Lloyd Corricelli - Ronan Marino 01 - Two Redheads & a Dead Blonde (6 page)

“She went to her apartment, and I went home to bed.”

“Can anyone verify this?”

“No, can you?”

“We’re asking the questions,” Garcia interjected.

I could feel his eyes on me, another common tactic used to make the suspect feel subordinate and break him down.

“Did you and the deceased do any illicit drugs last night?”

This came right out of left field. “No, why?”

“You’re lying. I found a used syringe inside her car that field-tested positive for coke and heroin,” Morley said.

“You like the speedballs, Ronan?” Garcia asked.

“I don’t know where that could have come from.”

“So if we searched you, there won’t be any track marks?”

“You could try, but I told you I don’t use and, as far as I know, neither did she.”

“Uh huh. We also found a used condom wrapper on the back floorboard. Did you have sexual intercourse with her last night?”

That pissed me off, though it shouldn’t have. I would have asked the same question.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything? It’s pretty obvious from what you’re telling me that her death is suspicious, but you’re wasting precious time looking in the wrong place.”

“Are we?” Morley asked wryly.

“Don’t play head games with me. I am not someone to screw with, you Ichabod-Crane-looking-motherfucker.”

That stopped him in dead in his tracks. He didn’t look like he’d made the connection, but he definitely knew he’d been insulted. After a few seconds, he leaned forward in his chair and pointed a long boney finger at me.

“Are you feeling a bit guilty, Ronan? Maybe there is something you’d like to tell us. Maybe you want to tell us why you killed her.”

My anger was starting to boil over. I’d heard enough of his meritless accusations. “I’m about two seconds from kicking your ass,” I growled.

Garcia stood up ready to fight, but Morley motioned for him to sit. The kid looked like he knew how to scrap, but I figured I could take him. I thought that about everyone under seven feet tall. All too often, I was probably wrong.

“If you didn’t do anything, why are you getting so angry?” Garcia asked.

“Because someone I cared about was just found dead, and you guys are burning time dicking around with me.”

My emotions were all over the plac
e
hate, anger, pai
n
and the last thing I needed was for these two assholes to get the best of me.

“Tell us what happened to Karen Pommer last night, Ronan.”

Every time Morley said my name, I wanted to ram my fist into his face. There was something about the tone of his voice that highly irritated me. It wasn’t whiney, but the tone sounded all-knowing in a bad way.

“Ronan? Tell us.”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Morley said. “You look like the kind of guy who might kill her.”

That was so outrageous I had to laugh. I’d killed in the past but only in the line of duty. I wasn’t too impressed with Detective Morley’s interview skills.

“You guys get a D minus for preparation today. You don’t know much about me, do you?”

“Why don’t you tell us, tough guy?” Garcia said.

“No, you figure it out on your own. That is what you get paid to do. This interview is over.” I stood up.

“I’ll say when it’s over,” Morley said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

Garcia jumped to his feet, and I balled my fists in anticipation of a throw down. Suddenly the door flew open and Lieutenant Gary Shea entered.

He was a big rough-looking Irishman, somewhere in his late-fifties, who stood well over six feet tall. His hair had turned off-white, and cracks had developed in his granite face since I had first met him. His steely blue eyes rarely, if ever, revealed his emotions. He wore thick birth control glasses, which were no indication of his toughness. I’d heard stories of him busting up brawls by himself at biker bars in the seventies when the other cops were too afraid to go in. Even now, he looked like he could kick some serious ass if he needed to.

Shea had been my college forensics instructor. He was a great teacher, and I learned a lot of what I know from his classes. He was one of the few professors at the university who had actually spent time in the field, and it showed. His was one of the most popular classes in the criminal justice program for years running. Shea was a no-bullshit straightforward kind of guy and I appreciated that, especially in light of the left-wing Birkenstock-wearing, granola-eating, tree-hugging former hippies teaching there. His approach brought balance to their pabulum. After I graduated and went into the Air Force we stayed in contact, and he offered suggestions on a number of high profile cases I’d worked. I considered the man a friend and mentor.

“That’s enough. You two wait outside,” he barked. They did as he ordered without question, neither stopping to so much as look at me.

“Ronan Marino, what have you gotten yourself into?” He extended his hand and we shook, his vise-like grip almost crushing my hand.

“You know I didn’t do it, Gary. Those two need to pull their heads out of their asses, especially Morley.”

“I was on my way to a meeting with the super, and they told me they were going to pick someone up. I didn’t know it was you.”

“They were just fishing.”

“It’s standard procedure; you know that as well as anyone.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like being on the receiving end.”

