more, but was apparently walking into an important meeting to Keep Our Country Safe. He gave me contact information for a company he’d seen handle similar jobs, then hung up.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized I was smiling, and figured that was a good sign—on a whole lot of levels.

So I set up the crime scene cleanup time and texted all the details to Laura.

“Thanx” was her only response. I wasn’t sure if she expected me to help supervise the work or not. I figured I’d have to wait for her to sort things out, just like back in college days.

L
aura and I didn’t start out with much in common other than being paired together as college roommates. Because Laura’s family lived twenty minutes from campus, I gained a second home to celebrate important events like birthdays and making the dean’s list.

We had no classes together, yet shared a coming-of-age time in our lives when experiences were intense and friendships deep. I thought I knew her better than my own sister. We both had dark hair and lanky bodies, and some people even thought we looked like sisters.

Laura had more religious conviction than most of us living in the dorm. I benefited because I had a roommate whose loyalty would not be swayed by trends. On the other hand, her tendency to lecture people she felt lacked her own moral virtue when it came to sex and drugs could be irritating.

As for campus parties, I assured her she didn’t have to drink or make out with anyone.

“Just carry a beer around and blend in.”

“No, Riley, that wouldn’t be honest. That’s not who I am.”

Who in college really knows who they are? That Laura was so sure of her place in life was something I admired as I struggled to find mine.

When the administration demanded the college newspaper retract one of my stories to appease powerful alumni, Laura was there to keep me from changing my journalism major in protest.

Everybody on campus knows what’s going on,” she said. “You’re being made a scapegoat here. Are you going to let them win, or are you going to go on to become a big-shot reporter and someday make a difference in the world?”

So one weekend, while visiting my parents on the farm, I didn’t hesitate to race one hundred twenty miles back to campus after getting a hysterical call. Laura had been raped.

She’d accompanied a friend back to his dorm room, where he’d acted like anything but a friend. His roommate and other chums walked in just as the crime was being consummated and hooted with glee.

She screamed for their help, and wrapped in a blanket she stumbled back to our room in tears.

The man in question insisted their act was consensual. “We both wanted it.”

So for the next week, the campus police conducted interviews, including one with me in which they implied hers wasn’t a “real” rape, rather a “date” rape.

“She’s the most honest person I’ve ever known,” I insisted. “I believe her.”

Laura’s parents got involved and called the “real” police. Sexual assault charges were filed. The man pleaded not guilty. A trial was set.

But a few weeks later, while we lay in our bunks, Laura told a different story. “Technically,” the accused was innocent.

“What?” I asked.

“His friends walked in on us. I have a reputation to protect. I couldn’t let people think my talk about celibacy was hogwash.”

“But what about his reputation?” I asked. “You need to drop the charges before you ruin his life.”

She refused, and I saw a hypocritical side to her. What I thought was righteous principle seemed a veil for selfishness.

“If you don’t stop this, I will. I can’t be part of such a lie.”

“I don’t believe you, Riley. You won’t betray me.”

I insisted I would; she insisted I wouldn’t.

So I went back to the police and changed my statement. The case fell apart; the whole campus was abuzz about the scandal. A few months before graduation, Laura dropped out of college and my life.

I called her so many times because I didn’t like the way things ended. But she either hung up the phone or didn’t answer. My letters were returned unopened, marked “refused.”

The split caused more pain than any of my boyfriend breakups. I think that’s why I have so few gal pals. A friendship gone bad can be a devastating thing. Because while Laura felt betrayed by me, I felt betrayed by her.

A
neighborhood liquor store beckoned on my way back to Channel 3. I didn’t crave alcohol myself, though the stress of news competition has driven plenty of journalists to drink.

I was trying to snag a case of elusive Nordeast beer as a welcome home prize for Garnett. Brewed locally, it sells out soon after being unloaded from the truck—if a store is lucky enough to even score a shipment.

The temperature clock on the bank across the street showed ninety-three degrees, hot enough to make a run on cold beer. Even so, I gave a hopeful thumbs-up to the aging owner at the cash register as I walked in mouthing “Nordeast?”

Ed knew why I was there and had told me a couple of weeks earlier that deliveries were unpredictable, but he’d put a case aside for me if they got any. He smiled ruefully as he gave a big thumbs-down.

“Sorry, sweetie, nothing so far. Check back later in the week.”

We chatted about neighborhood crime, particularly a recent headline in the Minneapolis newspaper that essentially told readers that, not counting all the recent murders, crime was actually down in the city.

“Reassuring, huh?” he joked.

Then, because the place was empty, and probably because he
was an old man who didn’t get many chances to act macho, he showed me a small revolver he kept handy under the counter.

“Is it loaded?” The glint of metal reminded me that not long ago I weighed carrying a handgun myself for personal protection. But these days, if you want to do it nice and legal, there’s lots of paperwork involved as well as firearms training. I never seemed to have time for either.

Ed’s piece looked like it predated those kind of inconveniences. He flipped the cylinder open and revealed a full round of bullets.

