The Red Hot Fix (35 page)

“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” Jimmy asked. “We were there, remember? In the luxury box.”

Mort picked a disc from the pile on his desk. “We couldn’t see where we weren’t looking, Jimmy.” He popped the drive open and slid the disc in. “I got as many feeds as I could. Arena security, three local stations, and ESPN. Lots of different angles.” He clicked his mouse and the disc played on the screen. “Tell me what you see. Make special note of the time.”

Micki and Jimmy watched the monitor while Mort watched them.

“I’m not seeing anything.” Jimmy sounded disappointed. “You getting it, Mick?”

Micki scrutinized the images. “Can we go back twenty minutes?”

Mort manipulated the controls and earlier images appeared.

“Okay.” Micki kept her focus on the screen. “Now can we go back to where we were?”

Mort obliged and returned the display to what they last viewed.

“There. Stop.” Micki pointed to the screen. “How’d that get there?”

“Look at the size,” Mort said. “The shape.”

Micki nodded. “Autopsy report says Vogel’s skull was punctured with something about
the size of a walnut. And that looks heavy enough to do the job.” She traced her finger down to the clock marking. “Timing’s right.”

“And I’ve seen it since that night. Guess where.” Mort let the DVD play out. This time it was Jimmy who caught the next clue.

“There.” Jimmy tapped the screen and Mort stopped the play. “Look at that.” He glanced at the time stamp. “Sure fits with the coroner’s theory.” He stepped back from the computer. “But how’d it go down? I mean, millions of people were watching that game. At least twenty thousand of them in the arena.”

“That’s it, Jimmy,” Micki said. “We were all busy watching the game. Pretty great distraction.”

Mort returned to the whiteboard. “Now let’s put it together with what else we know.” He scribbled as the three of them shouted out pieces of evidence gathered in the past five days. He drew arrows, noted times, and looked for a flaw in their argument. When it was clear they had their killer, the room went quiet.

“I don’t want to believe this,” Micki murmured.

“Facts are facts, Mick.” Jimmy blew out a loud breath. “Search warrants first?”

Mort stared at the whiteboard. He remembered standing over Vogel’s corpse and promising the dead tycoon he’d find who murdered him. He swallowed hard to push down his disgust.

“Get the warrants, Jimmy.” Mort wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a bed.

The concrete stadium rumbled as twenty thousand fans roared when the Wings ran onto the court. Mort leaned in to hear the uniformed commander assure him all exits were covered. He nodded his thanks and waved for Micki, Jimmy, and two plainclothes detectives to follow him. They made their way quickly to the elevator, passing program vendors, hot dog stands, and souvenir kiosks while rock anthems blared. Two linebackers in security T-shirts jumped aside when Mort and his crew flashed their badges.

“Shame to miss this.” Jimmy punched the level they needed. The closed doors dampened the din to a bearable level. “Wings gotta take this one or it’s all over.”

Mort said nothing. He felt the car rise and thought about how the object of their visit didn’t have a clue they were on their way. Probably trying to focus on the game. Figuring they’d gotten away with murder.

The car stopped and the five of them stepped onto crimson carpet. Mort asked the
plainclothes detectives to wait outside. He stood at the closed door, looked to the grim faces of Micki and Jimmy, then knocked.

Ingrid Stinson-Vogel opened the door. It took the widow a half second to recognize Mort. Then she stepped aside and ushered in her three uninvited guests. Pierce Stinson was slumped in a chair against the far wall. He looked up at them with weary resignation.

“What’s this about, Detective?” Ingrid patted a hand against her chest. “You shouldn’t be up here without a pass.”

Mort wondered if she had any idea how silly that sounded. “Pierce Stinson.” His voice was stern authority. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Reinhart Vogel.” Mort began his Miranda recitation but Ingrid interrupted.

“I don’t know what’s led you to such foolishness, but you must leave. If you have questions for my son, you can reach him tomorrow.” Her eyes flashed. “
After
I’ve had the opportunity to secure legal representation.”

