Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (29 page)

Bart shoved his book into a rear pocket. “Am I under arrest? What for? I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“No, you’re not under arrest. We’ll discuss it at the station,” Gordon said. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

If you give us the truth.

After a quick pat-down— “for both of our protection” —Gordon put Bart in the backseat of the SUV. Technically, he should have cuffed him, but Gordon didn’t want to let the man think he’d been found out. Nor did he want him
too
comfortable, which letting him ride in front would have conveyed. Against regulations, not to mention stupid. He hoped uncuffed in back would say,
we’re not all buddy-buddy, just out for a little drive
.

He took his time settling behind the wheel, wanting to give Solomon enough time to get Kathy into the interrogation room first. Make her stew a while, get her thinking, worrying. He took the side roads to the station, noting Solomon’s vehicle in the lot. Gordon swung his SUV into his parking place. He walked Bart along the path to the main entrance to the building, through reception, and then swiped his key card through the door admitting them to the business side of things.

He hadn’t liked having to install that extra security measure, but sometimes the citizens of Mapleton felt it was their right to speak to a police officer any time they wanted, and after Mr. Johnson had barged through in the wee hours one morning, threatening to drag an officer to his place to investigate, the Town Council had insisted on the locked door. Although Gordon could understand the need, to him, it added a layer between
us
and
them
when his goal was to have the citizens trust the cops, to feel comfortable with them, to consider them protectors, not adversaries.

Gordon marched Bart down the hall to Gaubatz’s desk. “You can wait here, Mr. Bergsstrom. Can we get you something to drink? I don’t recommend the coffee, but you’re welcome to give it a shot. I’d go with the bottled water.” Gordon waited, hoping Bart would take the bait, since the man had refused anything the first time Gordon had interviewed him. The lab was comparing the prints on the tainted hot chocolate cups to the ones Gordon had gathered during interviews, and he wanted to be sure they had Bart’s as well.

Bart shrugged. “Sure. Water’s fine.”

Gordon left Bart in Gaubatz’s care while he went to the breakroom for a bottle of water. Solomon was there, studying the offerings of the vending machine. As if they were any different than they’d been for the last six months.

Solomon inserted some change, pressed some buttons and waited while a peanut crunch bar clunked into the tray. “Kathy’s in interrogation. She’s twitchy. I think she’ll talk.”

“You get anything from her on the drive?” Gordon asked.

Solomon snagged his candy and ripped open the wrapper. “No. I set the stage for being bad cop.” He bit off a chunk of the bar.

“Which you do so well,” Gordon said. “I’ll be right back. Our other guest requested water.”

Holding the bottle carefully by the bottom, he walked to Gaubatz’s desk and handed the drink to Bart. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back shortly.”

Gordon snagged Solomon, a legal pad and a pen.

Solomon shoved papers into a file folder, grabbed his laptop, and they ambled toward interrogation. “Too bad we don’t have video, or a one-way mirror like the television cops,” Solomon said. “I’d like to see what she’s doing in there.”

They paused outside the door, listening. Judging from the footfalls, Kathy was pacing the floor. With feeling. A few emphatic thumps punctuated her stomps. Pounding the table? Or the wall? Gordon put his hand on the knob.

Gordon pulled the door open a couple of inches and peered inside. Kathy was indeed pacing the width of the room, hitting the wall with the palm of a hand as she reached each side. From the looks of her disheveled hair, she’d been yanking on it with the other hand. Gordon nodded to Solomon, opened the door wider and stepped inside.

Gordon approached Kathy. “Have a seat, Miss Newberg. Did Officer Solomon offer you anything to drink?”

She shook her head. “He wouldn’t speak to me, except to tell me to wait.”

Gordon turned to his officer. “You know it’s policy to ensure our guests are comfortable.”

“Yeah, right.” Solomon rolled his eyes. “You wanna drink?” he said to Kathy. “Water? Or maybe hot chocolate?”

She straightened her spine, met his eyes. “Not now, thank you very much.”

“Please.” Gordon pulled out the chair. “Sit.” He set the recorder in the center of the table. Then he moved away, leaning against the wall, pen poised over his notepad. Solomon’s question about hot chocolate hadn’t garnered a reaction.

“A few basics to begin,” Gordon continued. He asked her date of birth, home address, how long she’d been an actress. Simple ones, designed to ease the tension.