He nodded. It was the closest to an apology I was going to get.

“You haven’t found work yet?”

“I’m not really looking all that hard.”

“I’m surprised your brother hasn’t snapped you up.”

“Well, nepotism is a time honored tradition here in Massachusetts, but Westford is a bit too sedate for my tastes.”

“No shit. They haven’t had a murder in about ten years.”

“The way my brother tells it, his town has become South Central Los Angeles.”

“Hardly, and you’d know that first hand.”

“Right. Do you have anything you can share with me?”

“You had feelings for this woman?”

“Uh, starting to.”

“It appears more like a suicide or an accident than a murder. Looking at it objectively, I’d guess she got high, almost drove into the river, fell in, and drowned.”

“No way I’m buying that. I left her a little past three in the morning, and she hadn’t done any drugs.”

“It doesn’t mean she didn’t shoot up after she left you.”

He was right, but still I doubted it though, he was far more detached than I was.

“Can I see what you’ve got?”

“I guess it can’t hurt. Come on up to my office.”

He was about to open the door when I stopped him.

“What’s Morley’s first name?”

“Robert, why?”

“Just curious.”

He nodded and pushed the door open. Morley and Garcia were leaning against the wall waiting. Neither would make eye contact with me.

“Lieutenant?” Garcia asked.

“We need to talk, guys,” Shea replied.

“On your way in, I’ll take that cup of coffee,
Roger
,” I said.

It pissed him off, but I couldn’t resist. I didn’t like to be messed with by anyone.

FOUR

Shea
set his boys straight and then gave me a few minutes alone with Karen’s file. There wasn’t much in it, which was to be expected this soon into the investigation. Some Cambodian kids were out fishing near the falls around seven in the morning and found her body. Shortly thereafter, the police located her car next to the Vandenberg Esplanade off of the boulevard, with the keys in the ignition. The driver’s side door was open, and it appeared she had fallen over the embankment and floated down river.

There were no signs of a struggle and no bruises or marks indicative of a fight. An autopsy was scheduled for later in the day, which hopefully would yield some clues. They also found her purse in the car with nothing seemingly missing. That was it, not a shred of evidence to even begin connecting the dots.

* * * *

I sat out on the steps of the police station, facing the high school I had graduated from what seemed like an eternity ago, my chin in my hands. I ran through what the police knew and tried to make the pieces fit. If it had been a carjacking, why was the car found so close to her apartment? I quickly ruled out suicide. She was too excited about her future after school and didn’t have any serious problems that I was aware of. An accident? That was a possibility, but it didn’t explain the syringe. That really bothered me.

Some of the other waitresses at Max’s used coke, ecstasy and smoked weed, but I had never seen Karen take anything or even talk about it. In the short time we were together, I hadn’t seen anything to lead me to believe she used—although, I couldn’t objectively rule it out.

Drug use in a club wasn’t out of the ordinary. The nightclub crowd had always been into party favors; it is one of the principal markets that kept the trade going. It’s funny as a civilian non-badge carrier how different the world acted around you. Not long ago, people hid their drug habits from me. Now, as a guitar player in a band, they assumed I didn’t care or I used myself. As long as it had no effect on my life, they were generally correct.

I saw my brother Marc across the plaza, dressed in his tailored chief’s uniform. He stood a full head taller and had close to thirty pounds on me, and it wasn’t all muscle. He stopped at the bronze police officer statue and I got up and met him halfway.

“Shea called. He said you might need a ride home.”

“He could have offered.”

“He thought you might need to be with family.”

I nodded, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Karen. That’s a pretty shitty way to die. LPD have much to go on?”

“Not really. They believe it was either a suicide or an accident.”

“What do you think?”

“Suicide is pretty much out of the question.”

“So it was an accident?”

“I have a hard time believing that too.”

“You don’t think she was murdered, do you?”

“If I were investigating the case, I’d be treating it that way. Everything about it looks like a murder poorly made to look like an accident.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your girlfriend just died under what you believe to be suspicious circumstances. Aren’t you going to try to find out what happened?”

“I don’t know if I’m looking at this all that unbiased, Marc. It might be best if I leave this to the professionals. If there is more to it, Shea will find it.”

“You are one of the professionals.”

“Not anymore.”

“Look, Ronan, I’m not saying this because you’re my older brother, and I hate to even admit this because your head is already big enough, but you are easily the best investigator I’ve ever known. I would have bet my left nut you’d be all over this.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but I wouldn’t be betting my nuts on anything just yet, if I were you. The Air Force had me chasing terrorists for so long, I’m not sure my investigative skills are what they use to be. Besides, everything is a bit murky right now, and I’m still hoping to wake up from this bad dream.”

