Gary Alexander - The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

“Hockey game,” Doyle said. “Did the security cameras catch anything?”

“Nope. The driver dumped it behind a delivery van to avoid the cameras. No prints, either. None. Wiped clean, they said.”

“A professional?” Zina asked.

“Could be,” Kazmarek said, dropping into the chair beside Doyle’s desk. “Or maybe some buzzed-up teenager with more luck than brains. Where are you on this thing?”

“We’ve got suspects, but it’s a fairly long list,” Doyle said. “Bannan majored in making enemies. Why?”

“Actually, a matter of overlapping jurisdictions has come up. I want you to drop a name to the bottom of your list.”

“Let me guess,” Zina said. “Dr. Lauren Bannan?”

“Lauren?” Kazmarek asked, surprised. “Is she a suspect?”

“The wife’s always a suspect. Why, do you know her?”

“We’ve met. She’s done some counseling for the department.”

“No kidding? Who’d she shrink?” Zee asked.

“None of your business, Detective. And Lauren’s not the name we need to move anyway. According to my sources, Emil Reiser has an ironclad alibi for that night.”

“What alibi?” Doyle asked. “He claimed he was home alone with his sick kid. There’s no way to verify that.”

“Consider it verified,” Cash said, rising briskly. “As far as we’re concerned, Mr. Reiser was at the policemen’s ball, waltzing with J. Edgar Hoover in a red dress.”

“Hoover?” Zina echoed. “Are you saying the Feds want us to lay off Reiser?”

“I didn’t mention the Feds, because a snotty FBI agent in Lansing asked me not to,” Cash said mildly. “That crack about Hoover must have been a Freudian thing. Forget you heard it. Clear?”

“Crystal. Does this mean Reiser is totally off limits, Captain?”

“Not at all, this is a murder case, not a traffic stop. Just make sure you exhaust all other avenues of investigation before you look at Reiser again. And if you come up with solid evidence against him, I’ll want to see it before you go public. Any questions?”

“You’re the boss,” Doyle said. “What about Mrs. Bannan?”

“I’d be surprised if Lauren’s involved,” Kazmarek said, pausing in the doorway. “But I’m obviously a lousy judge of character. I hired you two, didn’t I?”

Zina and Doyle eyed each other a moment after Cash had gone.

“Federal,” Doyle said at last.

“There’s no way Reiser can be an informant,” Zina said positively. “That boatyard’s in the middle of nowhere and he’s been out there for years.”

“Which leaves WITSEC,” Doyle agreed. “Witness protection.”

“So Reiser gets a free pass just because he testified for the Feds once upon a time?”

“No way, in fact it makes him more interesting. But since he’s officially at the bottom of our list now, let’s see how fast we can work our way back down to him. Ferguson’s the only suspect we haven’t interviewed. We might want to look at Mal La Roche, too, just on general principles—”

“That’s the second time you’ve done that,” Zina said.

“Done what?”

“Left the foxy doc off the list. She’s got five million reasons to want her husband dead, Doyle. She’s connected to Reiser and she definitely ducked some of our questions. Or maybe you didn’t notice? Because you’re a guy and the doc definitely isn’t.”

“That’s crap!” Doyle snapped. “I’m not...” He broke off, meeting Zee’s level gaze. Realizing there might just be a kernel of truth in what she said. As usual.

“Okay.” He nodded. “Straight up, do you seriously think she killed her husband? Or had it done?”

“I don’t know. Neither do you. But she was definitely holding something back. Maybe it’s connected to her husband’s death, maybe not, but if we’re crossing names off our list, I think I should question her again. Alone, this time. Girl talk. Unless you’ve got some objection? Sergeant?”

Doyle scanned her face for irony. He’d been partnered with Zina Redfern since she transferred north. Nearly four years now. And he still had no idea how her mind worked. Nor any other woman’s mind, for that matter.

“Hell, go for it, Zee. Seeing a shrink might do you some good. Just be careful she doesn’t have you committed.”

“Screw that. I’m more worried about getting torched in my car.”

Lauren Bannan delayed making the phone call as long as she could. She meant to make it after lunch, but wound up working at her desk well into the afternoon.

So she swore to make it the last call of the business day. Then forgot again. Sort of.

But when she stepped into the kitchen of the small lakefront cottage she’d leased after her separation, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer. And like most tasks we dread, it wasn’t as difficult as she’d feared.

Nearly eighty now, Jared Bannan’s mother had been in a rest home in Miami for years. She was used to receiving bad news. In the home, it came on a daily basis.

“Don’t make a big fuss over the funeral, Lauren,” she quavered. “Jared never cared a fig for religion and I won’t be coming. I’m sorry, but I’m simply not up to it. Hold whatever service you feel is appropriate, then send his ashes to me. He can be on the mantel, beside his father. I’ll be seeing them both before long. How are you holding up, my dear?”

And Lauren started to cry. Tears streaming silently as she listened to words of comfort from an elderly lady she hardly knew. And would never see again.

“I’m all right, Mother Bannan,” she lied. “I’ll be fine.”

Afterward, she washed her face, made herself a stiff cup of Irish coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table to scan the Yellow Pages listings for funeral homes.

The doorbell rang.

Padding barefoot to her front door, Lauren checked the peephole, half expecting Marty Lehman. He’d been hinting about offering her a shoulder to cry on—

But it wasn’t.

“Detective Redfern,” Lauren said, opening the door wide. “What can I do for Valhalla’s finest?”

“Sorry to bother you at home, Dr. Bannan, but a few things have come up. Can you spare me a minute?”

“Actually, your timing’s perfect, Detective. I have to choose a funeral home for Jared’s service. Can you recommend one?”

“McGuinn’s downtown handles the department funerals.” Zina followed Lauren through the living room to the kitchen, glancing around the small apartment. It was practically barren. She’d seen abandoned homes that looked friendlier. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

“I’m still living out of boxes in the garage,” Lauren admitted. “I took the place for the view. The back deck overlooks the lake. Sit down, please. I’m having Irish coffee. Would you like some?”

“Coffee’s fine, but hold the Irish, please.” Zina took a chair at the kitchen table. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Good,” Lauren said, placing a steaming mug in front of Zina, sitting directly across from her. “I wouldn’t know how to deal with a social call. Our friends were mostly Jared’s business buddies. What do you need, Detective?”

“You sure you’re up for this? You seem a bit... distracted.”

“This hasn’t been a day to relive in my golden years, but I’m not a china doll, either. Cut to the chase, please.”

“Fair enough. We’ve got an ugly murder on our hands, and you’re screwing up our case.”

“In what way?”

“By lying to us or withholding information.”

“Holy crap,” Lauren said, sipping her coffee. “That’s pretty direct.”

“You’re not a china doll.”

“No, I’m not,” Lauren said, taking a deep breath. “I’m a special-ed teacher and counselor, licensed by the state and prohibited by federal law from divulging information obtained in my work. To anyone.”