Killing Frost Read online

  That did it.

  ‘Of course.’

  If Holcomb sought a career in politics as a Democrat, he would need Jennifer Bailey’s support. She was not only highly respected by the base and could rally the black vote, as a former attorney general she had to be privy to a lot of information that could either help or damage a rising star.

  ‘Was Alexandra Fournier, who was on your civilian oversight committee, particularly interested in a specific case or cases?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘You think her death might be connected to our investigations?’ He picked up a carafe of water and with ceremonial formality poured two glasses. It was clear Holcomb wanted control of the conversation. Shanahan knew the technique from his intelligence days. Holcomb was a lawyer, wasn’t he? Shanahan thought. Basic instinct.

  ‘I have no idea. However, among all her associations, all her board and charity work, her work with you—’

  ‘With the committee,’ he said, interrupting.

  ‘—has the greatest capacity to generate highly passionate opinions in cases where police, prone to violence, are the prime players.’

  ‘Provided there were problems.’ He sat back.

  ‘It’s a political minefield.’

  ‘Can be, I suppose. I don’t recall any significant disagreements.’

  ‘Maybe there are others on the committee who have a different perspective.’

  He leaned forward again. ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

  ‘Unless it’s a rubber-stamp committee, there would have to be divisive cases. Because there are cops involved and their careers and pensions are on the line and because there are both bleeding-heart liberals and law-and-order-at-any-cost conservatives on your committee, there would have to be disagreements about the disposition of cases, Mr Holcomb. So I’ll ask you again. Are you going to help us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘My client. Miss Bailey, and me.’

  Holcomb looked at his watch. If Shanahan had that watch, he’d hock it and buy Maureen a new car.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ Holcomb asked.

  ‘I’ve got a crowded afternoon.’ Shanahan lied to counter the lawyer’s attempt at misdirection. He no doubt wanted time to think about what he should and should not say.

  ‘I can have it sent up.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You mind if I go ahead?’

  He went to his desk, picked up the phone. ‘Chicken salad on rye. Yogurt.’ He headed back to the sofa. ‘Now, let’s start over.’

  Starting over was OK with Shanahan. More time. Less tension. Considering the expensive office and attire, Shanahan was using up a very expensive attorney’s time, probably billed in excess of a thousand an hour. That’s why he was squeezing it in over lunch. It didn’t matter to Shanahan. The old detective relented.

  ‘I didn’t realize there was so much profit in criminal law,’ Shanahan said, making a broad gesture to the office.

  ‘There are rich criminals,’ Holcomb said, smiling.

  ‘But they so rarely get caught.’

  ‘We tend to take on white-collar crime cases here. It’s a specialty. A different approach than an assault or drug charge. And we do other things as well.’

  ‘So tell me if there are some explosive cases that should be looked into.’

  Holcomb’s take – ‘and you didn’t get this from me,’ he said, promising to deny it if need be – was that there was only one case generating the kind of high heat that could lead to homicide. Officer Leonard Card, a member of IMPD’s Criminal Gang Unit, and twenty years on the job, killed a young black kid, who according to subsequent investigation had no gang connections. Card had a history of abuse charges and had been involved in other deaths, for which he had been cleared. Then again, as Shanahan knew, most of these cases are just for show. Police, even more than most closed societies – doctors, firefighters and judges, for example – protect their own.

  Shanahan would run this by a couple of other randomly chosen members on the committee to see if Holcomb left out anything or anyone important.

  Next stop, Second Chance Community. According to Bailey, while police oversight was her duty – an unpleasant but necessary task – her sister was devoted to SCC. She founded the organization. It was her and her late husband’s legacy.

  EIGHT

  Descending from the gilt-edged environs of Daniel Holcomb in the heart of the increasingly high-rise downtown to the flea-market décor of Second Chance Community could cause the bends in a more sensitive man. Shanahan had no trouble with the transition. The manager of SCC, Margaret Tice, was twice the size of Mr Holcomb. Other than her sturdiness, she was unremarkable. Her face was without age lines. Her eyes were small and did not peer into Shanahan’s soul or allow a glimpse into her own. Her lips never found a smile or any other emotion. She was, on the other hand, matter-of-factly open and helpful.

