Murder with a Twist (22 page)

I
was eager to hear the news, but when Duncan dragged me out of bed and into the shower—which briefly resurrected the fireworks—I momentarily forgot about it. Once we were dressed, Duncan finally shared his information while I brewed up a quick pot of coffee.

“I have good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?”

I thought a second and said, “The bad news.”

“We got the final DNA results back from the toothbrush, and your instincts about it were spot on. The hair was only good for mitochondrial DNA, but we got a full profile from the toothbrush. And either both came from the same person or the hair is from a sibling of the person who used the toothbrush.”

“Why is that bad news?”

“Because neither sample could have come from Davey Cooper.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don't match Belinda's DNA at all. In fact, they are from a child of Hispanic descent.”

“Juanita Alvarez again,” I grumbled.

“Maybe . . . probably,” Duncan said. “Except the DNA is from a boy, and the only child we saw with the Alvarezes was a girl.”

“Okay, so what's the good news?”

“Jimmy is good friends with a retired judge and he called him last night to see what he might know about this Margaret Heine/Peggy Smith woman. It turns out she no longer practices law because she snagged herself a very rich husband two and a half years ago after she flew to Guam and got a quickie divorce from Mr. Heine. And she now has a new name: Meg Monroe. She no longer works, everything she buys is in her new name using her husband's credit cards or money, and she apparently managed to get her birth date changed on her DMV record, which is why we couldn't connect the two. She's trying to pass herself off as ten years younger than she is.”

“Do you know where to find her?”

“I do,” Duncan said. “And we're going to pay her a visit.”

The coffee was done brewing so I poured us each a to-go cup and we headed out, taking Duncan's car.

The city snowplows had worked their magic during the night, and while the streets were a slushy mess with the morning rush hour traffic, the rest of the city was a sparkling bed of snowy white. The sky was clear blue, the sun was bright, and the snow was blinding.

“You seem pretty confident that this woman will be the key to everything,” I said, a little puzzled by Duncan's enthusiasm.

“Oh, she is,” he said. “It turns out that this isn't her third marriage. It's her fourth. And her first husband's name was Charles Cooper.”

“Cooper? As in Jamie and Belinda Cooper?”

“Yep. Jimmy did some digging around and found a marriage certificate for Charles and Margaret Cooper. They had one kid, a boy. Mr. Cooper died in a car accident when the boy was five and Margaret remarried a year later to a man named Arnold Smith. She and Arnold had a girl a few months later. Apparently, that daughter was killed in a car accident seven years ago. Guess who was driving the car?”

“Jamie Cooper?” I said, feeling my own excitement grow.

“You got it. Jamie didn't lie to us, though technically it was his stepsister who died. He wasn't drinking when he had the accident, but he was charged with negligent homicide because he did have marijuana in his system, and he ran a red light. The judge Jimmy talked to said he'd heard that Peggy Smith had used her connections with the court system to pull some strings and get the charge dropped.”

“But Jamie told us his parents were both dead.”

“Yes, he did. It's because that's what he believed. His real father died when he was little and Arnold Smith died of a heart attack less than a year after the accident that took Jamie's stepsister. Apparently, Jamie's mother blamed Jamie for both deaths, and after she bailed him out following that DUI five years ago, she basically disowned him. What's more, it turns out this judge knows Margaret's last husband, Carl Heine, and he put Jimmy in touch with him. Carl told him an interesting story. It seems that Jamie called Carl three years ago because he was trying to track down his mother.”

“That would have been around the time Belinda was pregnant with Davey,” I said.

