Relative Malice (17 page)

29

Sharky had watched Carlee Somerfelt since the night she and her friends snuck into a club using fake ID’s. He eyed her all evening when she wasn’t looking, but when she left she’d been surrounded by a group of girls. It had been sheer luck he found out about the stargazing trip. She’d fallen right into his waiting arms. He’d stolen her virginity and her life. Or so he’d thought until the morning papers announced the girl survived the encounter. She wouldn’t be able to identify him, though. The cops didn’t have shit.

He’d worn a mask, gloves, and used a condom. The knife was sold in every sporting goods store in town.

The demand to meet tonight had to be fallout from what he’d done the night before. He’d been ordered to keep his nose clean, but it would be hard to deny he was the one who’d done the deed on Somerfelt. Too fucking bad if it hadn’t gone over. He was through being a patsy. It was worth whatever happened as a result.

He hated waiting, but as ordered, he sat in his car in the dark parking lot at the designated time.
Crap, this place is colder than a witch’s tit.
Damn heater sucked and he was freezing. He got treated like crap, especially when he asked to be called “the Shark” instead of that baby name, Sharky. He was done being the puppet and would announce it tonight. If he was going to be reamed out for what happened, then that was it. Didn’t matter that he’d done it. It wasn’t anyone else’s business.

Monday

Kendall stayed behind while Alverson and his partner visited the local tattoo and piercing parlors She managed to avoid Schoenfuss, who after being gone for five days, had been locked in his office all morning, relieving her of having a conversation with him anytime soon.

She left the station early to visit the local car repair shops. With the little she had to go on—the gasoline smell on the rapist and the vague description—it wouldn’t take more than the morning. Driving to the first auto repair shop, she mulled over her goal of working in a special victim’s unit. It would mean relocating to a larger city. Would she have the stomach for it in the long haul? She wondered. The baby pervs had given her serious doubts.

Carlee had described her attacker as young, not too tall or heavy, wearing a leather jacket and a tough-guy attitude, which sounded to Kendall more like someone who’d be employed in a neighborhood shop. The mechanics at the dealership she frequented were older, late twenties and up. Before she left the office, Kendall eliminated the new car dealerships with a few calls confirming their mechanics were all older than 25—the jobs must pay well. She’d focus on the small independents first. There was so damn little to go on it was hard to know what to ask them. A young mechanic, not too tall or heavy, Caucasian, wore a leather jacket. Vague. Add to it, he liked to rape women and had a pierced cock.

She spent a minimal amount of time in the first few places and wondered if she was spinning her wheels. About to stop for lunch, she spotted an old-fashioned gas station that had two stalls for repairs. Not on her list, it looked like just the kind of place a young mechanic might get his first job. She parked and entered the station, walking into the first bay where an old van was on a hoist and a man in greasy coveralls swore into the phone he was holding.

“Fuck that, Arlie! Threaten me all you want, but it won’t get your truck fixed any faster. The more time I spend talking to you, the longer it’ll take.”

The caller apparently didn’t let up.

“How many ways do I have to tell you? Sharky didn’t show up—I have cars backed up to my asshole—I’ll let you know when I get to it. That’s the best I can do.” After a few seconds, he said, “Fine. Come and pick it up. I don’t give a crap.”

He threw the phone aside and saw Kendall.

“If you’re looking for a car, get in line,” he grumbled.

She held up her ID and introduced herself. “No, I’m looking for a man.”

“Me too,” he snarled. “Asshole mechanic didn’t show up.”

“I’m looking for a young man, probably late teens to early twenties. He’s Caucasian and wears a leather jacket.” She didn’t add that he had a pierced penis; she didn’t think men exchanged that kind of detail with each other and she doubted an establishment like this had community showers.

“That could be a lot of guys.”

“We think he’s a mechanic,” she said.

“You think. Don’t know much, do you?” He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m having a shitty morning here. My mechanic didn’t show. Hell, he could fit a description like that. What do you want the guy for?”

Kendall was getting a buzz—this could be the lucky break she needed. “I can’t reveal anything about an ongoing investigation. Tell me about this Sharky. He have a name?”

