Chapter 14
Lane woke up thinking about Laurel Lohman. This latest murder had pushed the incident with Lucinda to the bottom of his priority list. He was no longer concerned about how awkward it might be to continue working with her. The mutilation of a beautiful young woman had pretty much rendered that episode irrelevant.
The coroner had made a positive ID yesterday. Laurel Lohman, twenty-nine years old, lead singer for a local band, Raging Clowns.
The newspaper had already decided who the victim was. Yesterday’s paper had stated the body found was presumed to be Laurel Lohman, then had launched into a blurb about her being a local celebrity, how the tragic murder had cut a blossoming career short, etc, etc.
As was routine, Lane had looked at the significant other first, but it didn’t take long to clear the boyfriend, Greg Rogers. Not only did this have the markings of the killer who’d done Hebringer, and maybe Ramirez, Rogers had an alibi, had filed a missing person’s report when Laurel didn’t show up after her gig on Thursday night, and was, overall, a devastated mess.
The last time she was seen was by her band when she left the club on Thursday night. Rogers had spent most of two days desperately waiting, desperately searching for her. He wasn’t relieved that she’d been found.
Nothing helpful came from the scene. No clues. No DNA. Just like the other murder.
The words on the tree and the wall went round and round in Lane’s brain.
“Partners in Crime.
In You I Trust.”
There was something familiar about them, something he felt he should remember. It wouldn’t come.
After brushing his teeth and taking a quick shower, he headed to his car. He was out of coffee and would have to make the dreaded stop at You Fly, a convenience store a few blocks from his house. He didn’t know if the name was derived from the ‘I’ll buy if you’ll fly’ saying, or if it was representative of the clerk’s perpetual state of chemically induced euphoria.
Although You Fly was on the way to the station and had the best coffee nearby, Lane seldom stopped there. Each time he did, if Russell was working, he had to listen to the burrito story.
He walked in, and as he feared, Russell was behind the counter. “Hey, Detective dude. Long time no see and shit.” Russell was tall and lanky. His shoulder-length hair was the color of faded wheat and he wore round, wire-framed, tinted glasses.
“How’s it going, Russell?” Lane went to the coffee machines and filled a Styrofoam cup with the house blend. Taking it back to the counter, he had his money ready, hoping Russell would take the hint that he didn’t have time for small talk.
“Hey, man, you remember that time we got robbed?”
“Yeah,” Lane said, putting two dollars on the counter and starting to turn.
“Dude was a real bone-head,” Russell said. “Stopped to heat a burrito in the microwave.” He shook his head. “Still munching on it when the cops came.”
“Right. Just like the last time I was in here. Same ending to the story.”
Russell guffawed. “You’re a real hoot, Detective.” Then, as if Lane hadn’t just reminded him he’d already heard the story, he said, “Dude would got away with it if he hadn’t had the munchies. What kind of bone-head does something like that? I mean, Taco Bell is right down the street and their burritos beat ours, hands down.”
Lane’s phone vibrated and he looked at the display, feeling a rush of warm gratitude toward his partner. “What’s up?” he said into the cell, giving Russell a wave and heading out the door with his coffee.
“Got the property owner’s name,” Tony said. “You’re gonna love this.”
“Yeah?”
“Adam Utley.”
“Jesus. The editor at the Chronicle.”
“Yep. The victim was his fiancée’s best friend.”
“Damn.” Utley had stayed at the inn. His fiancée’s best friend was murdered. At a property he owned. Things were not looking good for Mr. Utley.
“I’m following up on the paint found at the scene. Wasn’t construction paint. Lab’s testing it now.”
There’d been traces of some kind of paint on the basement floor. Different color from the paint used in the house.
“Let me know what you find,” Lane said. “I’ll talk to Utley.”
After he ended the call, Lane slid into his car and took a sip of his coffee. Before he could dial the newspaper, his phone rang again. He felt a jolt in his gut when he saw Monroe’s name on the display.
“Brody,” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
“Lane? There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something about the girl who was killed.” Her voice sounded frantic.
“Which girl?”
