Killing Frost Page 2

  ‘I have no idea why you called the police. You have it all figured out. You wouldn’t happen to have him locked in a cell inside, would you?’

  ‘Maybe we could just wait for homicide.’

  The officer put his notebook in his shirt pocket, retrieved his cuffs and asked Shanahan to turn around. Shanahan felt the cool metal on his wrists, heard the click.

  ‘Maybe you feel a little less in charge this way, Mr …?’ He turned Shanahan back around so they were facing each other again.

  ‘Shanahan. Ask away.’

  ‘How do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  ‘She thought maybe I could help her.’

  ‘Help her in what way?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  MacGregor called out to one of the officers, told him to search the house.

  ‘Warrant?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘Scene of the crime. Suspect right here.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to wait for someone who knows about these things?’

  The medical examiner arrived, looked around awhile before focusing on the body.

  ‘Anything you want to tell us before we go in?’ MacGregor asked. ‘Maybe you have a firearm?’

  ‘I do. A forty-five.’

  ‘You have a permit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fired recently?’

  ‘No. And your victim was shot with a smaller caliber.’

  ‘There you go again.’

  Another big black four-door pulled up in front. There weren’t that many homicide cops. Shanahan knew a few of them, including Lieutenant Swann, who plucked his suit jacket from the back seat and put it on as he walked up the slight hill. Shanahan felt better. Unless he’d changed more than the few extra pounds since he’d last seen him, this was a good sign. Swann was a by-the-book-cop. Sometimes frustrating, it was a reliable characteristic. The cop, on the other hand, wasn’t surprised or particularly happy to see Shanahan.

  Swann changed his route halfway to the front of Mrs Fournier’s Buick, where MacGregor and Shanahan stood. The lieutenant spoke with the medical examiner. It was brief. Shanahan knew why. It wasn’t complicated. Though a more complete examination would be made, it was likely the examiner, and now Swann, knew the cause of death and generally where the bullet came from. Swann picked up the woman’s purse on his way.

  ‘Would you tell Officer MacGregor that I won’t hurt him?’ Shanahan asked Swann, turning so the handcuffs would be visible.

  Swann nodded. MacGregor, obviously unhappy, freed him.

  ‘He was acting in a disrespectful manner,’ MacGregor said.

  ‘That is his manner,’ Swann said. ‘He’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘Kind of a dill pickle,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Hold up there, guys,’ Swann yelled at the uniforms headed for Shanahan’s front door. ‘Forget the house. Down the hill, straight down before you spread out both ways. Look for shell casings, .22 probably. Check for any signs of someone having settled in.’ He pointed straight down, then looked at Shanahan. ‘Small bullet, straight in. Judging by how she fell and the entrance angle of the bullet. The only way you could believe this was an accidental shooting by a squirrel hunter is to believe that you will win the lottery.’

  Young MacGregor glanced at Shanahan, no doubt waiting for the ‘I told you so.’ Shanahan remained quiet.

  ‘Get some help,’ Swann said to MacGregor, ‘and start talking to the neighbors. Put Fisher in charge of the weeds. I’ll take Shanahan.’

  MacGregor gave both of them a respectful nod.

  Shanahan didn’t mind making enemies, but it wasn’t a goal.

  Inside, Swann went to the fireplace, leaned against the mantlepiece to make a call. Shanahan was pretty sure he was calling the higher ups. Shanahan went to the kitchen to do the same.

  ‘Maureen, do you have a few minutes you can squeeze into your schedule?’

  ‘What do I get out of it?’

  ‘A rum and tonic or a pint of pistachio gelato.’

  ‘Strike the “or” in our contract.’

  ‘I need information, as much as I can get on an Alexandra Fournier. Where she works or worked. Organizations she belonged to. Religion, politics, education, friends and family, favorite charities, passionate interests. Do your Google thing and fax back what you find.’

  ‘Fax? We might still have a carrier pigeon around here somewhere.’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t eaten it.’

  ‘That will cost you a bottle of good wine. Is there anything else I can put on your tab?’

