Grimm: The Chopping Block (18 page)

“Melinda, I’m so glad I caught you.”

“Has something happened to Roxy?”

“No,” Juliette said, hoping that was true. “She’s the same.”

“You’re still going to wait for us before—before you…?”

“Yes, of course,” Juliette said. “But I want to check something before we… take that course of action.”

“Okay,” Melinda said. “But I’m not sure what you’re…”

“I need to research a few of the… anomalous test results,” Juliette said, again treading the fine line between pursuing all avenues of inquiry and offering false hope.

“What are you saying?”

“I want to check some results,” Juliette said. “And depending on what I find, I might need to run some more tests on Roxy.”

Juliette needed to buy time so she could discover the root cause of her misgivings about the diagnosis, but without getting the Bremmers’ hopes up, only to crush them again later. Even if she found something else responsible for the dog’s condition, a different diagnosis might be just as deadly.

“More tests?” Melinda said. “She’s suffering, though, isn’t she?”

Juliette stopped short, her car key in the door lock.

“Yes,” she admitted. She took a deep, silent breath, exhaling slowly. “But… I don’t want to give up on Roxy until I’ve answered some lingering questions.”

Melinda was silent for so long Juliette thought she’d lost the connection. Then she worried that Melinda would choose to end Roxy’s suffering now rather than prolong her pain. She was about to ask Melinda to reconsider when the other woman spoke.

“I haven’t called them yet,” Melinda said. “To tell them.”

“Oh.”

“I couldn’t do it over the phone,” Melinda said. “I wanted… I wanted them safely home before…”

“Melinda…”

“No, it’s okay,” Melinda said. “I wanted them safe, together with me, before I told them.” She made a snuffling noise on the line, like a burst of static. “We don’t want her to suffer”—her voice caught—“but we’ll wait for them to come home. Can you have the answers by then?”

“Yes,” Juliette said, too quickly. She hadn’t framed the questions yet. She couldn’t know what tests to run until she understood what troubled her about the dog’s condition.

The clock was ticking. She couldn’t return to the clinic fast enough.

* * *

Judging by the dark windows and the empty parking lot behind the corner building, the restaurant was closed. Nick pulled the Land Cruiser into the spot closest to the side of the building.

“Sure this is the right address?” he asked.

Hank double-checked the piece of paper Wu had handed him back at the precinct.

“It’s what it says here,” Hank said. “Whether it’s right or not, I don’t know.”

“Maybe Crawford’s inside, waiting for us,” Nick said, but had his doubts. No other cars in the lot. Unless the man had a driver drop him off or walked to the restaurant on foot, the place was deserted. “If you want to wait here, I’ll check.”

“Are you kidding me?” Hank said, grabbing his crutches from the back seat. “After the forest paths and hills and muddy lots? This is a paved lot and a level sidewalk.”

“Knock yourself out,” Nick said.

They walked to the front of the building. A sign above the broad plate-glass windows proclaimed in two-foot high letters
PORTLAND & SEA TAVERN
. Other than the sign, nothing else about the building indicated that it had ever functioned as a dining establishment. A notice on the Plexiglas door said
CLOSED
.

Nick cupped his hand around his eyes and peered through one of the broad windows into the dim interior. A rounded archway divided the open space into two sections. A door with a porthole window set in the back right wall might or might not lead into a kitchen. Twin doors in the back left were labeled as restrooms. In the center of the open area stood a folding metal card table with two chairs, one of them lying on its side.

“Anything?” Hank asked.

“Looks empty.”

“In the back?” Hank said and swung his way over to the door. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles, loud enough to be heard by anyone in the building.

“Five weeks since they ordered the hijacked kitchen equipment,” Nick said. “And nothing’s in there. No tables or booths. No ordering counter or bar. No sign of a restaurant setup.”

Hank rapped again, louder than before.

A minute passed.

Impatient, Nick pulled out his cell phone and said, “Read me Crawford’s phone number.”

Lamar Crawford had agreed to meet them at the restaurant, but hadn’t told them it was closed—rather, that it had never opened. And now he was a no-show.

Hank read the number to Nick, who dialed and waited for Crawford to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Lamar Crawford?”

