No Reservations Required (3 page)

5

Five days later, at the same hour but in different parts of the Cities, Kenneth Loy and Robert Fabian were laid to rest. Sophie and Bram didn’t know Ken Loy, but they did attend Bob’s funeral. As the whitest sunlight descended from the bluest sky, Pastor Clarence Ewald led the assembled crowd in reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

Sophie held on to Bram’s hand and bowed her head. It was a sad day in the Twin Cities. Bob had been a friend to so many people. Several hundred mourners stood around the lake at the west end of Lakewood Cemetery, their whispered voices joined with those closer to the casket.

Just a little over a year ago, Sophie and Bram had come to this same cemetery for Valerie Fabian’s funeral. Valerie had been a joyous, vibrant woman, an artist whose paintings were exhibited at galleries and bought by private collectors all over the country. Sophie had served on the board of a number of charity events with her and knew her well. She’d accomplished a great deal in her forty-six years, but nothing was more important to her than her marriage. When Bob lost her, the light went out of his eyes. Grief made him ill, created a barrier around him that he couldn’t seem to escape and others couldn’t enter, no matter how hard they tried.

Valerie’s sudden death came as a complete shock to everyone. She’d just left an appointment with her lawyer on the west side of St. Paul, when she failed to stop her VW Beetle at a stop sign and was broadsided by another car. The man in the second car, Kenneth Loy, was talking on his cell phone at the time. Both cars were badly damaged, but while Loy walked away from the accident with only a bruised shoulder and a sprained ankle, Valerie was taken to the emergency room with life-threatening injuries. She died two days later.

Even though Valerie was the one who’d failed to stop, Ken Loy was deemed, at least by Valerie’s friends and family, to be partially at fault. If he hadn’t been talking on the cell phone, with his attention compromised, he might have been able to stop in time, thus preventing her death. No criminal charges were ever brought against him. Valerie’s older brother, Phil Banks, had begun a civil lawsuit, hoping to sue Loy for every dime he had, but nothing had gone to trial so far. And now that Ken was dead, it never would. Both Ken and Bob had been murdered the same night—and, according to the police report, the same gun had been used in both shootings. It was the talk of the town.

When the Lord’s Prayer was over, Sophie looked up and saw Andy Gladstone, Bob’s half brother, wipe a hand across his eyes. Andy stood with his arm around Anika, all trace of the irritation Sophie had seen the other night on Anika’s face now gone.

Andy was a gentle-looking man with a brooding ethereality that made women want to mother him and men want to dismiss him. His sweet, pale face was surrounded by softly curling hair as black as boot polish. He was in his early forties, but looked ten years younger. Standing beside him, Anika seemed sad but radiant, her honey gold skin and wheat blond hair a lovely counterpoint to her husband’s darkness. Together, they made a striking couple.

Charles Andrew Gladstone was now the owner of the
Minneapolis Times Register.
Bob and Valerie had no children, and Andy was Bob’s closest relative. Andy had been an editor at the paper for the past two years. Sophie wasn’t entirely clear on the details of his journalistic background—Anika never wanted to talk about his past—but if Bob had left the paper to him, he clearly not only loved but trusted him.

Sophie sensed that Andy was a good man, but she wasn’t sure he was up to running a large metropolitan newspaper, especially one with a national reputation for being a political pressure cooker. The ownership seemed to sit heavily on his shoulders. He looked worn out. Sophie knew for a fact that he’d been having almost round-the-clock meetings with the editorial staff. One minute he was an editor himself, and the next he was in charge. His head must be spinning— his
and
Anika’s. Not only had they inherited the paper, but Bob Fabian was a multimillionaire. After living a middle-class existence, Andy and Anika were suddenly wealthy. Andy had yet to call a full staff meeting, although Sophie expected it would come soon. The employees at the paper were starting to wonder what changes he might make—and whether it would affect their jobs. Not a great working environment.

