Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (13 page)

Chapter
Twenty

Head Shot

Williston, ND

Late October

J
O STOOD AT THE CURB
outside the airport, waiting for her ride from the
Williston Police Department. Several cars and trucks went by, picking up the
passengers who waited with her, until she stood alone. At one point, a red
shiny pickup truck cruised by, the men inside hooting catcalls at her. She
ignored them, and the truck eventually sped off, tires squealing.

The wind was brisk and she wished she’d worn her
hat. She stood under the street lamp in a puddle of light. Jo noticed a black
SUV idling across the street from where she stood. She briefly wondered if it
was her ride, but the driver made no move to contact her. Although the windows
of the SUV were tinted, she had the distinct feeling she was being studied. Out
of habit, she glanced at the license plate, but the number was obscured by mud.

A shiver went through her that had nothing to do
with the cold air. She looked back at the terminal entrance and watched an
airport security guard walk through the door, apparently taking a smoke break.
A moment later, the SUV pulled away from the curb and she let out the breath
she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Pulling up the collar of her jacket, she glanced at
her cell phone to check the time. 8:30 pm. She mumbled through gritted teeth,
“Where the hell is the detective?”

Jo had hastily set up a meeting with the Williston
PD before she left Minneapolis. She called them out of courtesy, to let them
know she would be working a case in their jurisdiction. The police chief hadn’t
been terribly welcoming, she noted, but he gruffly agreed to assign Detective
Fischer to assist her in any way possible.

When a gust of wind blew up again and a fresh load
of passengers joined her at the curb, she began to think the detective had
forgotten about her. Pulling out her cell phone, she thumbed through her recent
calls until she found the police department number. Just as she was about press
“call”, a large, dark blue pick-up truck pulled up to the curb and a man rolled
down his passenger window.

“You the FBI agent?”

Jo nodded. “I’m assuming you are Detective Ron
Fischer.” When he confirmed his identity, she pulled out her credentials and
showed them to him.

The man jumped out of the truck and came around to
take Jo’s bag, tossing it into the back seat of his extended cab. He opened the
passenger door for her and waved her in. “At your service. Hop in.”

The truck was high enough off the ground that Jo had
to boost herself into the cab using the footrest running along the side panel.
As she clicked her seat belt, she took a moment to size up the detective as he
slid into the driver’s seat. Detective Ron Fischer filled his side of the cab.
He wore a knit cap on his head. She couldn’t see any hair peeking out from
beneath the cap, so she assumed he was bald. His face was ruddy and he had a
long, jagged scar that ran along his jaw line.

As the detective drove, he said, “Sorry to keep you
waiting. I’ve been working a case since late last night. The owner of one of
our fine drinking establishments didn’t like the way some drunk dumb-ass was
feeling up his waitress’s backside and shot the guy in the chest. Guess he
wasn’t too worried about repeat business.” The detective’s chuckle was gravely
and ended in a cough.

Jo was surprised. “Do you have that kind of street
justice around here often?”

Fischer shrugged his beefy shoulders. “You’d be
amazed. Half my business these days isn’t too hard to figure out, since it
usually involves a guy getting a little too randy with someone else’s girl. Always
ends up with some kinda weapon.”

It felt as if she had stepped through some time
portal into the Old West. She had observed some of the crazy behaviors herself,
waiting for the detective at the curb of the airport. Jo could only imagine
what happened in the rest of the area.

An oil tanker truck went by, the second she had seen
in as many minutes. Recently she had read that the roads in and around
Williston, which previously carried the occasional rancher’s truck, now
withstood up to 3,700 trucks a day. The road had a wash-board surface, a sure
sign the infrastructure was overworked. Traffic ground to a halt whenever
another tanker pulled out.

The detective turned to Jo after one of the stops.
“So, I hear you want to have a word with one of the oil outfits around here.
What can we do to help?”

Jo wasn’t sure how much the chief of police had told
him, so she filled him in on the pertinent details, without giving away too
much information. “I’m working a case that involves three victims; two dead and
one in critical condition. On top of that, we may have just picked up another
murder, related to the others.”

Her eyes caught the logo on the truck in front of
them. It was the large “W” of Wellborne Industries. She continued, “We have
reason to believe two of the victims were filming a documentary about fracking
and had talked to several people in the oil business. I would like to talk to
the same people to determine if there is a direct link.”

The detective absently rubbed at the scar on his
face. “Happy to help, but you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

She tilted her head in the direction of the truck
with the logo in front of them. “I plan to start with Wellborne Industries.”

The detective jerked the steering wheel and then
swore under his breath as a tanker truck coming from the opposite direction
swerved to miss them. The other driver let them know his displeasure by laying
on his horn. Ron said, “Well, shit, lady. You don’t mess around, do ya?”