“I think its Gerald. Gerald Fostvedt.”

“Is that how you make out his payroll checks?”

Kendall noticed the hesitation, guessing he didn’t pay employee withholding taxes.

“I pay him cash. The kid’s usually dependable.”

“Kid? How old is this Sharky?”

“Seventeen. But he’s a terrific wrench; knows his cars.”

“What does he look like?”

“Shit, I dunno.”

“Try.”

“Well, he’s skinny—about a half a head shorter than me, so about 5’8”, I guess. Has dark hair, kinda long. He wears it oily and slicked back. Told me they call him Sharky cause that’s what he looks like.”

Kendall couldn’t resist. “He has fins?”

“Funny. Nah, he has a long, thin face, and a big mouth. His teeth have spaces—like a shark.”

“Do you have a phone number for him?”

“I do, but I can tell you he’s not picking up.”

“It’s a cell phone?”

“Yeah.” He edged closer to the van he’d been working on. “Are we about done here? I got work waiting for me.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

He described an old motel, recently converted to studio apartments. “I think he said he rented the last one they had. Said it was his lucky number—three.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“An old Camaro. Dark blue and beat up. He’s gonna restore it.”

Kendall left with directions to Sharky’s apartment and the cell number he wasn’t answering.

Sharky. He could be her guy. Rape and attempted murder on Saturday and on Monday a no-show at work. It fit.

There were two cars parked in front of the units where he lived, an old pickup and an ancient Honda four-door. She couldn’t find a manager on the premises and no one answered at number three.

She left, drove a few blocks, and turned into the lot of a convenience store that sold deli sandwiches. Wolfing down a sub, a diet Pepsi, and a bag of chips without leaving the parking lot, she updated her notes, trying to decide what to do next. The garage owner hadn’t known the names of any of Fostvedt’s friends and except for mentioning that a girl called him from time to time, had been no further help. She’d cruise by Sharky’s apartment once more since she was still in his neighborhood and search the area for a blue Camaro.

When there was still no answer at #3, Kendall checked for an arrest record on Fostvedt—he was clean except for a speeding ticket—and got the license number of the Camaro. Then she scoped out the neighborhood, paying close attention to parking lots of apartment buildings in case he was staying with a girlfriend who lived in the area. That and driving by his place got her nothing. Then she got lucky. An aging park nearby had been used to build a new baseball diamond for the local softball teams. The county had spared no expense; the stadium housing the ballpark had been done well, comfortably seating hundreds of fans. What little remained of the original park framed the baseball field on the back three sides and had never been renovated or kept up.

She turned into a deserted remnant of the park whose seedy parking areas served as meeting rooms for the non-discriminating. As she passed through the first one, she noticed a car parked in another space about a hundred yards over. What little she could see of the car was blue.

Kendall drove to the other lot. A blue Camaro parked there fit the description given by the garage owner and appeared to be empty. Looking around, she saw there wasn’t much nearby except an old shelter that at one time housed restrooms. Surrounded by remnants of summer weeds and old shrubbery, it was plastered with graffiti and sat about twenty yards from the deserted car.

She left her car and circled the Camaro, seeing nothing remarkable. The plate matched Fostvedt’s car. Glancing toward the shelter, she debated the wisdom of entering it without calling for backup, then decided against calling. Nothing indicated a crime had been committed. Fostvedt had likely met someone in the parking area and left in another other vehicle. If he was her perp, he might have abandoned the telltale car and taken off for parts unknown rather than face arrest.

The shelter, just large enough to house two small restrooms, had two doors into it, now only rectangular openings in the cement blocks; the actual doors long gone. As she approached, she feared what she would find—the smell of dying vegetation couldn’t mask the scent of death.

Kendall unholstered her gun and called for backup before slowly turning into the shelter. A body lay on the filthy cement floor in a pool of congealed blood. Kendall backed away, careful not to disturb anything. If the body was Fostvedt and he turned out to be Carlee Somerfelt’s attacker, it was possible someone had found out and decided to override the system.

She had little doubt what notable peculiarity the medical examiner would find when he had Sharky undressed on the table.