  She showed Shanahan around.

  ‘There are several old houses on what we call the campus. We have recreation areas, a place to play basketball, a softball diamond, some class rooms, though our boys and girls attend public school if at all possible.’

  Shanahan followed her outside. Across the street were dilapidated houses, some boarded up. And down on the corner was a cluster of shops, probably once a small grocery and maybe a dry cleaners and hardware. All were closed except for the liquor store.

  ‘Some of the kids live here?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Most are unadoptable and have run through the foster care programs.’

  ‘Troublemakers?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘The troubled ones.’ She had corrected him, but her tone suppressed any hint of admonition. ‘We keep them busy. The houses across the street are going to be torn down. Mrs Fournier bought the land, was going to lease it to us for a dollar a year. We’re turning it into a community garden. Probably more like a farm. Corn, tomatoes, all sorts of produce.’

  ‘In the middle of the city,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Turning things around.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.

  ‘School.’

  Shanahan looked at his watch. ‘So you have a couple of hours of quiet this time of day.’

  ‘Always things to do.’

  ‘Can you tell me about Nicky Hernandez?’ He followed her.

  They entered one of the indoor recreation areas, an old living room/parlor with a ping-pong table, a couple of beat-up sofas, card tables, a big screen TV in each room. Two old computers perched on another table.

  ‘You know,’ she said, sitting on the arm of a sofa, ‘when your family treats you like crap from the day you’re born and all the people outside treat you like crap – clerks, cops, teachers – it’s damn hard not to turn out as anything but crap.’

  ‘Nicky?’

  ‘He was at the door to a new life. The door was open. And he almost made it.’ She shook her head. ‘He had that spark. He could’ve made it.’

  ‘Mrs Fournier?’

  ‘She believed in him. She believed in all of them. But Nicky turned seventeen. He didn’t have much time left here. They have to go at eighteen. She hired him to do odd jobs. Build some savings, start references for a resume.’

  ‘Was that the first time he did yard work for her?’

  ‘No. He did her yard from spring to winter for some years. In the winter he shoveled snow. Rain or shine he’d be there once a week. Wednesdays. Every Wednesday. Early in the morning. She … Mrs Fournier was a creature of habit.’

  ‘How did he get there?’

  ‘She’d pick him up. She’d come by early. Real early.’

  ‘It must be tough losing them both.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Without Mrs Fournier, how will this all keep going?’

  ‘It’s set up to do what we do. It’s solid. Endowments. Trusts. But without her we won’t have her guidance, her influence in the community.’

  ‘You have no idea why anyone would want t
o kill her?’

  ‘No. Or him,’ she said. ‘Good people. No harm to anyone them being alive. I simply don’t understand.’

  ‘Could I see his room?’

  ‘His bed,’ she said. ‘No one has rooms except the staff.’

  Shanahan was surprised. He was running out of breath. His steps were shorter. She had to slow down a not particularly fast gait so he could catch up. He hadn’t done anything strenuous. But now, as he thought about it, this was his first day out.

  The steps to the second floor were hard and he had to stop to catch his breath on the landing, where the stairway turned.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Just time catching up with me.’

  ‘The police were here,’ she said. ‘Didn’t stay long.’

  There was a bed with a wool blanket and a trunk. Just like basic training, he remembered. There was a padlock on what the Army called a ‘footlocker.’

  ‘You mind?’ He knelt down and pulled a small leather case from his pocket and from that a slender metal tool. She didn’t object. A couple of pairs of jeans. T-shirts. Sweatshirts. A clean pair of athletic shoes. Some toiletries in a plastic bag. A picture calendar – one of the freebies from a travel agency. Sunsets, palm trees and a page to write in appointments. Shanahan thumbed through it as best he could with his half-numb left hand and its nearly useless fingers. ‘Mrs Fournier’ was penciled in several of the little boxes, every Wednesday throughout the year, including the day Nicky Hernandez was killed.