“Laurel Lohman.”
“What about her?” Fear replaced the warmth he’d felt at her call. “Is Utley there? Has he hurt you?”
“Adam?” she said. “No. I mean, yes, he’s here. He hasn’t hurt me. Why would you think that?”
Lane let out a breath. “What about the girl?”
“I received an obituary on Wednesday. The date was wrong. It listed the date of death as Friday, the day after the obit was to be printed. I thought it was just a typo, but…”
“But?” he prompted.
“The name of the deceased was Laurel Lohman.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Laurel Lohman. The murder victim. An obituary listing her as the deceased came in. Last Wednesday,” she repeated impatiently, as if he were too dense to grasp the implication.
“Do you have the obit?”
“Yes. It’s here at the office.”
“I’m coming by.”
“There’s something else. Might not be important, but you should know.”
“Yes?”
“Last week, it happened, too. An obit with a wrong date, I mean. We didn’t think anything of it, but now… I don’t know. Does the name Richard Hebringer mean anything to you?”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone low and hoarse. “He was murdered.”
“On a Friday, October 24th?” she asked, her voice sounding cold, frightened.
“Yeah. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
****
Monroe’s cheeks were stained with tears when Lane got to the newspaper. She wore faded jeans and a baggy Kansas City Royals sweatshirt, the color making the blue tinge beneath her eyes even more stark.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She looked down at the floor, crossing her arms, then said quietly, “If I’d said something, told you about the obituary sooner, maybe she’d be alive.”
“No,” he said firmly. “You couldn’t have known. Don’t think like that.” It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t appropriate, but he reached out and pulled her into a hug. Her body felt cold. He stroked his hands up and down her back, feeling the tension in the lines of her spine… enjoying her scent. “It’s not your fault.”
She nodded and, after taking his comfort for only a few moments, pulled away. The look on her face told him his words hadn’t convinced her.
“Is Utley still here?”
“Yeah, in his office.” Picking up a newspaper from atop her desk, she handed it to him. “Richard Hebringer’s obituary is circled.”
The date, October 24th, matched the date of the murder. Interred at Macon Cemetery. Macon was the road on which the body was found.
“Laurel’s?” he asked.
She handed him another newspaper. The obit was circled on this one, too.
“I left the date out since I knew it was incorrect,” she said. “But it came in with this coming Friday listed as the date of death.”
The obit stated, Services to be held at Redway Funeral Home. The name of the property where Lohman was found. The SOB was playing some kind of sick game.
“Do you have records of who sent the obituary?” Lane asked.
“They were sent by email. I have an email address.”
“What about payment? Credit card information?”
She shook her head. “We don’t charge for obits up to nine lines. These were both less.”
Lane blew out a breath, then looked up from the paper. “When you and Adam stayed at the Highland Lily Bed and Breakfast, do you recall any problems he might have had with the desk clerk? Maybe they had words? A disagreement of some kind?”
Her brows drew together in a frown. “I’ve never stayed there.”
“Are you sure? It shows Utley was registered there in July. You two were together then, right?”
Monroe smiled grimly. “We were together then, but he didn’t stay there with me. He was heavily involved in his affair at the time. I just didn’t know about it.”
“Ah, hell. I’m sorry.” Lane felt like an idiot. Not very intuitive, considering he was a cop.
She shrugged. “No big deal. I’m over it.”
“Do you know a Garrett Ramirez?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should I?”
“Not sure. He was killed on October twenty-ninth. No obits with his name?”
“No. None that I recall.”
“Okay. Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” He reached out and squeezed her icy hand. “I need to go talk to Utley. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said, but her voice had a hollow, false ring that belied the words.
****
The blinds were drawn on Utley’s office window. Lane pulled his Glock from the holster. Holding it down by his side, he entered without knocking.
Utley sat at his desk, looking up when Lane came in. His face was a mask of grief… or pain… or guilt. His hands—free of firearms—lay in plain sight. Utley’s golden good looks seemed to have dimmed. Like a sun god who’d suffered an eclipse. Lane might feel sorry for him if he didn’t think the man could possibly be a killer. And if he hadn’t cheated on Monroe. And, let’s be honest here, if he hadn’t slept with Monroe.
