Deviations Page 6

  I’d made it through my meeting, come home, and put on some sweats. I found that sweats made it a little less convenient to go out to Callahan’s because I’d have to get dressed again. But this afternoon I’d made the effort.

  There was Murtaugh on the TV, looking like a police chief: great posture, somber, in charge. The sun was directly in his eyes, but he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. “The body of State Senator Dolores Weston was recovered by officers of the Rawlings Police Department at 2:46 this afternoon at a vacant lot that adjoins the Prairie Industrial Park. The death was a homicide. I have ordered a full mobilization of all Rawlings Police Department officers and detectives as we begin our investigation. We intend to pursue the investigation vigorously, and we will issue updates at 5:00 pm and at any other appropriate times, right here, when we have information to communicate. Thank you very much.”

  The guy next to me had sat down, apparently willing to give me a little TV time. But I could tell he was getting pissed.

  The reporters weren’t going to let Chief Murtaugh get away that easy. One voice shouted out, “Chief, are you sure it was a homicide?”

  Murtaugh had started to walk away. He turned back and walked up to the podium. “Yes, I said it was a homicide. Our forensic team has not yet completed its work. But it was a homicide. That’s all I can say at this time.”

  Another reporter called out, “How did your officers know to look at the industrial park? Were you tipped off?”

  “I can’t comment on that right now.”

  “How was she killed?” a third reporter called out. “Do you have any suspects?” from another voice.

  Chief Murtaugh turned toward the last questioner, a twerp with gelled hair, and gave him one of those stares I’d seen yesterday. When the camera turned on the young guy’s face, it looked like he was going to drop a brick. “We are just beginning our investigation. I will personally brief you at 5:00 pm tomorrow or when events dictate,” the chief said. “Thank you very much.”

  He turned and walked back toward the glass doors, followed by two uniforms and all six of the detectives, including my old partner, Ryan Miner. The reporters called out other questions to the chief, but he had disappeared behind the glass.

  The guy next to me stood up and pocketed his twenty off the bar. “I’m gonna take off,” he said.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said. As I turned back to the TV I heard him mutter “Bitch” loud enough for me to hear. Fair enough.

  Bridget Moyers came back on the screen. “As you have just heard,” she said, “Rawlings Police Chief Robert Murtaugh has announced that the body of State Senator Dolores Weston was recovered this afternoon, an apparent homicide, at a vacant site near the Prairie Industrial Park. Chief Murtaugh, leading the department for only two months, will head up what will surely be the most extensive murder investigation the city of Rawlings has ever seen. In his press conference, which lasted less than one minute, Chief Murtaugh did not elaborate on how the senator was killed, how the police knew where to look for her body, or whether they have any leads. Let me turn to my colleague, Mark Winters, for background on Senator Weston.”

  Mark Winters was a good looking guy. A real strong TV face, complete with newly white teeth he got when the station went hi-def about a year ago. Up came a photo of Dolores Weston. She was even better looking than Mark, showing early forties. The photo was a professional job, highlighting her wavy chestnut hair, combed straight back, full on the top and sides, chin length. It was short enough for her age and her grown-up job but long enough so that it probably bounced when she rode her horses, which I happen to know she did almost every day, either on the trails near her ranch north of town or in her enclosed arena. The hair said Professional Woman, with the emphasis on both of those words.

  “Dolores Tuttle Weston, aged fifty-nine, was in her second term as State Senator from Montana’s Senate District 15. Considered a moderate Republican, Senator Weston angered her more conservative colleagues by occasionally co-sponsoring legislation with the state’s several Democrats and for refusing to sign off on last year’s Republican Party Loyalty Pledge. Just last February, she famously declared that she took an oath to support Montana’s state constitution—and that was enough. If her constituents wanted to be represented by a robot, she said at that time, they could vote for one next time. If they wanted to be represented by a human being with a brain and a heart, they could vote for her.”