  ‘I’ve learned my lesson.’

  ‘So she showed up? You have work?’

  ‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ Shanahan said as Swann appeared in the doorway. ‘Dinner is on, right?’

  ‘Same lady?’ Swann asked, nodding to the phone as Shanahan slid the phone into the charger.

  ‘Very same.’

  ‘Good,’ Swann said. ‘She’s too good for you.’

  ‘I try to keep that fact from her.’

  They went back into the living room, where Shanahan explained what little information he had. He brought up Jennifer Bailey’s name as a reference. That meant something to the lieutenant. Being the only woman to hold that office – and a black holding high political office in Indiana at that – there was a certain celebrity associated with her name. She was also still active in public affairs and still respected, which meant she had a bit of power in the community as well. If she called a press conference, the media would show up.

  She was also first on the list of people Shanahan wanted to talk to.

  Swann excused himself and with phone in his hand stepped out onto the front porch. He wasn’t gone but for a moment.

  ‘Collins is on his way out.’ Collins ran the Homicide Division, as far as Shanahan knew. But how the police department was organized was a mystery in itself. Swann was pretty high up. Collins was higher. The victim was likely important in some way. This wasn’t the standard homicide unit.

  The moment was awkward.

  ‘Didn’t you used to have a dog?’ Swann asked.

  ‘And a cat. Got old. Rough year.’

  Swann nodded.

  The house was quiet, suddenly hollow. Before he died, Shanahan’s old Catahoula hound used to plunk down on the rug in front of the fireplace and Einstein the cat, who lived to be twenty, usually found the sunniest spot to nap. Sometimes, Shanahan thought he still saw them from time to time – a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Guess I’ll see what the boys are doing.’ Swann looked uncomfortable. He went out front, stood in the middle of the front yard, perhaps on some level – personal, professional, cosmic – to make sense of it all.

  THREE

  Swann and Collins couldn’t be more different. Swann wore a suit because he had to. However, on him, it looked like an afterthought. Collins wore a suit because he liked to look good. That was how Shanahan interpreted the dowdy, plodding white cop and the stylish, energetic black one. Shanahan had worked with them both in the past. As far as cops went, Shanahan could’ve done worse. Swann was thorough. Collins had a quick, open mind.

  ‘How is it you get involved in these things?’ Collins asked. ‘Are you the only fucking PI in the city?’ He smiled at the universe. ‘What are the odds?’

  ‘You don’t love me anymore?’ Shanahan went to the window. He could see dozens of blue uniforms scurrying about below.

  ‘I do, Shanahan. I do. But why you? Why always you?’ He went to the sofa, held the creases to his crisply pressed pants as he sat. ‘All right. Unless something pops out of the blue, this is the simplest, most straightforward crime scene I’ve ever come across. If we rule out accident, we’ve got a professional hit or a gunshot from a highly talented amateur. And then … that’s it. A big, dark hole. By the way, Fournier, if you don’t know already, is Jennifer Bailey’s sister. So this’ – Collins’ arms spread wide �
�� ‘is the calm before the storm.’

  Shanahan did know. Maureen’s fax arrived while Swann was outside managing the swarm of uniforms before Collins arrived. Alexandra Fournier didn’t have the celebrity of her sister, but she was no slouch in the power-behind-the-scenes department. She headed the task force for civilian oversight of the police force. She was the founder of an organization to help kids with juvenile crime backgrounds get educational grants. She was a member of the board of several charities involving children, animals and those otherwise dispossessed. Her husband, a judge, died five years ago of a heart attack. Shanahan didn’t volunteer the information for two reasons. He wasn’t sure he should get involved and he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to get involved. This was an active murder investigation. But he wanted in. He’d like to have their OK, even if it wasn’t official.

  Shanahan continued to look out of the window.

  ‘You see a flash?’ Collins asked.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. Too bright outside.’

  ‘Hear anything? A pop?’

  Shanahan tapped the glass in the window. ‘Double paned. Eco-friendly.’

  ‘Penny pincher,’ Collins said.