Phil Banks, Valerie’s brother, stood on the other side of Anika. He’d brought his latest girlfriend, Chris Parillo, to the service. Phil hadn’t repeated the Lord’s Prayer with the rest of the crowd, but instead had looked around, apparently more interested in who had come to mourn than in a show of piety. As far as Sophie could see, he was the only man at the funeral who wasn’t wearing a suit. Sophie didn’t know him well. He was a building contractor with financial interests in several restaurants in the Twin Cities. With his floppy silver pompadour and his well-muscled, leather-jacket-clad body, he looked like an aging movie star. But where Valerie had been cultured, Phil struck Sophie as crude.

Chris was the niece of Vince Parillo, kitchen manager and executive chef at the Rookery Club, and a cook in her own right. Bram told Sophie that Chris was a line chef at one of Phil’s restaurants when she and Phil first met. Bram had gotten to know her because she liked to spend time with her uncle Vince at the club, liked to help out in the kitchen. Bram thought the world of her.

“And now, may the Lord bless you and keep you,” said Pastor Ewald, repeating a familiar benediction as he raised his arms to the heavens. “May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.”

“Amen,” said the crowd.

“Amen,” repeated Sophie, closing her eyes. She was still unable to get her mind around the fact that Bob was gone. When she looked up, she saw Vince and Lyle Boerichter standing by the coffin, their heads still bowed. Lyle was a pilot for Sunrise Airlines. Vince, Lyle, and Bob had all served together in Viet Nam. Bob once told Sophie that Lyle and Vince were like brothers to him.

“Look over there,” whispered Bram, bending down close to Sophie’s ear and pointing to a tree at the top of a small rise.

“Who is it?” asked Sophie, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Al Lundquist.” Al was a homicide cop, an old friend of Bram’s.

“What’s he doing here?” asked Sophie.

Bram scanned the crowd, then put his arm protectively around Sophie’s shoulders. “My guess is, he thinks one of Bob’s friends or family may also be his killer. He’s here to check out the suspects.”

As they walked back to their car, Sophie couldn’t help but shiver.

6

Most weekdays, before his afternoon radio show, Bram took several hours to peruse various newspapers—from the
New York Times
to the
Minneapolis Times Register
, and dozens of other papers from all over the country. Now that his program was in so many national markets, he couldn’t just talk about Minnesota anymore. Nonetheless, like Garrison Keillor, Bram had developed a certain “Minnesota take” on national and world events.

With his deep, expressive radio voice, Bram hosted several daily features. One of the most popular was a segment called “The Bold and the Bashful,” a run-down of colorful local news stories. There was no dearth of those in the land of ten thousand lakes— and ten billion mosquitoes. Bram put his usual ironic spin on each. He also had two running characters: Ole Bumquist, an old sugar beet farmer who gave advice to the lovelorn, and Senator Gunder Tweet. Gunder allowed Bram to comment on one of his major interests—local and national politics. What had Bram currently dialed up to high dudgeon was the Minnesota legislature’s decision to allow the good people of the state to carry concealed weapons—at the same time extending bar hours and cutting law enforcement budgets. If that didn’t say it all about conservative politics, nothing did.

Bram also spent one of his three on-air hours interviewing a guest. Today he would interview an expert from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in St. Paul, a man who’d written a book on Internet crime. He expected it to be a lively hour.

Bram had just put down the
Detroit Free Press
and was ready to dive into the Milwaukee whatever when he heard a knock on his office door. It wasn’t much of an office, and what there was was cluttered with books, magazines, and old newspapers. Although he was organized, Bram never made anything other than chaos out of his dusty chamber.

“Enter at your own risk,” he shouted.

The door opened and Al Lundquist, his buddy the homicide cop, stuck his head inside. “The coffeepot on?”

“Isn’t it always?”

Al had been a friend of Bram’s since childhood. Both men had grown up on Chicago’s South Side. Al looked like it, even cultivated the toughness, while Bram had tried hard to leave the rougher parts of his childhood behind.