Mort nodded to Micki. She opened the door and called in a uniformed officer. Mort finished his Miranda while Pierce remained in his seat, unmoving.

“Stop this instant.” Ingrid was the demanding CEO confronting rebellious employees. “Leave this room immediately before I …”

“Before you call the police, Mrs. Stinson?” Mort pulled Pierce to his feet. He offered no resistance as Mort handed him over to the officer for cuffing.

“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?” Mort asked.

“Say nothing, Pierce.” Ingrid’s tone betrayed a shadow of her desperation. “This is all a tragic mistake and I assure you these officers will pay dearly. Keep silent and I’ll make sure everything is fine.”

“Let it go, Mother.” Pierce offered his pale hands to the officer. Ingrid cried out when the silver manacles snapped tight.

She stepped toward Mort, her eyes now more pleading than imperial. “Is this really necessary, Detective? Pierce is a
Stinson
. Do we need a photograph of him walking away in handcuffs?”

“I said stop it.” Pierce turned to Mort. “I’m glad you’re here, Detective Grant. I want this done.”

“For God’s sake, Pierce,” Ingrid hissed. “Keep your mouth shut. Let me handle this.”

Mort ignored her. He kept his tone gentle when addressing the broken man. “Was it Chicago? Is that what caused this?”

Pierce was quiet for a moment. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any. Or maybe Chicago was the proverbial straw that broke this tired camel’s back.” Tears welled in his eyes. “It hasn’t seemed real. What I’ve done, I mean.”

“Pierce, no!” Ingrid screamed. Micki placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t plan it.” Pierce’s voice had a faraway sound to it. “I found out about his canceling the lease … stopping construction on the Chicago store. I wanted to hear his reasons and have him listen to mine.” He shook his head violently. “But he wanted none of it. Kept saying he’d made up his mind. It was over.” Pierce focused on Mort. “Have you ever just had your fill, Detective? Of settling? Of always begging at the side of the table for whatever scraps might fall your way?”

“Oh, Pierce.” Ingrid sank into a chair.

“I was nothing to anyone,” Pierce continued. “I’m not really a Stinson. Not a Vogel, either.” He bit his lower lip. “But I foolishly thought maybe, just maybe, if I gave him what he wanted most—money—he’d come to think of me as worthy. But his mind was made up. It was over. Told me to call for the car. All he could think about was getting to the stupid basketball game.”

“And that’s when you picked up the statue?” Mort asked.

Pierce nodded. “It was like a reflex. At least the first blow was.” He continued to sound eerily distant. “But when I saw him collapsed at my feet, a dam burst. I kept hitting him over and over.” He closed his eyes and murmured, “I loved him so much.”

Mort looked over to see Ingrid turn her attention to her lap and dust an unseen speck of lint off her black lace skirt.

“Take him downtown,” Mort said to the officer. “I’ll check in with him tomorrow.”

Pierce allowed himself to be escorted away, stopping only for a moment when he passed his mother. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” he whispered.

Ingrid Stinson-Vogel turned her head. When the door closed behind her son, she stood to face Mort.

“Pierce’s grief has obviously gotten the better of him. My attorney will have him out before midnight, and after a call to the mayor, I’m sure you’ll be out of a job by morning.”

“You may want to call your lawyer for another reason. Ingrid Stinson-Vogel, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice, accessory after the fact, and mutilation of a human corpse.”

“You’re out of your mind. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“I do. You’re the woman the cameras can’t stop watching. The woman captured on video all alone in her owner’s suite when game three began. Wearing an outfit that dazzled even Officer Petty here. You’re the woman who wasn’t available for half-time interviews, despite it being your ritual to always talk to the press.” Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. “And you’re the woman wearing these during the first half of the game.”

The blood drained from Ingrid’s face. She glanced around the room. Mort wondered if
she was looking for an exit or someone to come to her rescue.

“We found them in Reinhart’s apartment. Here’s our rough sketch. I’m sure your son can fill in the details.” Mort tossed the bagged cuff links to Jimmy, who tucked them into his pocket. “I think Pierce is telling it straight. He lost it with your husband and on impulse picked up that bronze walking-guy statue. When Vogel was dead, Pierce did what he always does when things get tough.” Mort stepped toward her. “He ran to Mommy.”