“Detective Brody,” Lane said, replacing his gun and pulling out his shield. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Utley nodded. “About Laurel?” He pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”
Lane remained standing. “How well did you know Miss Lohman?”
Utley’s chin quivered. “She was Tabitha’s—my fiancée’s—best friend.” His voice broke. “We spent a lot of time together.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
His eyes closed briefly, as if he was searching his memory. “I think it was a few weeks ago. Tab and I went to hear her band. We went for breakfast after.”
“That was the last time you saw her?” Lane let a hint of skepticism enter his voice.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“Did you like Miss Lohman? Did you two get along?”
“Sure. Yeah. She was great.” Now a hint of worry entered his eyes. “Why?”
“Just wondered. Trying to get an idea of who might have something against her. Who might have wanted her dead.”
His eyes rounded. “You think I killed her? God. That’s insane. Why would I want to kill her?”
“Why would anyone?”
Tears filled his eyes and he shook his head. “I don’t know. God. I have no idea.”
“The obituaries of two murder victims appeared in your newspaper, Mr. Utley. Days before they were actually murdered.”
“Yeah. Monroe told me about that. I don’t get it.”
“Did you know Richard Hebringer?”
Utley shook his head, then, “Wait. The guy whose obituary had the wrong date? Don’t know him. Just know the name from the obit.”
“What about Garrett Ramirez?”
Another head shake. “Should I?”
“Hebringer was a desk clerk at the Highland Lily Bed and Breakfast. I understand you’ve stayed there.”
Utley’s gaze dropped to the top of the desk. “Yeah. But I don’t know the clerk. Can’t even recall if the person who checked us in was a male or female.”
Lane nodded. “I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”
Utley’s head came back up and his face colored. He stared at Lane for a moment and opened his mouth as if to say something, maybe to defend his affair, then he thought better of it and didn’t speak.
“Do you know where Miss Lohman’s body was found?” Lane continued.
Utley scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. Where?”
Lane watched his face as he answered. “Your property, Mr. Utley. In the basement of an unfinished home owned by Redland. Your company.”
“Dear Jesus. You’re kidding, right?”
Lane just looked at him.
“That makes no sense. Who would…? How…? Jesus,” he said again. He sat silently for a few seconds, then his face cleared and he said, “Have you talked to Derek?”
“Derek?”
“Tabitha’s ex-husband. He and I owned the properties together. Then, after…” He cleared his throat and looked away. “After Tab left him, he got out.”
“He no longer owns the property?”
“No.”
“Did he and Miss Lohman get along?”
Utley shrugged. “I guess they did at one time. After the split, I don’t think they saw one another. Tabitha has a restraining order against him, so none of us saw him much.”
“Why the order?”
“He wouldn’t leave her alone. Kept calling. Begging her to come back.”
“Did he make any threats? Against your fiancée or her family, friends?”
Utley reluctantly shook his head, as if regretting that he had to be honest. “No threats. Just begging. You know, not ready to let go.”
“We’ll speak to him. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d remain in town. Available.”
“Do I need a lawyer, Detective Brody?”
“Might be wise.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped him. “How crazy would I be to put obits in my own paper if I was the killer?”
“The person who did this isn’t exactly rational,” Lane said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lane was at the door when, out of the blue, the lines from the two crime scenes suddenly popped into his head.
Partners in Crime… In You I Trust.
He realized why they sounded familiar. Song titles. From the Rupert Holmes CD. Catherine had owned a copy.
He turned back to Utley. “You like that song? The one about Pina Coladas?”
“Huh?” Utley’s brows drew together. “Pina Coladas?”
“You know, about getting caught in the rain and liking Pina Coladas, that one.”
“Oh.” Utley shrugged. “Never really thought about it. I guess it’s okay. Why?”
“Just wondered.” Lane looked at him intently, seeing if his expression, his body language, had changed at all. Couldn’t get a read on him. “You know how it is when you can’t get a song out of your head. Drives you crazy.”