  The dark brown eyes were wide-set, with the mascara so subtle you didn’t notice it. A long thin nose separated a terrific set of cheekbones, and a mile-wide smile. The smile said that yes, life is indeed beautiful if you come factory-equipped with all the options—brains, incredible beauty, and energy—and live in an environment in which much is expected and every advantage is provided. Come closer, her smile said. Look but don’t touch.

  “Senator Weston clashed with some in her party earlier this year when she sponsored a bill that would provide considerable tax advantages to companies that would locate in Montana and pledge to hire more than one-hundred employees. Critics charged that the bill was a sweetheart deal to lure Henley Pharmaceuticals, a New Jersey firm, to the Rawlings area. Conservatives expressed their opposition to Henley Pharmaceuticals, which is conducting research on new technologies for stem-cell research. Senator Weston responded that existing law would ensure that the company did not cross any ethical lines, and that the company would provide a significant boost to the area’s economy and create jobs for skilled and semi-skilled labor in central Montana. That bill passed by a narrow margin in this winter’s legislative session and was signed into law by the governor in February.”

  Yeah, Mark, maybe the company wouldn’t cross any ethical lines with stem cells, but they had no problem handing her thousands of dollars in stock options for unspecified “consulting work” to support that bill. Oh, wait a second, Mark, you don’t know about that little transaction, do you?

  “Senator Weston suffered a terrible personal loss six months ago, when her second husband, James Weston, the wealthy retired venture capitalist, died in a windsurfing accident in Maui, for which a Hawaiian man was convicted of manslaughter.

  “Senator Weston is survived by a son, Brian Mathers, now an attorney in New Jersey, and two daughters—Cynthia Mathers, a businesswoman in Ohio, and Melissa Armstrong, a medical resident in Pennsylvania.”

  The photos of the three kids came up on the screen. I could see her in all three, especially the businesswoman, who was a clone of Mom. But big noses and weak chins on the lawyer and the doc said Dolores married Husband Number One for love. Not that looking at the photos of the three kids was easy. They were adults—that was a good thing—but losing Stepdad and then Mom, both to murder … no way that money and good jobs made that hurt any less. Senator Weston acted like the queen that the world apparently told her she was, and she was kind of a crook. Still, she was their mom.

  “We’ll have much more on the murder of Senator Dolores Weston at ten o’clock, including tributes from prominent Montanans who served with her in the legislature. Back to you, Bridget.”

  They weren’t kidding about having much more on the murder. It was all over every station. None of them had any more facts, her being too young for them to have an obit ready, and the chief keeping a tight lid on his people, but they played the chief’s press conference a couple dozen more times and sent all their reporters out onto the streets to interview every non-comatose person in the Rawlings area about the murder. Here’s what I learned: When a person heard about the crime, they were either “shocked” or “horrified.” What did they think of the murder? The top answers were that it was “terrible” or “just so sad,” followed by “what does it say about our world today?” Was she a good senator? Almost everyone said she was doing a “great job” (not a good job, okay job, or truly shitty job). What would she be remembered for? Top answer: “I don’t really follow politics.”

  I glanced around the bar, but the guy who’d called me a bitch had left.
If he’d stayed five minutes more … But, we all make choices in life.

  I glanced at my watch. Not yet six. The night was young.

  Chapter 5

  “I want you to report for duty immediately, Detective.”

  “Say that again, please.” I wanted to be sure I hadn’t misheard him.

  “I said report for duty. Immediately.”

  Since the press conference about the Dolores Weston murder yesterday at 5:30 pm, the networks had been clubbing the story like a piñata. They had spent the night assembling all the file footage they had of her, and they’d gotten interviews from other state senators and the governor. But they didn’t have any more news. Chief Murtaugh had said he wouldn’t say anything until today at five unless he had some news. Apparently, he didn’t have any news.

  “Chief, I’m real excited about the possibility of coming back to work, but that FFD with Dr. Palchik didn’t go too good. You sure you want me back?”