He blew out a puff of air. “That’s the biggest
outfit we got out here. You’re going to be pretty popular around these parts,
if you ask enough questions. Got a person’s name for me?”

Jo bit her lower lip and shook her head. “That’s
part of the problem. One of the victims is in a coma. The other victim gave us
the briefest information before he was killed. He mentioned they were talking
to a man in the compliance department.”

Detective Fischer scratched under his knit hat.
“Always did like a challenge. Let’s get you settled for the night and then we’ll
get a fresh start tomorrow morning.”

Jo looked out the passenger window and saw a network
of flames rising from the pumpjacks and drilling rigs. In the waning hours of
the day, it was an impressive sight.

Jo yawned and realized how wiped out she was. She
said, “Sounds good. You can just drop me off at the nearest hotel and I’ll see
you in the morning.”

The detective’s laughter boomed in the enclosure of
the truck. “Lady, this here is Williston and you are in the middle of the
biggest oil boom this country has seen in a hundred years. Where in the hell
did you think you’d find a place to stay?”

He pointed toward the lit-up parking lot of the
Walmart store as they passed. “Until just a few months ago, you couldn’t even
get into that parking lot, because it was crammed full of RVs setting up house.
Every hotel, motel, flop house and apartment building in the surrounding
counties is filled up for the next couple of years, at least. They keep
building new hotels all the time, but they fill up as fast as they open them.
You are going to stay at my house, with my wife and me.”

Jo opened her mouth to protest, but the detective
cut her off. “Really, it’s fine. Micki - that’s my wife - is looking forward to
meeting you. She has dinner waiting on us.” He smiled and patted his rather
large belly. “My Micki is a helluva cook, as you can probably tell by looking
at me. Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor. She gets pretty sick of all the
testosterone around here these days. She’ll be glad to have another woman to
talk to.”

***

By the time Jo settled in the spare bedroom in the
Fischer’s sprawling ranch house, it was well past eleven. Dinner with Ron,
Micki and their three boys had been an entertaining, sometimes boisterous
affair, punctuated by an amazing home-cooked meal. Micki had made a huge pot
roast, with three side dishes, including mashed potatoes and gravy. Jo almost
moaned out loud when Micki placed a large slice of flaky apple pie, topped by a
generous scoop of vanilla ice cream in front of her. Jo hadn’t eaten so much
food in a very long time and the waistband of her pants was now uncomfortably
snug.

It dawned on her that soon enough she would not be
able to fit into her work pants at all. Which made her think about talking to
John. She didn’t want to talk to him about her news just yet, not until she was
absolutely sure. This was not a conversation to have over the phone. However,
she felt a need to hear his voice, just the same. She glanced at the clock
beside the bed and was disappointed to realize it was too late to call him. Jo
knew he had an early surgery scheduled the next morning and was probably
already asleep.

Just as she was about to head into the bathroom, her
cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Frisco.

“Hey, Jo. Get into boomtown okay?”

“Not a problem. What a crazy place this is, though.
I’m staying in the home of one of Williston’s detectives, since they tell me
it’s impossible to find a hotel room around here.”

“No kidding. Well, I won’t keep you, but I thought
you might like to hear about the tox results on Billy MacGregor.”

Jo was surprised. “You got those back already?”

“Yeah, well somebody owed me a favor and you know…”

Jo sat down on the bed. “Thank God for favors owed.
So, what did they find?”

 
“It was
definitely heroin, but what surprised me is what they
didn’t
find. I half-expected the heroin to be laced with fantanyl
or some such crap. You know they usually cut the heroin with an opiate like
that, or morphine. But it was pure, Jo. The lab tech said some of the cleanest
they’ve seen. Close to 99.8 percent pure, if you can believe it. No wonder the
kid died.”

Jo shook her head in disgust. “Purity levels of
heroin keep increasing while prices drop - a double-whammy. No wonder overdose
rates on are out of control.” She thought for a moment. “Still, drugs that
pure…do you think he had the cash to obtain it?”

She could hear Frisco’s puff of air through the
phone. “Yeah, I wondered about that myself. So I dug through his bank account.
After looking at his finances, I can’t believe he could make rent most of the
time, let alone buy grade-A prime heroin. He had a part-time job working at a
bookstore, but doesn’t look like he made much more than minimum wage.”

“He could have stolen the drugs or money to get
them.”

“Always a possibility, but there weren’t any priors
on his record.” He paused and then continued, “I saved the tastiest tidbit of
info for last.”

Jo sat up straight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“After MacGregor’s body sat at the morgue for a few
hours, a few bruises showed up on his upper thighs and arms, like someone sat
on him or at least held him down shortly before time of death.”