“Yeah,” Utley agreed, though he didn’t seem to really give a shit.
“Yep,” Lane said, shaking his head. “Driving me crazy.”
****
I got home, wanting a drink in the worst way, but with Josie there, I decided I should refrain. Even though drugs were her flavor of choice, any kind of stimulant couldn’t be good for her. Not until she was well over the craving. If drug addicts ever got over it.
I’d called a rehab facility and Josie was to go in at the end of the week. It made me worry, made me feel bad, as if I was abandoning her, but I knew it was best.
Josie was watching the first Die Hard, like we both hadn’t already seen it a dozen times.
The guilt over Laurel Lohman was still with me, and I couldn’t seem to shake it. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I’d said something, even starting with Hebringer’s obit, she might have been saved.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Josie asked, hitting the mute button on the remote.
I dropped onto the sofa next to her and told her about my day. She placed a hand over mine. “I’m so sorry. But it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”
I nodded. “That’s what Lane said.”
“Lane, huh?” she teased. “Not ‘Detective Brody?’”
In spite of myself, I smiled. “I’m just not thinking clearly. My defenses are down.”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“You’re not implying I should get involved with him? Josie, he’s married.”
She shrugged. “Not happily, right? Isn’t his wife in a crazy house or something?”
“Crazy house? She’s ill. Some kind of mental problem, I think, but he’s still married. Besides, where do you get your information?”
“Asia.” At my look, she said, “We might not be best friends, but we talk. She called for you the other day and we chatted a bit.”
“Well, bully for you,” I said crossly. “Glad I was the subject of your conversation.”
“We both just want you to find a guy. To be happy with someone.”
I almost said, Like you were? but didn’t. “I don’t think hooking up with a married guy is the answer to my love-life woes.”
“Maybe not. But I bet he won’t be married forever. Wouldn’t hurt to test the waters.”
“I don’t care if he leaves his wife tomorrow, I’m staying away. I damn sure don’t need to jump in a relationship with a married guy or one just out of a marriage. Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt.”
“Adam’s a dick. Lane’s not like that.”
“You don’t know a thing about him. No matter who the guy is, there should be some kind of rule. Some law about a grace period between relationships. Make them simmer a while alone before they start up with someone else.” I sighed. “Can we change the subject, please?”
“Sure. I wanted to talk to you about something, anyway.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you think you could take a few days off work?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I thought it would be cool to get away for a little while. Before I… you know, go in. Just the two of us. Maybe spend a few days at the lake?”
The idea definitely held appeal. “I’ll talk to Adam. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. He’s dealing with this Laurel Lohman thing, anyway. Probably won’t even notice I’m gone.” Not to mention, I only had a week or so left on my notice. I hadn’t told Josie I was leaving the paper, hadn’t told my family, not even Gable. Also hadn’t found a job. Was it because I didn’t really intend to leave the paper?
No. Hell no! I was leaving. Wouldn’t stay around for more abuse. Couldn’t. My old boss would be back in a few days. Maybe he’d have something for me. Then I could tell everyone I was leaving. Of course, I should have been looking for another job in the meantime, but I hadn’t been. That didn’t mean I was staying at the Chronicle. Procrastination, that’s all it was. That, and a need to clear my head.
“Yeah,” I told Josie. “Let’s do it. Let’s get the hell out of here for a few days.”
“Great.” She un-muted the TV. “Now let’s watch John Cyclane kick some ass.”
****
Derek Harmon’s house was an olive-green two-story on a quiet, tree-lined street in a wealthy neighborhood in North Kansas City.
Harmon answered the door, holding a can of Budweiser and wearing a San Francisco 49ers jersey over black sweats. He was average height and solidly built with short, spiked hair held in place by too much gel.
“Mr. Harmon?” Lane said, showing him the badge. “I’m Detective Lane Brody and this is my partner, Detective Tony Webber. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
He frowned, but his voice was pleasant. “What’s this about?”
“We’re investigating a homicide. May we come in?”