  “Yes, Detective, I’m sure. I authorized the FFD, told you to take it, and read the report from Palchik. Now I’m offering you your job back.” There was a pause. “That is, if you’re interested.”

  “Absolutely, sir, of course.” I was starting to cry. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this, how much I wanted anything that was headed … anything that was headed anywhere but straight down. “It’s just that I told the psychiatrist about my insubordination with Chief Arnold. He asked me about whether I thought I had a drinking problem. And I told him yes … yes, I am an alcoholic.” I was reaching inside my big leather bag, rummaging around, trying to locate a tissue or something, as if that would enable me to spare him another episode of me crying.

  “Are you done?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just said I read Dr. Palchik’s report. That means I am aware of what you told him, as well as his analysis of what you told him. And that I have done my own analysis. So if I’m calling you and telling you to report for duty, I want you to report for duty. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one more thing, Detective. I need you to pull yourself together. I realize you’re going through a difficult period, but if you are going to serve the city of Rawlings, I can’t have you impaired. Not by anything. When you’re on duty, you’re giving me one-hundred percent. You’re not drinking, you’re not hung over, you’re not thinking about how unfulfilled your private life is. You’re working the case I assign you. And you’re not planning on going out to a bar after your shift is over. Is that clear?”

  Holy shit. I thought that part of my extracurricular activities was private. I wanted to believe he didn’t really know about it. Maybe he was just assuming that, like most other drunks, I had this place I go to, another set of four walls to try to keep in focus as I got plastered. But I couldn’t make myself believe that. Whatever the facts were, I knew I was in no position to second guess this guy. He was offering me a job, even though I’d given him plenty of reasons to keep his distance. “Yes, Chief, I’ll be there. A half hour.”

  “Very good, Detective. You’re not here in thirty minutes, don’t bother.”

  “Yes, Chief. Thank you.” My hands were shaking as I ended the call. I started to take inventory. I was in my sweats, no makeup, so that would take a couple of minutes. Luckily, I’d showered, and my hair was clean. I looked like hell, of course, with the black bags under my eyes giving me that whole raccoon vibe, but at least I wouldn’t have to start from scratch to look human. Female detectives don’t need to spend too much time worrying about their appearance. Male detectives set the bar pretty low.

  I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and my stomach was growling pretty loud. I looked at my watch. I had twenty-nine minutes to get dressed and get to headquarters. At the speed limit, I’m twelve minutes away. Giving myself a five-minute cushion for missing all the red lights, I better get moving—Murtaugh’s just the kind of guy who really would fire me if I disobeyed him the first day. I threw on some navy slacks and a white silk blouse, slapped on a little eyeliner and foundation, and hurried out to the kitchen and started throwing cabinet doors open. I ripped into a box of Pop Tarts and tossed a pack in my bag. Non-popped Pop Tarts. The breakfast of champions in a hurry.

  On the drive in, my mind kept going to how weird this FFD and the phone call from Murtaugh were. Since I pretty much agreed with all the old chief’s accusations about how unprofessional I’d been, when I let the murderer kill himself plus when I almost killed the girl in a DUI, I just couldn’t see the shrink writing a report saying I was pulled together enough to get out there and track down bad guys. So what did that say about Chief Murtaugh? A guy who gets all anal about unacceptable deviations from regs, what’s he doing offering a job to an unacceptable deviant like me?

  But one of the things I was hearing over and over at the AA meetings was starting to make sense. If you have to spend an hour a day sitting in a circle with a bunch of strangers the only thing you got in common with is every one of you has fucked up your life, a reasonable takeaway is you don’t have everything quite figured out. And therefore you might want to just keep your head down and try to do a few simple things right. You know, start small. So when a chief of police offers you your job back, you could say “Yes, sir; thank you, sir” and get your sorry ass in.