Solomon stood across from her, dropped the file folder next to the recorder, and set up his laptop. He leaned his palms on the table’s scarred laminate surface. “What
really
happened the day you said you were in an accident?”

Her eyes popped. “I
was
in an accident. On the way to the shoot. Don’t you believe me?”

“How tall are you, Miss Newberg?” Solomon said.

She squinted. “Five-seven. Why?”

“We ask the questions.” Solomon yanked out the second chair and sat. “How long have you and Bart Bergsstrom been an item?”

She examined her fingernails, as if she’d had the answers manicured into them. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘an
item’.
We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I don’t know precisely. Maybe three months?”

“Where did you go on your first date? What’s his favorite food?”

Kathy turned confused, imploring eyes to Gordon. “Why is he asking me all these questions? What can they possibly have to do with Marianna Spellman’s murder?”

“Officer Solomon, I agree. Please, ask your questions in the prescribed and approved manner. There’s no need to upset Miss Newberg.”

Solomon, bless him, didn’t crack a smile at
prescribed and approved.

“I’m sorry, Miss Newberg,” Solomon said, his tone conveying anything but. “Will you please go over everything that happened on the day of the accident. Starting when you got up that morning. At Frank’s cabin.” He poised his fingers over the laptop’s keyboard.

Gordon watched, waited for Kathy to refute the owner of the cabin, since Solomon had apparently pulled the name out of nowhere but his creative brain. However, she merely sighed and closed her eyes. Composing herself? Recalling the script she and Bart might have prepared? Reviewing her lines?

When she opened them again, there was a difference to her demeanor. Not quite the same Kathy Newberg. “We woke up at six and showered.” She gave both Gordon and Solomon a weak smile. “Do you want the details of that, as well?”

“I think we’re fine. Six o’clock. Shower. Go on.” Gordon started a timeline on his notepad.

“I fixed us breakfast.” She paused.

Solomon gave her what she was waiting for. “Which was?”

“Eggs and sausage,” she said with a triumphant head shake. Back on script, Gordon thought.

“How did you fix the eggs? What kind of sausage?” Solomon asked.

She paused, as if trying to remember. “Fried eggs. Link sausage.”

“That’s it?” Solomon said. “No toast? Juice? Coffee?”

Kathy pursed her lips in and out. “Well, of course we had coffee. That’s automatic. And orange juice. We hadn’t brought much food with us, and we were using up what was left. I cleaned the kitchen and straightened up the living room. Bart took care of packing and cleaning the bedroom and bathroom.”

“Nice of him,” Gordon said. “Most guys don’t like cleaning bathrooms.”

“Well, the place belonged to
his
friend.”

“Fred,” Gordon said.

From the frown on Kathy’s face, he might have pushed too far.

“I never asked his name, and if Bart mentioned it, I don’t remember.”

Good save, Kathy
.

“Okay, so you had breakfast, cleaned up, packed, and then hit the road. What time?” Gordon asked.

She wrinkled her brow. “I think it was about eight. Not before that. Maybe more like eight-thirty.”

“Then, you headed out for Mapleton. Can you run us through the accident, please?” Gordon said.

“I was driving. Bart was messing with his cell phone. He complained about the bad reception a couple of times. The road was all curvy, and maybe I was driving close to the center line. I was afraid I might go over the edge of the mountain. But I was
not
on the wrong side of the road. I went around a tight curve, and the sun hit my eyes, and the next thing I knew, this car came across the line and we spun out, and then we went to the hospital.” Her head drooped for several seconds. Then she lifted her gaze and blinked several times. She rubbed her fingertips against her forehead. “Things are a little fuzzy.”

“A bonk on the head will do that. It seems to be much better now, though,” Gordon said.

Solomon stood. “Very nice, Miss Newman. Now, back to my original question. How about you tell us what
really
happened.”

“What … what are you talking about?” Kathy said. But the downcast eyes and catch in her voice said she knew.

“Tell you what,” Gordon said. “Let’s take a short break while I have a few words with my partner.”

Relief spread across Kathy’s face. Fine. Gordon would let her think he was going to come down on Solomon for pushing her. She could worry about things while they talked to Bart. Gordon nodded to Solomon, who grabbed his laptop and rose. The men left Kathy while Gordon laid out his strategy.

“I want to get Bart in here, see how much of his story jibes with hers.”