  ‘Why am I part of your little gathering?’ Shanahan asked. Swann looked at Collins, no doubt eager to get the answer as well.

  ‘You are our only witness,’ Collins said. ‘It’s more comfortable in here, even without your offer to make some coffee, than it is outside. And I know, as sure as I know Swann will object, that you won’t be able to stay out of it.’ Swann bowed his head and gave it a subtle shake of unhappy submission. ‘You also have a relationship with Miss Bailey.’

  ‘Not necessarily a good one. Coffee?’ Shanahan asked, aware now that while Swann would still keep Shanahan at arm’s length, Collins would bend the rules if need be.

  ‘How thoughtful,’ Collins said.

  It was true what Maureen said. ‘You want things the way they used to be.’

  He couldn’t and wouldn’t argue. He didn’t like computers or smart phones. He resented microwaves and electric can openers. He wouldn’t use GPS or ATMs. The only modern, if you could call it that, convenience that gained his approval was the TV remote.

  So, when it came to restaurants, the demise of so many of the regulars limited his choice. If it was to be Italian, the choice was easy for him. Iaria’s or Amici’s. Both had been around for a while, and both served simple bona fide Italian food: some sort of pasta and sauce. Certainly nothing hard to pronounce, though he’d have to admit Maureen had expanded his vocabulary with regard to menus of various ethnic origins.

  He chose Amici’s because they were cabbing it and Amici’s was closer. It was almost too dark in the small, crowded dining room. Shanahan always thought this out-of-the-way place was a perfect rendezvous for cheating couples. With a beautiful, younger woman across from him, sipping deep red wine, he could imagine himself in an illicit dalliance rather than with the well-established love of his life.

  ‘Did you sell the house?’ Shanahan asked. They didn’t talk in the taxi.

  ‘I’m getting an offer tomorrow.’

  He started to say something suggestive, but backed off. The wine was making itself known right away, and he had downed a couple of shots of bourbon before Maureen got home, only moments after the last remnants of the crime scene had been removed.

  ‘Yesss?’ she said picking up on what hadn’t been spoken.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said instead.

  ‘Not at all adventurous, tonight?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Chicken parmesan, right?’

  ‘I’ve had enough adventure for the day.’

  ‘We could have stayed home and I could have opened a can of SpaghettiOs.’

  ‘I kind of like it this way. Candlelight, the scent of freshly baked bread, a hearty wine, a beautiful woman and a job.’

  ‘A job? When?’

  ‘Now. I don’t know if it pays yet, but I have work.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Murder.’

  Maureen’s face went blank. ‘What?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Where? When?’

  ‘In our driveway. This afternoon.’

  FOUR

  Maureen couldn’t sleep. She was full of questions. The answers, as much as Shanahan was able to provide, spawned wild speculation and still more questions. Shanahan was tired and inadequate.

  ‘When are you going to talk to Jennifer Bailey?’ Maureen didn’t know her, but knew of her, heard the tales.

  ‘I don’t know. Her sister is just a few hours dead. What’s the etiquette?’

  Shanahan didn’t have to fret about protocol. Bailey called him at seven a.m., dragging him out of bed. Shanahan left a languid, sleeping Maureen in her oblivion and picked up the phone. He tried to sound awake. He walked as she talked, pushing the button on the coffee maker as he did.

  ‘Why did my sister want to talk to you?’

  ‘I was hoping you could fill me in on that one.’

  ‘You didn’t speak at all?’

  ‘She didn’t quite make it to the door,’ Shanahan said perhaps a little too coldly. He had wanted to give his condolences, but the time had already passed and her tone didn’t invite sentiment or intimacy.

  ‘I don’t like talking on the phone.’ They had that in common. ‘Could you come out and see me?’ she asked with all the subtlety of a direct order.

  ‘I don’t drive anymore.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, making the word sound like a thud.

  ‘I’ll find …’

  ‘My car will pick you up nine. Is that OK?’

  ‘I can do that.’ He wanted to explain, but she had already disconnected.