“Why don’t we get some breakfast? You look like you’re in desperate need of some coffee. Maybe that will help you clean out the cobwebs.”

The Raven Diner is an institution in Lowell. Located on Appleton Street, it’s just outside the downtown area. At any given time, you might see cops, hookers, students, bikers or businessmen there. A cross-section of America; all in search of the city’s best cholesterol-laden, artery-clogging, heart disease inducing foods.

Walking in was like stepping back into the fifties, or at least my impression of that era. A long stainless steel lunch counter with matching barstools covered with red vinyl sat adjacent to the kitchen. As a kid, I always imagined the barstools were UFOs blasting off into space. On the counter during the lunch and dinner hours were pies and cakes under glass, enticing customers into that dessert they really didn’t need. Booths lined the perimeter wall in an “L” shape that looked out onto the street. Black and white pictures of the city throughout the years filled the walls. There was even a picture of my father and his fire company from sometime in the seventies.

As a kid, I used to hear it called “The Dirty Bird” but I never understood why, especially since it looked immaculately clean. It wasn’t until I got a little more worldly that I discovered the nickname came from its status as a favorite eatery of the local working girls and their pimps.

The food was always good for whatever ailed you. Comfort food some call it. Unfortunately, it was going to take more than a plate of eggs over easy and toast to fill the void I felt. Across the table, Marc inhaled his pancakes and sausage. He turned his attention to my plate, which I picked at.

“You gonna eat that?” He motioned toward my side of the table.

“Touch it, and I’ll stab your hand with this fork.”

“Okay, okay.”

I usually ate much faster, an old habit learned in military chow halls, but under the circumstances, I didn’t feel like shoving the food down my gullet.

From behind the counter Jesse, the Raven’s owner, emerged. She was about our age with medium length brown hair and short but shapely legs. She wore a pair of tight blue jeans and a clingy white t-shirt that accentuated her large breasts. Though not really pretty in the conventional sense, there was always a certain sexy quality about her that I could never put my finger on.

For all the hours she worked slinging hash, she had held up pretty well. We had a brief history a long time ago, but neither of us had made mention of it since I’d been back. Things from those days were a little hazy from heavy partying with my good friends Budweiser and Michelob.

Jesse inherited the diner from her father who had inherited it from his father before him. She had been married to a guy she met in college, but it didn’t work out, especially when she learned he was cheating on her with a co-worker. I could empathize. Whenever I was deployed by the military, my ex-wife spent more time on her back than Jim Kelly in an early nineties Super Bowl.

“Marc, where’ve you been, sweets? Is Mr. Chief of Police too busy to come down and eat at my place anymore?” she said.

“Hey Jesse, nice to see you,” he said.

I stared into my plate and didn’t acknowledge her.

“Who kicked your puppy, Ro?”

I put up my hand in protest. While I normally enjoyed exchanging barbs with her, I certainly wasn’t in the right frame of mind for it. “Not today.”

She stepped back and put her hands on her ample hips.

“A friend of his was found dead this morning,” Marc blurted out.

“Not the girl they found in the river?”

“How’d you know about that?” I asked.

“Two patrolmen told me earlier.”

I had forgotten that the underground Lowell information network was headquartered at the Raven. I filed that bit of information away for future use.

“It wasn’t the blond girl you were here with a few weeks ago, was it?”

“Yes.”

She put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey. If there’s anything I can do, you let me know.”

“Thanks, Jess.”

She smiled and went into the kitchen. I pointed at Marc with my fork.

“Thanks a lot, big mouth.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind her knowing.”

“I’m not looking for pity.”

I leaned back in the booth, hoping I’d wake up and this would all be some horrible dream. Karen would be there, safely asleep in my bed. I closed my eyes for a moment, but I knew this was no dream.

“We need to get together and do something soon,” Marc said. “Timmy had been asking when he’s going to see his Uncle Ronan.”

“Yeah, we should.”

Timmy was Marc’s ten-year-old son. I tried hard to be a good uncle and remember birthdays and other important events like Little League games when they came around. He was a good kid and I enjoyed his company. I hadn’t been to Marc’s house much lately because of the time I was spending between Karen, getting my house in order, and rehearsing with the band. I needed to rectify that soon.

“Timmy loves going to see the River Hawks. I can even get the tickets if you want to go.”

“That would be great. Just let me know,” I said, not really interested at the moment.

It all seemed pretty trivial, but deep down I knew I was just being too sensitive. On a very rare occasion, it was known to happen.

I finished my coffee, stood up, and threw a twenty on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”