Several years ago, Al advanced to the rank of lieutenant in the homicide division. He was plainclothes now, strictly an off-the-rack kind of guy. In that, he and Bram also departed company. Whereas Bram spent an inordinate amount of money on his appearance, Al had only one look: cheap. He was tall and lanky, with sandy blond hair, a long face, and innocent blue eyes that probably conned the hell out of evildoers everywhere.

As he entered, Bram nodded to the table next to the window. His office might be a dump, but he always kept good coffee on hand—one reason Al visited him so often. That and the stash of gourmet cookies Bram always kept in his top desk drawer.

“What’s the brew of the day?”

“Ethiopian Harrar. The bean that started the world on its coffee craze.”

“You amaze me, Baldric. You do everything with such style.” He poured himself a mug, then sat down on a threadbare chair in front of Bram’s desk. “So, tell me again, why don’t you get someone to clean this pit up?”

“I like it like this,” said Bram, tossing a sack of fresh chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies across the desktop. “It helps me think.”

“Right. I should take some photos when you’re not here and sell them to
Minnesota Monthly.
They’d love to skewer Mr. Suave with the real deal.”

“Is that a blackmail threat?”

Al cracked his knuckles, then opened the sack. “Maybe. I hear you’re interviewing Joel Hellstrom this afternoon. Internet crime.” He dunked the cookie in the coffee.

“You heard right.”

Al took a bite, then leaned back and made himself more comfortable.

Bram eyed him for a second. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me everything you know about Robert Fabian’s murder.” It had been
the
topic of conversation around his house since the night it happened.

“Can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“I’m involved in an ongoing investigation, Baldric. Meg Corrigan and I are the primaries on the case.” Al crossed one long leg over the other. “I took charge of the crime scene at Fabian’s house. Meg was over at the Shepard Road scene. I assume you’ve heard that Fabian and Loy were shot with the same gun.”

“I don’t spend my days in a hermetically sealed vault, Al. Yes, I’ve heard. With Fabian’s connections to the community, you’re probably getting leaned on pretty hard to come up with an arrest. Sophie adored him, you know. She’s been listening to the news every night hoping to hear more details. Got any hot suspects?”

Al coughed into his fist. “All I can say is what I’ve told everyone else. The matter is under investigation.”

“Al, it’s
me.
Your old buddy. Whatever you say won’t leave this room.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, then I’ll talk. You listen. I’ve got a few ideas. Why don’t I tell you what they are. You might learn something.”

“Sure, pal. Whatever you say.” He finished his first cookie, then started on a second, pushing the sack back across the desk.

“One of the reports I read said Bob’s house hadn’t been broken into. That means he must have let his killer in, so he probably knew him.”

“Could be.”

“Might have been a friend, or a member of his family.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? You won’t confirm
anything
?”

“Nope. Can’t.”

Bram drummed his fingers on the desk for a second. “All right. Let’s change gears, then. Who had a motive for Loy’s murder?”

“It’s your dime, Baldric. You tell me.”

“Valerie Fabian’s family, that’s who. They all thought Loy was responsible for her death.”

“It’s kind of a stretch to suggest that this family member, whoever he was, was so angry that he was willing to whack Loy.”

“
He?
It was a man? A male relative?”

“No comment.”

But Bram could see he’d struck pay dirt. “All right, let’s just say for a moment that whoever shot Loy went straight to Bob’s house. Maybe Bob was in on it. Maybe he
paid
this guy to do it. Whatever the case, they got together and they got into a fight. Suppose our bad boy walked in and announced what he’d done, and Bob thought, Hell, I’ve got to call the police. Maybe he threatened to turn the murderer in.”

“Possible.”

Bram watched Al’s face for hints that he was going in the right direction. “So this man, this . . . relative . . . shoots Bob.”

“Someone sure did.”

“Bob’s taken to the emergency room, where he dies of the gunshot wound.”

