Whiskey on the Rocks (28 page)

“Gordon. First, he got her drunk, and then he dyed her hair so her corpse could pass for mine. Told her she’d be sexier as a blonde! He’s also the one you saw with the wings. And the one who blew up your propane tank. If he’d whacked you, like he was supposed to, he’d be alive today. I can’t fucking believe you got him first.”

“Not anymore,” said Brady. That’s when I noticed he had a manila folder in his hand. “Crouch’s toxicology report.” He nodded in the direction of Marilee Gallagher’s disembodied twittering. “That’s why she’s here.”

“I’m intrigued,” Mrs. Santy said, cupping her chin in her hand. “What does he say now?”

Brady gave her a look so cold that it didn’t belong on his sweet young face. Then he opened the folder and read, “Cardiac blood: Positive for cocaine—”

Ignoring her, Brady flipped a few pages. “Crouch made an amendment to his original autopsy report: ‘Abnormal findings include the presence of Digoxin, a digitalis derivative—’”

Brady cleared his throat and resumed reading. “‘Its presence in the quantity indicated in the blood of a healthy thirty-four-year-old man suggests a deliberate overdose leading or contributing to fatal arrhythmia. Immediate cause of death: Asystole due to Digoxin overdose. Possible contributing factor: Cocaine. Manner of death: Homicide.’”

Three distinct handclaps. Mrs. Santy was applauding.

“Not bad. For Hoosiers.”

“Wolverines,” I corrected her. “People who live in Indiana are Hoosiers. You should know that.” To Brady I said, “Gallagher was about to get a massage from Noonan. Before that, he was with Lomax. How did he get the Digoxin? And from who?”

Mrs. Santy said, “Your report doesn’t tell you that, does it? Dear, oh dear, how will they figure it out?”

“Why don’t you shut up!” roared Brady. As if on command, Officer Roscoe threw himself against the cell bars, howling, his hackles raised. I jumped back.

“Sorry,” Brady said to me. “Roscoe and I are taking a Good Cop/Bad Cop seminar in East Lansing. My Bad Cop needs a lot of work.”

Roscoe continued scrabbling against the bars and barking viciously, his teeth bared. Pale as parchment, Mrs. Santy huddled against the back wall of her cell.

The sarna bells on her front door tinkled, and Noonan parted the curtains to greet us.

“I knew that was you,” she said. “I’ve been meditating on it. And I’m going to feel so much better after we talk.”

I wasn’t sure that I felt better afterwards. But we did learn a few things. Brady brought along a tape recorder, which Noonan allowed him to use. Here’s her complete account of Dan Gallagher’s visit to the Starr of Noon Massage Therapy Studio:

Brady: First, can you state for the record what you do?

Noonan: I’m a certified massage therapist and Tele-Counselor for the Seven Suns of Solace. It’s a New Age Healing School based in Taos, New Mexico.

Noonan: I do that, too, but that’s not tele-counseling. Most of my clients are tourists who take a couple massages while vacationing in Magnet Springs. I tell them about the Seven Suns of Solace, and they start the program here. Then they complete it at home, over the phone.

Noonan: I showed him into my studio and asked him to get undressed. Then my Seven Suns of Solace phone rang. See, I have a dedicated line for my tele-counseling clients. It has a distinct ring—and also Caller ID—so I can prepare for a client’s special needs.

Noonan: Well, I could hardly understand her, she was carrying on so. Something about her husband and how mean he was. Ordinarily, if a Tele-Counseling client calls when I have a massage therapy client, I arrange to talk as soon as the massage is over. But Kimba was hysterical. By the time I calmed her enough to schedule a call-back, we’d been on the phone for thirteen-point-eight minutes.

Noonan: Yes. And there’s something else. My dedicated line is back here in my office, not out in the lobby where I make massage appointments. While I was on the phone, I thought I heard my Sarna bells ring. Twice.

Noonan: Almost six minutes. I checked the meter. When I say that Kimba was hysterical, I mean she was sobbing. She was so loud I could hardly hear anything else. But I thought I heard Dan Gallagher say something. I couldn’t make it out, though.

Walking back to the police station, Brady was stoked. “Witnesses saw Gallagher with Holly Lomax. They probably did coke together. Later Lomax suggested he get a massage to help him unwind. She and Mrs. R. had a plan. After Gallagher went into the studio, Lomax called Mrs. R., who called Noonan. Then Lomax slipped in and told Gallagher she had another good drug. I’m going to guess she administered it intravenously, probably between his toes where no one would see the mark. He may have protested, but Noonan couldn’t hear him. Then Lomax planted the fake ID in Gallagher’s wallet. We’ll have to subpoena phone records, but I’m betting on a Lomax-Reitbauer connection.”

“I am too,” I said. “Is Noonan in trouble?” I hoped not.

“Legally, I don’t think so. Ethically, she should have spoken up sooner. She put business before honor and protected the wrong party. Speaking of party, did you see that sign on her bulletin board? She’s hosting a Psychic Party on Saturday night. Does that mean no invitations are necessary? And do they show up by car or by teleporting?””

I said, “Do you think the Cook County coroner will find Digoxin in Matheney’s blood, too?”

Brady thought they might.

Back at the station, Mrs. Santy was gone, but Marilee Gallagher was still there. She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered hanky.

“I went over Crouch’s report with her,” Jenx said, taking Brady and me aside. “And I had her look at some photos. She recognized both Holly Lomax and Kimba Reitbauer from the homeless shelter where she volunteers in Grand Rapids. They used to come in together. Mrs. Gallagher thought they were—you know. . . .”

“Hookers? Druggies?” I offered.

“Much, much worse.” Jenx’s eyes twinkled. “Like our good coroner, she prayed for them. One day they stopped coming. She hadn’t seen them for at least eighteen months, maybe longer. Then, a few weeks ago, Holly showed up again, just to say hi. Without Kimba. She said they were in Chicago now, doing just fine. But Marilee wasn’t satisfied. She sat Kimba down and lectured her about the joys of heterosexual love.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes. Mrs. Gallagher showed her a picture of her wonderful husband. Somehow Holly managed to take it with her. Mrs. Gallagher didn’t notice it was gone until much later.”

“That’s the photo that showed up on Gordon Santy’s fake New Brunswick driver’s license!” I exclaimed.

“Which Holly Lomax planted in Dan Gallagher’s wallet right after she killed him,” said Brady. “She and Kimba were working for the Santys, who needed the world to believe that Gordon Santy was dead.”

I frowned. “Remind me why, exactly.”

“The Santys were wanted for art fraud and art theft—and likely to be implicated in Warren Matheney’s death if Lomax stayed alive. Both Santys needed to disappear. So they did, using the bodies of Gallagher and Lomax.”

“But what was in it for Kimba Reitbauer?”

Brady said, “She goes way back with the Santys. Probably used their contacts to meet her tycoon-sugar daddy. You can take the girl out of the criminal element but not the criminal element out of the girl.”

Jenx said, “The Digoxin fits, too. Marilee says Kimba used to brag that she could get her hands on any kind of prescription drug.”

“Ingrown toenail. So I took it off. Never liked these pumps anyway because the heel’s too high, but Dan said they made my legs look thinner.”

She stopped suddenly and stared at the remaining shoe. Then she kicked it off with such force that it cracked against the wall, narrowly missing Officer Roscoe, who ducked.

“Widows United for Mutual Power and Energized Renewal. We’re a national Christian support organization about to found a branch in West Michigan.”