“Speaking,” the man said. “How may I—?”

“This is Detective Burkhardt, Portland PD.”

“Oh, Detective, I’m sorry, we were supposed to meet at… Ah, I’ve lost track of the time. I’m afraid I wasn’t feeling up to the drive. Perhaps we could meet here, at my office.”

“Give me the address.”

Monroe dreaded the conversation he needed to have with Rosalee. Not so much for what he had to say but for what he had to leave unsaid. He wandered along an aisle, feigning interest in several jars filled with glittery powders, while she rang up the purchases of an embarrassed young couple who apparently shared some sort of Wesen infection involving hives and sneezing. Judging by their furtive glances around the shop, he figured they needed a few moments of privacy.

After the couple had left the shop clutching their remedies in twin bags, Monroe joined Rosalee behind the counter. Her broad, welcoming smile warmed his heart but made the topic of discussion harder to broach. Of course, she sensed his unease immediately.

“Monroe, what’s wrong?”

He reminded himself to never play poker with her.

“Oh, nothing really…”

“I know your ‘bad news’ look,” she said. “So how bad is it?”

“About tonight…”

“Tonight, I planned to cook dinner for you. I found this recipe for…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned. “You won’t be coming to dinner tonight, will you?”

“It’s just that I, that old friend of mine who dropped by, I sort of promised I’d, you know, cook for him after we…” This time Monroe’s voice faded. He cleared his throat and tried to start again.

Rosalee placed a hand on his chest.

“You haven’t said much about this old friend.”

“No,” Monroe said. “He’s an old friend from, well, an old friend. Someone I never intended to see again.”

“I see,” Rosalee said. And Monroe believed she had intuited just how “old” a friend he meant. Before she’d met Monroe, Rosalee had her own dark period, a time she wasn’t proud of, same as Monroe. They had that in common, so she probably understood better than most what it meant for Monroe to hang around with somebody he knew during his own dark phase. “Monroe, are you…?”

“No, I haven’t done anything,” Monroe said. “I’ve been trying to help him.”

“Help him?”

“Be more like me.”

“He’s a Blutbad?”

Monroe nodded. “Hardcore,” Monroe said. “But he’s trying to change. At least he says he is.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“It’s been a struggle,” Monroe said. “I know I’ve been absent a lot lately, but…”

“Monroe, is it okay for you to be around someone like him?”

“Yes—no—I’m fine,” Monroe said quickly. “I just want to say that after tonight, it’s over.”

“It is?” she asked, doubtful.

“I tried to help him, but tonight’s the last time,” Monroe said. “He is—was—a friend, so I owed him that much, right? But I’ve made up my mind. One last attempt to set him on a good path. Then I’m done. It’s over. I have to admit to myself that I’ve done what I can and the rest is up to him.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Monroe said, nodding, as if he needed to convince himself again that he’d had a moral obligation to try to help Decker and that he should back away if meditation failed as spectacularly as had Pilates and t’ai chi. “Because, maybe you’re right, you know?”

“Right about what?”

“That it might not be the best idea for me to spend a lot of time with him.”

She took his hand in hers. “If I am right,” she said, “maybe you should cancel your meeting tonight.”

“No, I’ll be fine tonight,” Monroe said. “One last night. Meditation and a non-meat meal at home. Tame stuff. And tomorrow, everything will return to normal.”

Again, Monroe felt as if he was trying to convince himself. His words rang hollow in his own ears and he wondered if he was simply reciting the rationalizing mantra of an at-risk Wieder Blutbad, like a child whistling past a graveyard to convince himself he’s not afraid.

* * *

The LC Leasing, Inc. offices were located approximately two miles from the Portland & Sea Tavern in a one-story slate-gray building with batches of floor-to-ceiling windows at odd intervals backed by closed vertical blinds.

The detectives weren’t sure what to expect, but Nick suspected Lamar Crawford had never intended to meet them at the restaurant, that he’d simply been stalling for time. To what end, Nick couldn’t guess. Maybe he needed to inform his accomplices, especially if the truck hijacking had been an inside job.

Unlike the restaurant, the office was open for business. Nick held the glass door open wide so Hank could enter on his crutches. A young blond receptionist in a form-fitting red dress greeted them pleasantly.