Al just stared at him.

“What?”

“I didn’t say a word.”

Bram could tell he’d taken a wrong turn, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was. “I’m missing something.”

“You’re missing a lot.”

“Have you talked to any of the suspects yet?”

“No comment.”

“Come on, Al. Give me a crumb. What would it cost you?”

“Well, let’s see. My job?”

“You’ve got to be all over Bob’s family. You’re the one who’s always saying that the colder the trail becomes, the harder it is to nail the perpetrator.”

“Don’t repeat my words back to me, Baldric. It’s not nice.”

“I suppose if Bob’s murderer
was
a relative, fingerprints, fibers, that sort of thing are all useless because there would be a reason why those people—men— would have been in the house. They’re family.”

“I wish it were that simple. This is the most convoluted case I’ve ever worked on.”

“Why? Two murders, both tied together. One perpetrator.”

“I wish.”

Now Bram was confused. “More than one shooter?”

“No. Just one.”

“Then—”

“I can’t talk about it. We’re not sure what we’ve got yet. It’s more complicated than what you’re reading in the papers.”

“In what way?”

Al lowered his eyes.

“
Use
me, Al. I’m here for you.”

The cop gave him a disgusted grunt.

“Want another cookie?” Bram rattled the sack.

“Save the charm, Baldric. It doesn’t work on me.” But he grabbed the sack. “Okay, look. You’ll find this out in a matter of hours anyway, so I might as well tell you. I learned a few hours ago that somebody leaked one of our main pieces of evidence to the press. We’re in possession of a taped 911 call Fabian placed the night he was shot. He called to report a murder down on Shepard Road.”

“Loy.”

Al nodded.

“Did he say who did it?”

“He was about to, but somebody stopped him. There was another man’s voice on the tape in the background, but it was garbled, so we don’t know who it was.”

“That had to have been Bob’s killer.”

“No comment.”

“But Bob must have said something to give you a lead.”

“Maybe.”

“Will that be in the newspaper or do I have to beat it out of you?”

Al studied Bram for a moment, then took a sip of coffee. “It sounded like Fabian was about to say his
brother
killed Loy.”

Bram whistled.

“But he didn’t finish his sentence. So, for all we know, he may have been going somewhere else with it. A good defense lawyer could drive a truck through a hole that big. And even if he did mean to say that his brother was the one who killed Loy, that still leaves us with a problem. Which brother? Fabian’s brother-in-law, Phil Banks, or his half brother, Andy Gladstone.”

“Was the entire 911 tape leaked to the press, or just the fact of its existence?”

“We’ve got the tape locked up. Nobody’s got access to it but us. But yeah, I think the press has a transcript.”

Bram tapped a finger to his lips. “I saw you at Bob’s funeral the other day. I figured you weren’t there just to pay your respects.”

“You saying I got no compassion?”

Bram spread his arms wide. “Why don’t you haul Andy and Phil in, shine a bright light in their eyes, and apply your thumbscrews?”

“You watch too many dumb movies.”

“But you’ve talked to them, right?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.” Al took the last cookie out of the sack.

“And I wouldn’t understand.”

“No, you’d probably get it, but I can’t talk about it. I’ve already said too much.”

“You eat all my cookies and then you have the nerve to hold out on me?”

“Guess so,” said Al, crunching up the sack and tossing it at Bram’s chest.

Bram thought he’d had the real story nailed, but now he wasn’t so sure. What the press had reported so far must be only the tip of the iceberg. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had a little over a minute to get to the sound booth before his program started. “Between you and me, just give me a hint.”

“Between you and me?”

“Goes no farther than this room.”

Al rose from the chair, dropping the last cookie into his side pocket of his suit coat. “Okay. Listen carefully, pal. I’m only going to say this once.” He placed his hands on the desk, bent closer to Bram, and whispered, “Rosebud.” Then he winked.

“Asshole.”

“No comment.”