  ‘Police didn’t take anything?’ Shanahan asked, using the footlocker to help himself stand. Even then his arms shook. Muscles in his arms and legs refused to live up to his expectations. He faltered and nearly fell. She caught him, held onto his arms, until he felt balance and strength return. What an embarrassment.

  ‘They didn’t really seem interested,’ she said, still appraising his condition. ‘I think they write off these kids. The ones that end up here just don’t seem to be worth the effort.’

  Shanahan found his balance – enough of it, at least, to stand without help.

  ‘You’re old enough to remember those Saturday Evening Post magazine covers where the policeman is giving a lost young boy an ice-cream cone.’

  Margaret walked him to the car. ‘It was a fairy tale, even then,’ she said, ‘certainly in the poor, black neighborhoods.’

  Harold, perhaps sensing something was wrong, got out and opened the back door. Margaret looked puzzled. The Lexus wasn’t quite a limo, but looked pretty upscale for the neighborhood. And Shanahan didn’t look like he was to the manor born.

  ‘I think we’ll end a little early today,’ Shanahan said to Harold. He was running on empty.

  NINE

  Shanahan opened his eyes. Daylight was gone. There was a sharp-edged triangle of light on the hardwood floor. It was all disorienting for a moment.

  ‘Want a whiskey?’ Maureen asked, kindly but uncharacte‌ristically. Her shadow took up part of the triangle.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A couple of hours. I came in. You were sitting there, straight up, head bowed. I checked to see if you were dead.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes. This is heaven. Funny though, I thought heaven would be snazzier. Whiskey?’

  ‘Thanks. No.’

  ‘Must’ve been a bad day.’

  ‘Just more of it than I counted on.’

  She headed back toward the kitchen.

  ‘Wait, Maureen.’ She turned. ‘You thought heaven would be snazzy?’

  ‘Snazzy. Yes. You?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought there’d be a swimming pool, at least.’

  He debated calling Jennifer Bailey and begging off the case. Instead he found himself asking her who was Holcomb’s opposite number on the oversight committee.

  ‘Regina Thompkins,’ Bailey said without hesitation. ‘She’s going to run for mayor.’

  ‘And so is Holcomb,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the winner is …’

  ‘Too early to tell if they’ll get the nominations. But she’s willing to go all the way to the right to get one. There’s always a chance she’ll go too far. And because Holcomb can be all things to all people, she’d like it to be anyone but him. You think this is political? The deaths?’

  ‘Just need to know what motivates people. There’s potential for a connection on your sister’s police oversight committee.’

  ‘Let me know. And don’t mention my name to Mrs Thompkins. We’re not on friendly terms.’

  Shanahan followed up with phone calls to Mrs Thompkins. Couldn’t get in. She wasn’t in. She would get back to him. She was in a meeting. She would get back to him. On a conference call. She would get back to him.

  He got in touch with Kowalski, who agreed that for a minor fee he would have his assistant run down some information. On Leonard Card, the cop, Daniel Holcomb, the defense attorney, Mrs Thompkins, the busy real estate agent and housewife, Judge Fournier, Jennifer Baily and perhaps her driver and bodyguard, Harold.

  Just before noon, Shanahan thought Mrs Thompkins was due for an ambush. Maureen plucked her photo from the city government’s web page. She was the perfect embodiment of a professional Republican woman. A red, tailored jacket, harshly drawn eyebrows, very red lips and very disciplined blonde hair that might have been a helmet.

  She wouldn’t be easy.

  ‘Scary,’ he said.

  ‘What’s scary?’

  ‘Her. Her hair. It’s too scared to move.’

  Maureen laughed. ‘Listen, she’s in real estate. I’ve picked a couple of expensive homes. She’s the listing agent. That means she gets a bundle of money if she sells it herself. So pick a property she listed and ask her about it, push to see her. Then, do your magic.’