“You're right,” Duncan said. “In fact, Carl said that was Jamie's impetus to try to reestablish a relationship with Margaret. Anyway, Carl and Margaret were separated at the time, and Carl knew Margaret wasn't keen on her son. She had told him that Jamie was a gang member and into drugs and that she was afraid of him. So Carl told Jamie that he and Margaret were separated and that he didn't feel comfortable giving him any additional information. Then Carl called Margaret to let her know the kid was looking for her. Three months later Margaret called Carl back and asked him to contact Jamie, say he'd had a change of heart, and give him Margaret's address. Carl thought it was an odd request but figured Margaret might have had a change of heart, so he did what she asked. Jamie then went to that address, which is the same one Cora found, hoping to find his mother. When he discovered someone else living in the house, he went next door to talk to a neighbor, to see if she might know where his mother had gone. The neighbor told him that she had some bad news—his mother had gone to California on vacation three months ago and had been killed in a car accident.”

“Why would the neighbor tell him that?”

“Because she thought it was the truth. According to Carl, Jamie's mother set the whole thing up to make it appear that way because she didn't want her son to be able to find her. The neighbor told Jamie that his mother never returned from her vacation, and after a few weeks, some storage company came by and started emptying the place out. When the neighbor went over to ask what was going on, the workers told her the car accident story, stating that the owner of the house had been killed and that they had been hired by the woman's estate lawyer to clear the place out. The house went up for sale a few days after that and it sold a week later. By the time Jamie showed up, there was already another family living in the place. Jamie called Carl back and told him what he'd found. Carl knew Margaret wasn't really dead, but he assumed she did what she did so Jamie would stop looking for her.”

“If both Carl Heine and this judge knew this information, why didn't either one come forward when Belinda was killed and Davey went missing?”

“Because they didn't make the connection. Margaret was only married to Carl for a little over a year and for a good portion of that time they were separated. Carl never met or saw Jamie; he only spoke on the phone with him. And Margaret never mentioned Jamie's last name so Carl assumed it was Smith.

“As for the judge, he remembered that Margaret Heine, who was Peggy Smith at the time, had a son and recalled her bailing him out after the DUI, and making the charges disappear after the accident that killed his sister, but he didn't remember the son's name and never made the connection between Margaret Heine and Jamie Cooper because he never knew Peggy-slash-Margaret as a Cooper.”

“So Margaret, or Peggy, or Meg, whatever she calls herself, wrote off her only surviving child?”

“So it would appear.”

“But that left her with no one,” I said, struggling to understand how someone could do such a thing. Then it hit me and my eyes grew wide. “Except now there's a grandchild.”

“Yes!” Duncan said enthusiastically, slapping my leg in a kudos gesture and making me see a distant swarm of bees.

“Davey is the only legacy she has left,” I said, thinking it through. “He's her redemption, her last chance to make things right.”

“Exactly! If she didn't want Jamie to know she was alive, or want him to have anything to do with Davey, she'd have to figure out a way to get her hands on the kid without anyone knowing. I don't know about you, but that sounds like potential motive to me.”

“Yes, it does.”

I sat in silence for a while, contemplating this new scenario. Duncan drove us across town and headed north in the same direction we'd gone when we'd followed Juanita Alvarez to the country club. Only this time, we ended up in a ritzy neighborhood of gated mansions that were built along the coast of Lake Michigan. Eventually, Duncan pulled up to a gate with a buzzer and a speaker. He rolled his window down and pushed the button. A moment later a tinny female voice came from the box. “Who is it, please?”

“Detective Duncan Albright with the Milwaukee Police Department. I'm here to see Meg Monroe.”

There was a long period of silence. I imagined what might be going on in the house, whose stone façade I could only see a glimpse of past the trees at the top of the long circular drive beyond the fence. Eventually, the gate opened and Duncan drove in, stopping in front of a sprawling house with three levels. We got out of the car and climbed crescent-shaped stone steps to a huge front porch where the roof was supported by massive stone columns. Just as Duncan was about to ring the bell, the door opened, revealing a young, somewhat homely, blond woman who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. If not for the overly large nose, undersize chin, and pockmarked skin, she might have been pretty.

“My name is Sharon,” she said. “May I see some ID, please?”

