Yours, Mine, and Ours Page 7

  “Wait. Patrick wasn’t with my body last night?”

  “It really skeeves me out when you put it that way.” She shuddered. “And no. He called last night to see if you were at my place, but no soap.”

  “Oh, fudge nuts! Gah, I can’t believe it!” I ran my hands through my hair. “Oh, boy, that’s—wait. Shiro went out to dinner. I assumed with him. But then who was she hanging around with all night?”

  “What, like I know?” She pulled out some of the Handi Wipes she always had in her purse, picked up the salt shaker, and thoroughly wiped it down. Then the pepper shaker. “Did you have to go nab a serial killer or something?”

  “I wish.” Oh boy, that would have been soooo great. “Huh. That’s … okay, but there was a doggy bag. I doubt they’d hand those out at a crime scene.” (And gross! Imagine if they did.)

  “Those poor kids. How many murders have—you know what? Don’t even tell me; it’ll wreck my whole morning. And isn’t that weird? All those dead boys scattered like dice all over the country … How has it been kept out of the national news?”

  “I have no idea. That’s Michaela’s job.” And she was really, really good at it. It helped that nearly every reporter she ever met was terrified of her. “Mine is to catch that rotten fish-smelling bum.”

  “When? When are you going to learn how to swear properly?”

  “That was proper,” I protested. I could be a badass when I wanted. Well. A bad butt.

  “Proper?” A voice from behind us. I turned and looked. “Must be Cadence, talking about proper.” Yes! Patrick.

  I patted the seat beside me and couldn’t resist: “I know we’ve talked about this before, but you numskulls really need to not wear shorts in December.” Cathie had that in common with him! I figured they had hardy knees immune to frostbite. Was it an Irish thing?

  “Please. It’s almost thirty degrees out there. Tank-top weather.” Patrick slid in next to me. “So where were all of you last night?”

  “I’m really sorry. I assumed Shiro had been out with you, y’know, because of the leftovers from the restaurant, so I didn’t even bother to call. Girlfriend-wise, I suck.”

  “Girlfriend-wise, not hardly. So Shiro ate out? In the middle of a big case like yours?”

  “She was with someone, I just have no idea who. Like I said, I assumed it was you.”

  “And I assumed you were arresting a scumbag, hence your lack of presence on our date. Look how wrong we both were. What a tragedy.”

  “‘Lack of presence’?” Cathie asked, red eyebrows arching. “Who talks like you do? I mean, without medication.”

  If you looked at Cathie and Patrick side by side, you never would have thought they were siblings. Okay, she had coppery hair and his was a much darker, deeper red, but in all other ways they were dissimilar. He was tall; she was teeny. He was muscular, she was slender. He was a baker/entrepreneur, she was an artist.

  There was also a ten-year age gap. Cathie hadn’t seen much of her big brother growing up. They didn’t know each other at all, even after all this time.

  He’d flattered me by insinuating he was moving back to Minnesota to pursue a relationship with me/us, but I’d known that was only part of the reason. (No, Shiro didn’t have to tell me; I figured it out on my own.) He wanted to get to know his sister better. Their parents were in a nursing home, their brains slowly disintegrating from Alzheimer’s. Patrick and Cathie only had each other.

  I could relate.

  “This is none of my business,” Cathie began. That was her code for “I absolutely think it’s my business and you’re going to sit there and listen.” “But what if Shiro was out on a date?”

  “But she’s dating Patrick. All three of us are. We’re exclusive and everything.”

  “And what a wild rumpus it is,” he said, switching F for fork with S for sugar. “Ha! Now your orderly little world is in chaos—ow!” He rubbed his chest where the salt shaker had smacked into it. “Okay, okay. It’s too early for projectiles.”

  “Cadence is bisexual,” Cathie said, as if I hadn’t known.

  “Ergo she’s slutty? Boo! Leave the stereotypes at home.”

  “Ergo she might start seeing someone.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before,” I said, uneasy. And we had. Although my relationship with Patrick was my longest so far (lame, lame), I’d dated in the past. Shiro had, too. (Adrienne didn’t date … exactly.)

  “Yeah, but you weren’t dating my brother before. Like your weird situation isn’t weird enough? You’ve got to worry about Shiro seeing someone on the side?”

  “I think you miiiiiight be jumping to conclusions.”

  “But she’s so cute when she’s all protective,” Patrick said, leaning over to drop a kiss in my hair. “Cathie, it’s okay. Let up. If I’m not upset, you shouldn’t be, either.”

  “That’s another thing. Why aren’t you upset?”

  “Whoa. Are you really asking him that?” Because it was none of her business, which I’d never dare say. “Are we having an argument? I hate arguments. And is it you and I who are arguing, or you and Patrick? Because it’s not me and Patrick.”