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, but not necessarily magical.’ He felt a little light-headed, but this was common after taking his morning pills. The feeling would last maybe thirty minutes.

  Before Harold picked him up at noon, Shanahan received a call from a young woman, Kowalski’s assistant, with some information: the address of the cop under investigation; his background, which included a number of abuse complaints and his scores on various tests, including those from the firing range. Shanahan drew the profile of a lazy cop lifer who was a natural bully, not exceedingly bright and who couldn’t have pulled off the murder of Alexandra Fournier. The messenger passed along a request that Shanahan stop by Kowalski’s place before calling it a day.

  Harold took a sip of his coffee before backing down the drive. Neither driver nor passenger was the talkative type, and Shanahan figured he had gotten all he could from him. He hoped Harold’s few missing years would be less mysterious after the afternoon meeting with Kowalski.

  ‘Where to?’

  Shanahan told him.

  Leonard Card lived on Lincoln Road in an area known as Wynnedale. The house was a ranch-style home, wood frame on three sides with a strange brick and limestone face behind overgrown shrubbery. Drapery over the picture window had been pulled closed. A slightly banged up, gray Jeep Cherokee was in the drive. Behind it was a dirty, silver or gray, late-model Malibu.

  Harold parked in front, busied himself with his computer as Shanahan made his way to the front door.

  Leonard Card looked nothing like Shanahan thought he would. From his record, Shanahan pictured a dark, hairy thickset guy with blood-shot eyes. What he saw was a tall, thin, fit man with a shaved head, piercing blue eyes and a substantial, hooked nose. He looked like a bird of prey. Instead of a taciturn dullness, he appeared sharp, aware. Dangerous.

  ‘Yeah?’ He looked out over Shanahan’s shoulder, no doubt picking up on Harold.

  That was probably good.

  ‘Dietrich Shanahan, private investigator.’

  ‘I don’t want any,’ he said, stepping back, ready to shut the door.

  ‘How do you know?’


  The answer was a silent sullen stare. A cop’s default expression, the look didn’t mean much.

  ‘You going to make it through the hearing?’ Shanahan asked. ‘I understand the kid you killed wasn’t a gang member.’

  Card’s eyes went back out to the Lexus. ‘Who’s he?’ Card asked.

  ‘My keeper,’ Shanahan said. ‘I’m looking into things. Maybe I’ll turn up something that will help. Maybe I’ll turn up something that won’t.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘Someone who wants to see things turn out right. That kind of thing help you?’

  ‘Right is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘You wanna talk?’ Shanahan asked.

  Card didn’t blink. He just shut the door.

  ‘You have trouble making friends,’ Harold said, handing Shanahan a slip of paper. The detective shut the car door as his chauffeur started the engine.

  The name ‘Samantha Byers’ was written out as well as an address in South Bend, Indiana. In fact it was on US Highway 31.

  ‘The silver Malibu,’ Harold said, shutting the lid to his laptop. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Keystone and eighty-sixth.’

  Lots of trees in the neighborhood, Shanahan thought. The quick and brutal cold wave of a few weeks ago had taken its toll. Some of the older trees, especially the ones that bore fruit, weren’t going to make it. Death lingered under bright, rich colors.

  ‘Anything else on Samantha?’

  ‘Absolutely zero. Good girl, it seems.’

  ‘Can’t be too good if she’s with Card.’

  Mrs Thompkins’s office, as nice as it was, seemed downmarket compared to Daniel Holcomb’s. She was obviously fond of straight lines and bold colors.

  ‘What brought you to us, Mr Shanahan?’ she asked as she escorted him to a glass-topped table. Two chairs faced a large-screen computer. He sat in one. She remained standing.

  ‘The house in William’s Creek I mentioned to your assistant,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Shanahan said. ‘I like to focus on the business at hand. How firm is the price?’

  She sat beside him, clicked some keys until the $3.2 million home popped up.