“Welcome to LC Leasing,” she said with an expansive smile. “How may I help you?”

Hank flashed the detective’s badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck.

“We have an appointment with Lamar Crawford,” he said.

The receptionist’s smile faltered, but she rose and said, “This way.”

Large photos of modern office buildings hung in thin frames mounted on the wall to their left. Nick recognized some of the buildings from the Pearl District. To the right, he peered into a row of five offices, one after the other, each one unoccupied, but with computer displays and paper-filled inboxes on glass-and-steel desks.

“Where is everyone?” Nick asked.

She gave a perfunctory reply, “Tours with potential clients.” Now that she understood Hank and Nick had no interest in leasing office space, her earlier graciousness had evaporated.

The receptionist ignored the side offices and led them to the office in the rear, which looked twice as large as the others. She tapped on the doorframe.

“Mr. Crawford, these police officers say they have an appointment with you.”

“Detectives,” Hank corrected. “Griffin and Burkhardt.”

An elderly gentleman with a sallow complexion, watery eyes and hollow cheeks looked up from his computer display and gave her a wan smile.

“It’s quite all right, Nancy,” Crawford said. “I’ve been expecting them. Please hold all my calls.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, turned on her heel and left the room. She avoided eye contact with the detectives on her way out, as if they no longer mattered in her world.

Hank exchanged a look with Nick, but neither commented.

“Please, have a seat, Detectives,” Crawford said, indicating the two chairs in front of his own modern glass-and-steel desk. The same style as the side office desks, Crawford’s appeared half again as large as the others. A definite pecking order existed. His office also featured a lion’s share of the slender floor-to-ceiling windows.

Crawford’s desk presented an immaculate workspace. Aside from the computer display, keyboard, mouse, and a multi-line silver telephone, the glass surface held only a framed photo of a middle-aged woman with a teenage boy, and a manila folder under Crawford’s left palm. His right hand gripped a Mont Blanc ballpoint pen.

Nick took the chair to the left, farthest from the door, so Hank would require less maneuvering on his crutches before sitting. As Hank settled into the uncomfortable chair beside him, Nick assessed Lamar Crawford. His first impression had been accurate. In addition to Crawford’s poor complexion and apparent ill health, his bespoke suit hung loosely on his shoulders, as if his frame had withered too quickly for his tailoring to keep up. Crawford’s earlier claim of feeling too ill for the restaurant meeting seemed entirely plausible.

“I understand you have questions about the lost shipment of restaurant equipment,” Crawford said, squeezing the Mont Blanc in one skeletal hand.

“Lost when someone hijacked the truck carrying the equipment,” Hank pointed out.

“Yes. Assuming that is what happened,” Crawford said. “The driver and equipment went missing simultaneously.”

“You believe the driver was complicit in the theft?” Nick asked.

“Frankly, I don’t know what to believe,” Crawford said dismissively. “To this day, neither the driver, nor the equipment has turned up. The supply company filed a police report at the time—and my office cooperated fully with the investigation. But we never received that shipment. And—I might add—we had prepaid for everything. I’m still awaiting a refund from the supplier, who is, in turn, waiting for an insurance settlement.”

“You purchased the equipment personally?”

“I placed the order, yes,” Crawford said, tapping the Mont Blanc against the glass desktop:
bock—bock—bock!
A sign of nervousness or simply a nervous habit?

“You have purchase orders?” Hank asked.

“Of course,” Crawford said, insulted. “I placed the order and paid for the equipment. This is not an attempt at insurance fraud, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Not at all,” Hank said. “Just establishing your connection to the order.”

“Is there a connection?” Crawford asked rhetorically. “Absolutely. I ordered the equipment. I authorized the payment.”

“Anyone in your office acquainted with the driver?” Nick asked.

“No,” Crawford said. His pen paused mid-tap. “We had never ordered anything from this company before, which is why we prepaid. How could any of us possibly know the driver of the delivery truck?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Hank said.

“In this case, no one at this place of business had… prior knowledge—is that how you phrase it?—of the driver. At least not to my knowledge. You are welcome to interview anyone here to confirm that.”