“Sure.” He led them into an untidy living room where a big screen TV showed Monday night football. The 49ers were playing the Saints. “Mind if we watch the game while we talk? I’ll mute the sound.”
“No problem,” Lane said.
“Have a seat, guys. Want a beer?”
Lane and Tony both declined, taking seats on chairs flanking the black leather sofa where Harmon sat.
“Oh, yeah,” Harmon said. “On duty. Sorry.”
On the wall behind the sofa were two paintings. One a landscape, the other a lighthouse.
Harmon saw Lane looking at them and said, “I did those,” with a hint of pride in his voice.
“You’re an artist?”
“Art is my passion. Doesn’t pay the bills, though.”
“What does?”
“Huh?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I dabble in real estate. I don’t have to work. My family has money. I buy properties, investments, just so I don’t feel useless, you know?” Harmon looked at the TV. “Come on,” he shouted at the screen. “Geez. I thought the 49ers were going to be good this year with their draft picks.”
“You’re a 49er fan? You from San Francisco?”
Harmon shook his head. “Grew up watching Joe Montana. Sort of kept following the 49ers after.”
“Where are you from?”
“Born and raised in Oklahoma. Moved here when I was twenty. Just never became a Chiefs fan.”
“Can you tell us where you were, say, from Thursday evening through Saturday morning?”
“Oh, yeah. The homicide.” Harmon’s gaze once more strayed to the TV. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a murder that will help you.”
“Your whereabouts, Mr. Harmon?”
He frowned in concentration. “Let’s see… Thursday night I was here. Watching football. The Falcons beat the Ravens 26 to 21. Friday I drove to my office in St. Louis. Came back that night. Went to Hooter’s and had a few beers. Came home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Sure. Part of it, anyway. The people at the office. A few guys I talked to at Hooter’s.” He grinned. “There was a particularly friendly, particularly well-endowed Hooter’s girl who might remember me.”
“Are you acquainted with a Laurel Lohman?” Lane asked.
The color drained from his face, and he swung his gaze from the TV. “Laurel? Sure, yeah. I know her well. She’s not… It isn’t her, is it?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Harmon. You didn’t know she’d been killed?”
“God.” He slid to the edge of the sofa and tipped the beer to his mouth, drinking deeply before he responded. “No. Dear God. What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Webber now. The two of them taking turns. Like a tennis match.
A hint of tears shone in Harmon’s eyes. “Laurel. Who would want to hurt her? She was great. Beautiful.” He shook his head. “What a shame.”
“Her body was found at a property owned by Redland.”
“Huh? How’s that possible?” His eyes rounded. “It wasn’t… Adam didn’t have anything to do with it, did he?”
“Why would you ask that?”
He sighed. Shrugged. “He owns those properties now. He and Laurel didn’t exactly…” He wet his lips. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.”
“Did Mr. Utley and Miss Lohman have problems?”
It took him a moment to answer. “Not anything big. She just didn’t like it that Adam and Tabitha…” he trailed off. “Laurel and I were pretty close. Got along great. She didn’t like it when Tabitha left me for Adam.”
“We understand that Miss Carrington has a restraining order against you.”
Harmon gave a humorless laugh. “That’s just her melodrama. Always likes to keep something stirred up. I never bothered her.”
“You didn’t harass her? Try to get her back?”
Another shrug. “I called her pretty often at first. I couldn’t believe our marriage was over. That she cheated on me with Adam. He and I were partners.” He sat back, took another swig of the beer. “It took me a little while to get over it, but I did. I moved on. Tabitha just likes attention. She got a VPO just to screw with me.”
They ran Hebringer’s and Ramirez’s names by him, but Harmon said he’d never heard of either.
“I think that’s all we have for now. We’ll be in touch if anything else comes up.”
They stood and Harmon walked them to the door. “I hope you find the bastard,” he said. “Poor, sweet Laurel.”
“We’ll find him,” Lane promised. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harmon. Please call if you think of anything that might help us.” Lane handed him a card.
“Will do,” Harmon said as they stepped onto the porch. “And, please, call me D.J.”