Jo could feel her heart pounding. “So John was
right. Looks like Billy MacGregor was murdered.”

“Yup. Right before he could tell you anything more
and maybe give you a copy of that documentary.
”

Chapter
Twenty-One

Turners Bend

Christmas Week

J
ANE
WAS NOT PRONE TO PANIC
, much less hysterics. She was good in
crisis situations. Whether it was her training or her innate temperament or her
Nordic blood, Chip was not sure. He did not withhold anything from her, told
her everything about the meeting with Franco, Masterson and Fredrickson. It did
take some of the wind out her Christmas planning frenzy, but she immediately
set into action. First she called the Chief Frederickson.

“Walter,
check Hal’s hunting shack; you know where it is. He may be there. If not,
remove all the guns and ammo. I’ll feel better if he doesn’t have access to
those weapons. Bring me one of the shotguns.”

Next
she called a local handyman. “Mark, Dr. Jane here. I wonder if you could come
out today and put motion detector lights in around our house and yard and
install deadbolt locks in the back and front door. I’ve been meaning to do that
for some time.” She paused. “Good, see you soon.”

She
rubbed her temples. “Chip, I refuse to let this ruin our holidays. We have the
kids and guests to think about. We can’t make the kids over-anxious, but you
and I will have to be vigilant and double check doors and windows. I used to be
able to predict Hal’s behavior, but I don’t know where his head is anymore.
He’s a loose cannon.”

Garrison
Keillor knew what he was talking about, thought Chip. Women in the Midwest were
strong. He was also sure Ingrid and Sven were above average. As for the
good-looking men, he thought Keillor may have missed the mark on that one.

***

The
next day was bright and sunny. The temperatures remained below freezing. It had
finally snowed and Turners Bend would have a white Christmas.

Behind
her back, Chip began calling Jane the “Christmas Grand Poobah.” She was in a
take-charge mode and the whole household was at her mercy. At 5:00 a.m. she was
up making lists and at breakfast she assigned duties for the day.

“Baba,
stop eating the Christmas cookies,” she said. “Start dividing them into those
tins so Chip can deliver them today.”

She
thrust a list into Chip’s hand. He read through it. “Why are we giving cookies
to Mabel and Flora? Won’t they be making cookies and giving them to us?”

“Yes,
of course. We’ll end up with as many or more cookies than we give away. It’s
just the way it’s done. Although we will be getting fudge and divinity from
Flora, not cookies.”

“How
do you know?”

Jane
sighed in exasperation. “Chip, just trust me and go with the flow, please. Now,
Ingrid you must practice your Christmas Eve cello piece, and then you can start
washing all the good china and glassware by hand.”

“But
it was clean when we put it away. Why does it need to be washed again?” asked
Ingrid.

“People,
people, people, work with me here. I can’t do all this by myself. Now where is
the Christmas dinner guest list?” She shuffled through her lists. “Oh, here.
Lucinda and Lance, Mable and Iver, the four of us and Sven. He sent me a text
last night. He will only be home for a week, and then he has to return to
Minneapolis…something about his fracking project.”

With
list in hand, she turned to Chip. “While you are in town stop into Agent
Masterson’s office and invite her to dinner. We don’t want her to be alone on
Christmas. You better invite Deputy Anderson, too, since he’s always skulking
around here and providing us police protection.” She rolled her eyes. “Lord,
help us. He just so over-eager most of the time.”

Consulting
her list again, she added, “And don’t forget the Tom and Jerry batter.”

Chip
had further reason to be in awe of his wife. Jane told Sven and Ingrid what was
happening. She didn’t sugar-coat it, but only told them what they needed to
know for their own safety and well-being, reassuring them no harm would come to
any of them.

“How
did the kids react?” Chip asked her.

“Ingrid
with denial and concern for you. She doesn’t want to believe her father would
hurt you.”

“And
Sven?”

“With
an uncharacteristic outburst. He called Hal a bastard and said he hoped he
would be caught and sent away for a long time. Then he cooled down and asked if
I was okay.”

“Are
you, darling? You’re so controlled it scares me a bit,” said Chip as he drew
her into his arms.

“I
refuse to live in fear, Chip. I want the best possible Christmas ever. All of
us, including Baba, together for the first time. I won’t let Hal take that away
from me, from us.”

She
lifted her head and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. She tasted like sugar
cookies and smelled like vanilla.

Her
positivity seemed to brush off on Chip. There were still too many unknowns and
suppositions. Maybe Hal was still in Colombia, maybe California. He certainly
hadn’t been spotted in Turners Bend, and lots of law enforcement people were
searching for him. He became wrapped up in Jane’s Christmas planning and began
to let his

guard down for the
holidays.