  Jennifer Bailey, a bony, slender body in a gray tailored suit, was built like her sister. How else they shared physical resemblance, he didn’t know. After not finding a pulse, he purposefully didn’t look at the victim’s face. He had enough experience with dead bodies to know she was dead and enough experience with dead bodies not to add another face to the list.

  ‘You don’t have a car?’ she asked as he slid in beside her in the back seat of a big Lexus.

  ‘License. Brain surgery, possible seizures.’

  ‘You plan to work?’

  The driver, a heavy-set black man with silver hair and wearing a gray suit as well, did his best not to pay attention.

  ‘I hadn’t until your sister called.’

  ‘You were going to take her case.’

  ‘Probably not, but telling her “no” on the telephone turned out to be an option not on the table. In person, I thought she might be able to figure it out.’

  Jennifer Bailey smiled. ‘And as a favor to me? Thank you. Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How’s your thinking?’

  ‘Others are going to have to evaluate that.’

  ‘So far so good,’ she said to Shanahan. And then, louder, ‘Harold, up to the Butler area.’

  ‘Would your sister tell you if she was in trouble?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘I was surprised she wanted a recommendation for a PI.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you why?’

  ‘She didn’t, but that wasn’t unexpected. We lived separate lives.’

  ‘You two like each other?’

  ‘You remain a smart aleck, but it is a good question, I’ll give you that. We were competitive. That trumped a lot of things. We didn’t share our innermost feelings.’

  ‘But you talked?’

  ‘Sure, there was family, her daughter, her daughter’s children.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  She smiled. ‘I didn’t kill her, Mr Shanahan. We rarely argued. I think we held a view of the world in common.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That some folks just want to get by, be left alone. That some want more than they are entitled to and will do what they have to do to get it, whatever it is, and some are victims because they are too trusting, want to
be liked, or just not too bright. She and I both wanted to level things a bit, though in different ways, she through good works and I through the law.’

  It wasn’t the first time she thought about that.

  There was a moment of quiet as the car angled left from Emerson to Kessler Boulevard, where it angled north and west and where the neighborhood’s average household income began to climb.

  ‘Why me?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘I think you’re a bit like us,’ she said. ‘Only you have to be nudged a little bit. She asked me to find someone to help her. Someone she could trust. She emphasized trust over everything else.’

  ‘Including competence.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said looking him squarely in the eyes. ‘Did that hurt?’

  ‘I’m not as fragile as I look. No other clue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  ‘She intimated that it would be best if I played no part in this. Whatever it was.’

  ‘Or is.’

  ‘Or is. I’m not sure how far I want to go with this, but, for now, I’d like for you to find out why she wanted to hire you. Just why. I want to be clear. I’m not hiring you to complete her investigation, just find out what that investigation was about.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can. It’s most likely a murder investigation.’

  ‘Technically I’m not hiring you to find her murderer, but simply what was bothering her. A thin line, I know, but I can make it work, Mr Shanahan. I still have some connections. If you’re game.’ She gave Harold the address and the car headed into the Butler–Tarkington neighborhood.

  ‘The police won’t like our looking around the victim’s home before they do.’

  ‘They won’t know.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We have an hour and a half before they arrive. I’m scheduled to meet them on the front porch at eleven.’

  The city’s north side up from 38th Street was thick with green lawns and multicolored leaves, some of them twittering to earth as the Lexus drove by. The homes, many of them decent-sized brick structures, were built in what Maureen called the Tudor style.

  ‘I don’t remember when it was the Tudors invaded Indianapolis, but they left their mark,’ she told him once. Realty humor. It was true. These sturdy-looking, pointy brick and stone homes were everywhere and came in all sizes. Miniature towers, slate roofs. However, on the quiet street where Alexandra Fournier lived, there was greater variety of styles and they ranged from modest, single-level frame homes to not-quite mansions. Fournier’s home fell into the latter category and it wasn’t Tudor, but a handsome, unfussy, red-brick, two-story colonial. In front were a mature holly tree and a sapling of some sort. Sculpted evergreens stood on either side of the small porch.