Duncan flashed his badge and Sharon took longer than what I felt was necessary to study it, making me wonder if she was stalling for time. I looked around the expansive grounds, searching for any sign that a child might be here, like some stray toys or a sled. I glanced over at the garage and wondered if there was a car in there with a child seat strapped into the backseat. Finally Sharon shifted her gaze to me. “And you are . . . ?”

“She's my assistant,” Duncan said.

Sharon seemed amused by this but said nothing more. She stepped aside and waved us into a huge foyer with a marbled floor and a wide, winding staircase. The ceiling above us was three stories high and a crystal chandelier that looked bigger than Duncan's car hung down from it, stopping nearly level with the second floor.

“Mrs. Monroe will see you in her office,” Sharon said.

“Her office?” Duncan echoed. “Does she work?”

“She works very hard managing her and her husband's various charities.”

Ah, yes
, I thought.
The working life of the filthy rich. Must be nice.

“Please follow me.”

We passed through the foyer into a sitting room that looked like it was rarely used. It was furnished with antiques and there was a huge stone fireplace on the wall to our left. From there we went through another door and down a long hallway, past several closed doors. Near the end of the hall, there was an open doorway on our right and Sharon stopped here and gestured for us to go inside. I heard a faint sound as we approached the door, one that piqued my curiosity. I tucked it away for now and, as we entered the room, Sharon disappeared back the way we had come. I had a feeling she wouldn't go far.

Meg Monroe was a tiny woman with a fashionable bob in platinum blond carefully coifed into place, and makeup that was artfully applied. She was wearing buff-colored stretch pants that revealed slender, toned legs, a royal blue sweater with a cowl neck, and blue pumps. Her light blue eyes looked icy, but her demeanor was warm and welcoming. She got up from a leather chair behind an antique desk and came around to greet us.

“Detective Albright,” she said with a smile that looked genuine even though I doubted she was happy to see us. She shifted those icy blues my way. “And you are . . . ?” She gave me a quick head-to-toe perusal that left me feeling underdressed and gauche.

“This is Mackenzie Dalton, my assistant,” Duncan said.

“An assistant? How quaint. I guess the city coffers must be well-endowed these days if the police can afford assistants.” She looked back at Duncan and her smile broadened. “How may
I
be of assistance to you, Detective?”

Duncan ignored the not-so-subtle jibe and said, “I'd like to ask you some questions regarding a recent murder in the city.”

Meg Monroe clutched a hand to her chest. “A murder? How awful. I'm not sure how I can be of any help to you, but go ahead and ask your questions. Please, have a seat.”

Duncan didn't budge, so neither did I.

“Suit yourself,” Meg said with a shrug. She backed up a step or two and leaned against the front edge of her desk.

“Are you related to Jamie Cooper?” Duncan asked, getting right to it.

There was the barest hint of a flinch, a tiny muscle twitch in one of her lower eyelids. “Who?” she said, and the smile faltered ever so slightly.

“I know who you are,” Duncan said. “And I know that you're Jamie Cooper's mother.”

Meg let out a little chuckle of amusement and pushed herself away from the desk. She turned away from us and walked over to a side window, gazing out at a snow-covered expanse of lawn. “Detective, I'm sure you're very good at what you do, and I hope you can solve this murder you mentioned. But I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Meg,” Duncan said. “Or should I say Margaret. Or Peggy?”

Meg's shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, but she kept her back to us. I took advantage of her distraction to look at the top of her desk. There was an open laptop computer but I couldn't see the screen without going behind the desk, something I doubted Meg would let me do. Aside from the various typical office implements—a stapler, a tape dispenser, a paper clip holder that looked like it was made from carved ivory, and a metal rack with two shelves that were filled with papers that appeared to be letters—the only other objects on top of the desk were a cell phone and a Rolodex.

“I've never liked being called Margaret,” she said in her cultured tone, still staring out the window.

I leaned a little to one side and saw that the Rolodex was open to the
W
section, and the card I could see had
Winston Children's Home
written on it, along with an Illinois address and phone number.