  * * * *

  I drove in careful, like a buzzed teenager afraid of getting pulled over, and parked alongside the building. It was real good to see Ryan’s blue Mitsubishi there. I didn’t yet have a plastic key card for the rear entrance, so I went around to the front and checked in at Reception. The woman looked down at her computer screen. “Chief Murtaugh is expecting you,” she said. “Do you know where his office is?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She pointed me to the door. “I’ll buzz you in.” She gave me a medium-watt smile.

  I walked through the door, down the hall I’d walked down for fifteen years. Branched off into the detectives’ bullpen, which was empty. I stopped to look at my old desk, head to head with Ryan’s near the middle of the bullpen. There were a couple of cardboard boxes on it, stuff sticking out the top: mugs, a few framed photos, desk crap. New flat-screen monitors sat on my old desk and Ryan’s.

  I walked past the break room and the bathrooms, down the hall to the chief’s office.

  His assistant looked up, nodded officially, said, “Go on in, Detective.” Apparently, I really was employed again.

  I walked into the chief’s office. Immediately, I recognized Ryan. He was standing with his back to the door, hands on his hips, but his broad shoulders were pretty hard to miss. When he heard me, he turned and flashed the big ear-to-ear grin that I remembered from our couple of weeks together half a year and a lifetime ago. He leaned in and gave me a little-brother hug, saying “So glad you’re back, Karen” soft enough for just me to hear. I chose to believe him.

  Chief Murtaugh stood there, no expression on his good-looking face. He nodded, acknowledging that I’d passed my first audition by showing up. “Seagate, you and Miner will be heading up the Dolores Weston case. I’ve chosen you two because you knew her from the Arlen Hagerty case. Tell me what I need to know about Weston.”

  “Sure,” I said, not expecting to have to make a presentation within two minutes of walking back into headquarters. “She was from back East, old-money Republican. The link to the Hagerty case—you read about that one, the president of Soul Savers, he got killed here in town?—never became public because we ruled her out as a suspect. But, anyway, she was paying off Hagerty five thousand a month for his organization to support her for election.”

  The chief said, “Why was that?”

  “She had a relationship with this big pharmaceutical company, Henley, from New Jersey. They were going to set up a facility in the Rawlings area. They’d even arranged for their hot-shit researcher, a biology PhD named Lakshmi Kumaraswamy, to get a nice job here at the university. The problem was, the thing this biologist was working on was stem-cell resea
rch, which scared the Republicans in the legislature because they thought it was about killing fetuses and making clones and stuff like that. So Weston was paying off Hagerty to get his endorsement.”

  “Those payoffs never went public?”

  “No, it wasn’t related to the Hagerty murder. She just handed him an envelope every month. It was dirty but legal.”

  “Is that all you’ve got on her?”

  “No, one other thing. She was taking money from Henley. They had her listed as a consultant, which was bullshit. She didn’t do any consulting. What she did was sponsor the bill that greased the wheels for Henley to set up shop here.”

  “You’re talking about the tax breaks for companies that create one-hundred jobs, right?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “She pitched it in the legislature as a job-creation bill, which I guess it was.”

  “So it was legit, the consulting agreement with Henley?” the chief said.

  “No, I don’t think so. Henley gave her stock options, which they undervalued so she could sell the stock and pocket the profit. What was the name of that law she was breaking, Ryan?”

  The chief didn’t give Ryan a chance to answer. “That’s Sarbanes-Oxley. Says you have to value the stock options at the price of the shares on the day you sign them over.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I said. “Sarbanes-Oxley.”

  “So how did that shake out?” the chief said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Sarbanes-Oxley is a federal law. If Henley Pharma broke that law by playing games with the stock price, that should have been prosecuted. Where does the case stand now?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “We threatened to divulge it—not the violation of any federal law or anything—but just put it out in the media how this state senator is making a profit from a pharmaceutical company back East. That scared the shit out of her, and she cooperated with us. We ruled her out as a suspect in the Hagerty murder, and that was that. We learned that the guy who killed Hagerty was this Warren Endriss, the guy who debated against him.”