“Let him think she’s sold him out, you mean,” Solomon said. “I’m getting hinky vibes. Half the time, she’s rattling stuff off like it’s rehearsed, the other half, she’s trying to make stuff up to fill in holes. I doubt their stories will line up perfectly if they’ve fabricated what happened.”

“Agreed. I think Bart will be a tougher nut to crack, so I’d like to get started now that we have details to confront him with.”

Gordon returned to the interview and told Kathy they were done for now. He held her beyond the workroom door, where Bart wouldn’t pass them as Solomon escorted him to interrogation. Once they were out of sight, he seated Kathy in the chair Bart had vacated. Next, he went to a supply cabinet and took out a fresh legal tablet and a clipboard.

“Pen?” he asked Gaubatz. The officer opened his desk drawer, fished around, and came up with one. Gordon handed the pen and tablet to Kathy. “I want you to write down everything that happened on Thursday. Make sure it’s the truth, because we know how to check these things.”

Without looking at him, Kathy propped the clipboard and paper on her lap and started writing, her lips flattened. From the way the pen raced across the paper, Gordon felt they’d get an accurate accounting of her side of the story. And probably a few not-so-kind words about Bart Bergsstrom. He headed to interrogation where Bart sat across from Solomon, who was fiddling with his laptop.

“Thanks for your patience, Mr. Bergsstrom,” Gordon said. “Kathy was very helpful. If you’re as forthcoming as she was, we should be done in no time.” He made a point of activating his recorder.

Bart licked his lips and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Start at the beginning. Can you run us through what happened the morning of your accident?”

“Back up. I want to get this all down.” Solomon tapped his keyboard. “First, who owns the Evergreen place where you were staying? A formality, of course, but at this point in an investigation, it’s critical that we can verify even the tiniest detail.”

“Sure. His name is Steve Bigelow. If I had my phone, I could give you his contact information.”

“Thanks.” Gordon wrote the name down. “We can find it.”

“I’ll get it.” Solomon clicked away. A moment later, still focused on the screen, he said, “There is a property listing for a Stephen Bigelow in Evergreen. We’ll call him later.” He gave a pointed glare in Bart’s direction. “Next question. What time did you get up on the morning of the accident?”

Gordon and Solomon took turns asking the first few questions, and Bart fielded them all. Then again, asking his height, home address, and date of birth weren’t stumpers.

“You had sausage and eggs for breakfast, right?” Gordon said. “Who cooked?”

“Kathy,” Bart answered without hesitation. “I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”

Solomon peeked in the folder, as if it held a transcription of Kathy’s testimony. “And the eggs were scrambled, right?”

This time, Bart hesitated for a second or two. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“And the sausage? How many patties did you eat?”

“Three pieces, as I recall. But I call them links, not patties.”

“Links. Right.” Solomon clicked away. “I’m no gourmet. I call everything sausage.”

The easygoing expression on Solomon’s face morphed into a stern frown. “Enough of the small talk, Mr. Bergsstrom. You’ve got one chance to tell me the truth, and I’ll see what I can do to make things go easy for you.”

Bart blinked, curled his hands around the edge of the table. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

“Get real, Mr. Bergsstrom.” Gordon leaned halfway across the table. “You think because Mapleton is a small town, nothing like your big city with all its crime, that we cops don’t know how to do anything but help little old ladies across the street? We’re trained professionals. And you know what else? We communicate with each other. Like the state patrol officer who gave you a ticket going
to
Evergreen. In a car all by yourself. Where was Kathy then? Care to explain?”

Bart seemed to collapse, like an ice cream cone dropped on the sidewalk on a hot August afternoon. “Um …”

“No, don’t bother thinking up an explanation.” Gordon was done playing nice cop. “Little piece of advice here. Telling the truth means you don’t have to remember all the lies you make up.”

“Okay, fine. I got up early to talk to a guy in Denver. A major opportunity. Could mean a huge boost to my career. Only I didn’t want Kathy to know about it, because she might have wanted in, and—” he lowered his voice, as if he thought she might overhear— “she doesn’t have the chops, and I didn’t want her feelings to get hurt. I hung around, waited, but the guy never showed. By the time I gave up—and found my way to the right road, no thanks to the crappy GPS in the rental—I had to haul ass. And, just my luck, a cop tags me for speeding.”

“Can you verify you had an appointment with this mysterious person in Denver?” Solomon asked.