Maggie Cottingham’s law office was in the middle of an aging strip mall on a frontage road parallel to 53. Flanked by a discount carpeting store and a battery shop, the glass front was discreetly covered by beige, vertical blinds. A sign painted in the lower right corner of the window read “M. L. Cottingham, Attorney at Law.”

An empty reception desk sat in the waiting area. Kendall walked into the main office, where Maggie Cottingham sat slouched behind a desk fronted by two rattan chairs. She straightened. “Kendall. This is a nice surprise.”

“It’s Detective Halsrud. This isn’t a social call.”

Cottingham pulled off a pair of tortoise-shell readers. “Have a seat, Detective. I heard you found the Markowicz girl. That was good work; her parents are very relieved.”

“Nice try, Maggie, but the virgin email case is over, and it’s not going to do you any good to suck up.” Kendall wouldn’t dance around what she’d found out. “You know we’re still looking for Philly Glausson. One of my sources told me you’re in the baby brokering business.”

The color drained from Cottingham’s heavily made-up face.

Kendall had no sympathy for her. “You can talk to me here or we can go down to the station.”

She nearly went for her gun when Cottingham reached into a lower desk drawer, relaxing as she saw her take out a bottle of Scotch and two crystal tumblers.

“I’ll talk to you, but I’m going to need some moral support. Care to join me?”

Technically, Kendall was off the clock, but she didn’t want to act too chummy. “No thanks.”

Maggie took a healthy swallow of the liquor. “You can’t prove anything, you know.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Cottingham didn’t look sure at all. “I am. And as an attorney who knows my rights, I could ask you to leave. But because of my relationship with your father, I’ll talk to you without my own attorney. One caveat, however. This little talk is off the record. You want more than that, we go formal. Agreed?”

“Fine.” Kendall wanted to hear what Cottingham had to say. That Cottingham and her father had an actual relationship was news to her. Knowing her father’s history with women, she’d been hoping he’d follow pattern and have already moved on to the next one.

“Put your cell phone on the table. And recording device if you’re carrying one.”

Kendall stood and emptied her pockets. Cottingham checked Kendall’s phone and digital recorder. “All right. I’ll tell you about it.” She took another gulp of whiskey.

“First of all, I no longer handle adoptions of any kind. My adoption service goes back more than 18 years to when I first got out of law school. I couldn’t find a job and was forced to hang out my shingle. Things were tough—I couldn’t support myself and my dog, much less pay off my student loans. I wasn’t planning to do adoptions; I did the first one for a friend of mine. It was an old story; she’d put her longtime boyfriend through school, and when she got pregnant, he dumped her.

“She came to me and said she wanted to give the child up for adoption. She’d heard that people pay big money to adopt a Caucasian baby if an attorney brokers the deal instead of an agency. Like me, she needed money desperately. She begged me to find a couple who had money and would make good parents. She was willing to split the fee, so I did it for her. You’d be amazed at how easy it was to find people willing to pay a fortune for a baby.”

Kendall didn’t doubt it. “That was it? The one time?”

Cottingham swirled the liquor left in her glass. “I wish I could tell you it was. I got greedy, I suppose. But I really needed the money. After my practice got going, I quit.”

“So how many adoptions did you handle?”

“Seven, over a period of eight years. And just so you know, I researched the couples completely. As well as any regular agency would. It was all legit and the babies went to great homes.”

“You’re out of it for ten years now? My source was more recent.”

“I’ve had some calls since then, and I turned them all down. And before you ask, nothing recent. And also before you ask, I don’t know of any baby brokers in the area.”

________

Kendall left Cottingham, satisfied the woman had been up-front; Cottingham’s facts could be checked. Another dead end.

She tried Teed as soon as she got home. The medical examiner, sounding annoyed at the interruption, answering after five rings.

“Did you get a positive ID on Fostvedt?”

“Yes, his parents were here earlier.”

“Sorry to hound you about this already, but I need whatever you have on him.”

“I’m working on him now, Kendall. He died of a bullet wound to the chest at close range. You need details, you’ll have to wait.”

She didn’t want to lead him. “I’m looking for something in particular. If it’s there you would have noticed.”

Teed humphed. “You know about his piercing.”