“Ever had to pull the trigger, Ed?”

“Not in your lifetime, dearie.”

“You’re charming, but I’m older than you think.”

“Not old enough.”

We might have flirted back and forth a bit more, but we heard some commotion outside. Then an agitated woman rushed in asking if either of us owned the black pickup truck in the parking lot.

“There’s a dog inside the cab. It was there when I went in the drugstore ten minutes ago and it’s still there now.”

We shook our heads and I followed her outside, even more aware of the heat. The temperature clock had climbed another degree and now read ninety-four. I knew her concern for the animal was valid from hearing Channel 3’s veteran meteorologist annually lecture viewers that the interior of a car parked in the sun can reach a hundred and forty degrees in minutes, turning into a deathtrap for pets and children.

The woman pointed to a black-and-white mixed breed laying across the floor on the passenger side. The animal was panting uncomfortably.

The woman explained she had checked for the driver inside the corner cafe and the hardware store of the strip mall, but didn’t have time to go into the other shops because she had to get back to her job. She wore a cashier’s smock and looked like she might work in the drugstore down the block.

“But first, I’m calling 9-1-1,” she said.

While she dialed the police, I phoned the station assignment desk, explaining the situation. I didn’t own a dog myself, but had a history of turning hounds into headlines. Geographically, we were less than ten minutes from the station, so the odds were favorable a camera crew might be cruising nearby.

“Malik is out shooting weather video,” Ozzie said, “I’ll route him in your direction; he should be there in just a couple minutes. Keep us posted. This is the kind of real-life story Noreen prizes.”

The woman relayed that police were also en route. She glanced at her watch. “I can only wait a little longer.”

The animal seemed lethargic, its eyes now half closed. I opened my car trunk looking for a tire iron to break the windows on the vehicle. I found odds and ends including a sleeping bag in case I got stuck in a rural blizzard, but nothing with enough heft to break auto glass.

Suddenly Malik was peering into the cab with a camera on his shoulder. By now other shoppers were gathering to watch.

“Anybody got a baseball bat?” yelled the woman who first spotted the trouble. She looked in a mood to swing it, too.

No answer.

“Malik, where’s the tripod?” I asked.

Tripods are virtually indestructible. The same can’t be said for high-definition television cameras. My cell phone started buzzing, but I ignored it when I saw the station calling. Let them wait thirty seconds until we had something to report.

“We have to get the truck open,” the woman insisted.

The crowd pressed closer, even more curious for a glance at the death watch inside the pickup. Even Ed, from the liquor store, pushed his way through to the front of the action. But instead of remaining part of the audience, he raised his revolver.

“Stand back.” His voice wavered. The crowd moved frantically
away. The first shot merely put a bullet hole in the windshield; his second shattered the side window on the truck.

I reached in, unlocked the pickup’s door, and pulled out the pooch. He lay in my arms, breathing noisily.

Just then the cops arrived.

So did a live truck from Channel 3.

And everybody had a different mission.

“Who called the police?” a uniformed officer asked.

Again, no one answered.

“Noreen heard about the dog and wants a live shot for the five,” the truck engineer whispered. “Something like Don’t Do This At Home.”

It was twenty minutes until the top of the hour when the newscast opened. I wanted to use the woman who called the cops as a live guest, but she was already gone.

And I was left holding the dog.

A bakery employee a few storefronts down brought over a pan of water, held it under the animal’s chin, and we splashed its face. It took a few weak swallows, but that was all. We washed the foamy saliva from its mouth.

I noticed a tag on the collar that read “Buddy” and appeared to list a contact number. “Hey, Buddy, you hang in there.”

A shopper brought back some ice from a gas station, and laid the bag across the dog’s sweaty back. His eyes opened, but they looked bloodshot.

“Let’s try to find the owner.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed as she read the number off the dog tag for me. No answer.

The cop motioned us over to his squad car, opened the back door and blew out some air-conditioning. I crawled in the backseat with Buddy, and he seemed to breathe easier. We got him to sip the water again.

Just then a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, started screaming, “Who smashed my pickup’s windows?”

No one looked him in the eye, especially not Ed, who casually slipped back inside the liquor store to clean his gun.

By then the man noticed his dog was missing. “Hey, Buddy,” he whistled. “Here, boy.”

The ears on the animal seemed to twitch as the man got closer, and its eyes blinked rapidly.

His shadow fell over us. “Give me my dog.” His voice was harsher than I expected from a man wearing a fancy tie. But the day was hot and so was his temper.

Now it was fifteen minutes before the newscast started. Malik was setting up a tripod in the shade of a building for my live shot. Hanging on to the mutt was awkward, but I didn’t particularly want to hand him back to his owner.

“You almost killed your dog,” I reminded him. I was careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact, not accusatory.

“That was an accident,” he responded. “Some paperwork took longer than I expected at the bank.”

More people gathered to watch the bustle, and several began to hoot when they heard his lame explanation. Classic mob mentality. The police officer waved them off, telling them animal control was en route. Then he asked the man if the pickup belonged to him.