Ingrid’s jaw twitched. “I don’t have to stand for this.” Her voice didn’t match her bravado. “This is all the speculation of an overeager city employee wanting to make his mark.”

Mort continued. “Once Pierce was here—and we have him on camera, too—my hunch is he confessed what he did and you scooted back to the penthouse. We have video of the arena parking garage showing your car leaving just before half-time and returning about forty minutes later. Maybe you were thinking of ways to get Pierce out of this on the drive over. Trixie had been all over the headlines and you remembered her M.O. At least what we leaked to the press about it. You get to the penthouse, see your dead husband, and hatch a plan to make his murder look like a Trixie hit.” Mort pantomimed at his wrists. “You literally rolled up your sleeves and went to work. You stripped your husband naked, tied him up just like you’d read about in the papers, and left him there exposed and alone.”

“This is nothing more than wild speculation.” Ingrid stepped away. “I want my attorney contacted immediately.”

Mort nodded. “Okay. While you’re at it, let’s see what he has to say about the DNA on the outfit you wore for game three.” He looked at his watch. “The search at your house should be completed about now. Your housekeeper knew just what dress we needed. Said you had her take it to the cleaners the next day. But DNA doesn’t get destroyed, Ingrid. There’s always residue. We searched Pierce’s office. Picked up that bronze statue, the one you brought here after you finished with your husband. We should find both your and Pierce’s DNA mixed in with your husband’s on that.”

Mort held Ingrid’s gaze. “You’re going away. Not for life. But so long you’ll think it was.” Mort nodded and Jimmy slipped handcuffs on Ingrid’s thin wrists. Micki started reading her Miranda as she escorted her to the elevator.

“Not a bad night’s work, huh, partner?” Jimmy stood by the wide windows.

Mort stared onto the basketball court and thought about the seamless flow of life. Fifty feet below, Coach Wilkerson and his roster of millionaires played their game, oblivious to the fact their owner was in the back of a police cruiser. Seattle fans would wake up tomorrow to discover the sports and crime pages merged. But for this moment the arena was filled with fans enjoying the contest. He felt the urge to stay. To hold himself in the innocent fantasy that giant men running to stuff a ball through an orange hoop was important. He glanced at the scoreboard.
Twelve minutes into the first half. Los Angeles had just sunk a three-pointer that put them ahead of the Wings by seven. Mort watched LionEl take the ball in, spin free of a defender, and barrel down the hardwood. Three steps ahead of his nearest defender, LionEl spun a 360 for the showboat slam dunk, just in time for a Laker guard to crash into him. The crowd let out a unified groan as LionEl was thrown off balance and landed on his back with a thud so solid Mort swore he heard it up in the owner’s suite. The referees called time-out as the Lion in Winter lay writhing on the floor, cursing in pain.

“Looks like LionEl’s out for the night,” Jimmy said.

Mort watched the trainers hover over the fallen star. He saw Wilkerson standing with his team, Barry Gardener by his side. When the floor cleared for the stretcher that would take LionEl off the court, the crowd stood and applauded the man who’d given them so many seasons of great play. Mort shook his head at the short fat man in the expensive suit trotting next to the EMTs.

He turned away and took a long look around the owner’s suite, nodding to the newly arrived forensic team coming through the door. “Bruiser’s waiting, Jimmy. And I could sure use a beer.”

“It’s a freakin’ mob scene out there.” Micki walked into Mort’s office at noon the next day with several bags of greasy hamburgers and fries, their customary celebration after cracking a case. “I had to threaten six different reporters with obstruction charges to move them out of my way.”

Jimmy reached into a bag and pulled out two burgers. He unwrapped one and tossed it to the corner. Bruiser snagged it midair and settled down to enjoy his treat. “Ingrid Stinson-Vogel’s a celeb catch, kiddo. The beast needs to be fed.”