Heads turned as she walked out of the restaurant. They always did.
We’d been wrong for each other, no question about that. Our affair had flared like a Roman candle, and burned out almost as quickly. But it had been intense while it lasted. For me, at least.
And now? We were less than lovers, but more than friends. The French probably have a phrase for it. Exes avec regrets? Something like that.
But when Sherry had spoken about feeling uneasy, there’d been none of the usual mischief in her eyes. That bothered me. Sherry was practically fearless. If she was worried about something, so was I.
Besides, I’d told her a half-truth. As a detective on the North Shore Major Crimes unit, there are legal restrictions on my ability to run background checks.
Plugging a name into the Law Enforcement Information Network requires a case number, a badge number, and my personal password. Every request is logged and filed for future reference.
But the L.E.I.N. isn’t the only way to get information. The Internet knows everything about everybody and it’s an open book if you know where to look. St. Mark Zuckerberg had it right: The Right to Privacy is like Santa Claus, a quaint little notion nobody really believes in anymore.
I ran background checks on Jack Milano and Rob Gilchrist, off the books. And I turned up a few interesting bits of information. I left a message on Sherry’s voicemail, but she didn’t call me back.
Ever.
She was already dead.
Six in the morning, I was toweling down after a shower when my cell phone gurgled. My partner, Zina Redfern.
“Dylan? Are you awake?”
“Sort of. What’s up?”
“We have a probable homicide and a major problem.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“Sherry Sinclair. The TV reporter.”
Dead air for a moment.
“Sweet Jesus,” somebody said. Me, I suppose. All the oxygen seemed to go out of the room. “I’ll be there in—”
“No! You stay right where you are. That’s an order.”
“You can’t—”
“It’s not coming from me, Dylan, it’s from Chief Kazmarek. You can’t work the case, and you know it.”
I wanted to argue, but didn’t. She was right.
“Okay. What the hell happened, Zee?”
“Her car went off the Beame Hill turnout west of Valhalla. It rolled down the embankment and went into the creek at the bottom, upside down. The body’s been removed, and the state police forensics unit is already working the crime scene.”
“What about the time line?”
“We aren’t sure yet. At least twenty-four hours ago.”
The twenty-four was a rough guess, the onset of her rigor mortis and its passing. “You said it was a probable homicide?”
“There’s some damage to the trunk of her car, Dylan. Like it was pushed over the embankment. But there’s no sign of a second vehicle, and the EMT said her throat was bruised. The airbags deployed. He doubts she was killed in the crash.”
I absorbed that. “What else?”
“You know what else. By North Shore standards Sherry Sinclair was a celebrity, and it’s common knowledge you two were involved at one point. That puts you on the suspect list, Dylan. You know the drill, so let’s get you cleared. When did you see her last?”
“Last week. Friday. We met for coffee, at the Jury’s Inn.”
“Socially? Romantically?”
“Socially. We’ve been over for a while, but we stayed friends.”
“With benefits?”
“Sexually, in other words?”
“In exactly those words.”
“No, we haven’t been involved in that way for nearly a year.” I’m pregnant, Sherry said. And I began doing the math... Zee was saying something.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You lost me. What did you say?”
“As soon as we have a time of death, I’ll need an alibi statement. Chief
Kazmarek has ordered me to take the lead on the case. Van Duzen will back me up. In the meantime, you have to stay clear of this, Dylan. Are we gonna have a problem?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Dylan?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Don’t think. You know the chief’s right.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Damn it, LaCrosse—”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I promise I won’t put you in a situation.”
“You’ll stay out of it?”
“I won’t put you in a situation,” I repeated. Which wasn’t quite the same thing. And we both knew it.
It was Zina’s turn to go silent.
“I can live with that,” she sighed. “So. Now that you’re officially sitting on the sidelines, what have you got for me?”
“For openers, you’re not looking at one homicide,” I said. “You’re probably looking at two.”
As soon as I hung up, I threw on jeans and a leather jacket, scrambled into my Jeep, and headed straight for the Beame Hill turnout. I hadn’t promised to stay away, and Zee knew better than to expect it.
Michigan’s North Shore counties are a study in contrasts. Along the lakefront, real estate is sky high, posh condos and hotels are sprouting like anthills, funded by Internet money. Newcomer money.
Ten miles inland you’re in much rougher country, rolling, timbered hills, sparsely populated with blink-and-you’ve-missed-it villages with ramshackle houses scattered along the edges of the Huron State Forest, an untracked territory bigger than half the nations in the U.N.
Northern police jurisdictions are a patchwork quilt as well. The state police cover the freeways, and share coverage of the interior with the sheriff’s departments and the Department of Natural Resources. Murder and mayhem fall to the North Shore Major Crimes unit based in Valhalla. My unit. As second in command, I should have been leading this investigation. But there was nothing ordinary about this case.
It was late October, and a fairy dusting of early snow was drifting down as I rolled up on the crime scene. A state police cruiser was pulling out as I pulled over to park on the gravel shoulder. A Vale County sheriff’s prowlie was blocking the turnout, with a deputy waving gawkers past. Bergmann.
He shot me with his finger as I trotted past. I didn’t shoot back.
Zina Redfern was halfway down the embankment, scanning the tire tracks. Below her, the frame and tires of Sherry’s Mustang were visible above the shallow creek. State-police evidence techs were searching the banks, though I doubted they’d find much. Most of the evidence would be in the car.
Zee Redfern glanced up, saw me coming, then went back to studying the tread marks. We’ve been partners since she transferred up to the North Shore force from Flint. We’re good friends, a good team.
Zee’s Native American, Anishnabeg, but she grew up in Gangland, on Flint’s north side. Doubly tough for a sidewalk Indian girl on her own. I asked her once how she stayed out of the crews.
“I didn’t. I took Police Science courses at Mott J.C., became an auxiliary officer, then hired on to the Flint force on my nineteenth birthday. Cops wear colors, pack iron, and you’re blue till you die. Sounds like a gang to me.”
A short, squared-off woman with raven hair, she takes the term “plainclothes officer” seriously. She was wearing her usual Johnny Cash black, a bulky nylon POLICE parka over black jeans, a black watch cap pulled down around her ears.
Even her combat boots are the real deal. LawPro Pursuits with steel toes. She packs a Fairbairn fighting knife strapped to one ankle, a Smith Airweight .38 on the other. You’d think she’d clank when she walks. She doesn’t.
She didn’t look surprised to see me, but she wasn’t happy either.
“Am I going to have a problem with you?” she asked, straightening up.