  “I can’t help it if I’m cracking under the pressure,” she mumbled, and didn’t say a word while the waitress set down our meals, then brought refills. Only when we had relative privacy did she speak again. “The dating, the house hunting. The Patrick. The new shrink. I don’t do well with change.”

  “Who does?” Patrick and I were holding hands under the table. He studied Cathie’s face, concerned. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. Almost paternal, which, given their age difference, made sense. He sure looked after her better than their father had.

  “Why does something have to be the matter for me to be looking out for you? Both of you—which is as difficult as you can imagine.”

  How about, Because you’re meddling and nagging, which isn’t exactly your MO? I’d never say it out loud. “This isn’t your usual … um, this isn’t like you.”

  “It is, too!”

  “Nope.” Patrick shook his head.

  “Fine, fine, fine.” Cathie abruptly gave in. “The nursing home called. Dad’s been asking and asking for us. And they think … I guess there might not be a lot of time.”

  “So,” he said quietly, “we’ll go see him.”

  “I don’t want to see him, that’s the whole problem. He locked me away when I was a kid who needed his help, and our mother helped him yank me out of all your lives.” She slammed her hands, palms down, on the table. “He can rot in there for all I care.”

  “If that was really true, you wouldn’t be upset.” I reached across the B is for butter pats and took her hand. “If you don’t see him, you might be sorry later.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Hey!” Patrick warned sharply.

  “No, it’s a fair point. I can’t look to my own family to know what you’re going through, but you don’t really think I’ve never run across a victim or suspect estranged from their family? You don’t think I’ve seen what a lack of closure can do to the rest of a person’s life?” I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe we fought like that. I can’t believe the last thing I said to her was something mean. I can’t believe she died without knowing how much I loved her. I can’t believe we had that stupid fight. I can’t believe I can’t believe I can’t believe I can’t believe …

  “I’m not going.” I had no idea if she was talking to us, or herself.

  “Don’t blame them for everything.” Patrick was speaking in such a low voice I had to strain to hear him. He was staring at the tabletop. “I let it happ—”

  “Shut up with that shit, Patrick, we’ve been over this.”

  He shook his head, but didn’t speak further. Something was going on, and I had no idea what it was. Worse, thoughts of the June Boys Jobs killer were starting to crowd out thoughts of my b
oyfriend and best friend. I really needed to get back to work.

  Cathie cleared her throat. “The thing is, we’re not done. I mean, I am, but Patrick, I asked you to breakfast to tell you he’s calling for you, too. It wouldn’t have been right to not tell you that.”

  I squeezed her hand. “You’re a grown woman; you don’t have to visit anyone you don’t want to. I’m just asking that you think about it.”

  She grinned and I saw a spark of her usual vitality, something that was missing from this sad and angry woman. “Well, I’m not gonna think, so there. Here. Give me that.”

  It took her an entire pack of Handi Wipes to get the syrup bottle clean to her satisfaction. But when she was finished Patrick and I both agreed that she’d done a fantastic job. I think she even believed us.

  I made an effort to push work out of my head, and so the rest of our breakfast was as affable as it could be with me preoccupied with chasing a serial killer, Cathie cracking, Patrick being stood up (and house hunting), and Shiro dating (maybe).

  That was good enough for me. I’d take affable over argumentative every time.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Patrick staggered back as I rained kisses on his upturned face. “Oh boy. Oh boy,” he said, hanging on to me. “There goes my center of gravity.”

  “I wanted to make it up to you.”

  We had just walked out of the restaurant. Cathie wanted to stay and clean the ketchup bottles (the ones across from our booth were pretty bad).

  Once we had a bit of privacy, I’d sort of leapt on him, crossing my ankles behind his back as he held on to my butt for dear life. “Couldn’t let you get back in your car without making it up to you.”

  “You couldn’t just text me?” He leaned against his hybrid and kissed me back, hard. “Never mind. This was a good plan.”

  Passing cars honked cheerfully at us; I probably hadn’t thought it through. PDA in a restaurant parking lot during the breakfast rush … well, it was his fault, drat everything. He was too handsome and smelled too good and liked me too much. All his fault. I was the blameless victim who was sort of assaulting him in a restaurant parking lot.

  Just being this close to him was enough to make me want a whole lot more than kissing. But I was still saving myself. Maybe for Patrick. Of the three of us sisters, I was the only virgin left. At my age! Yes, that wasn’t too weird.

  His mouth tasted like syrup (he’d hogged half of my breakfast) and beneath that, his own smell, his clean cottony scent that made me think of clothes drying on a line under a spring sun.

  I ran my fingers through his thick, dark red hair, then cupped his face in my hands, our mouths pressing so hard together it was like we were trying to sear each other. I could feel his grip on my butt tighten as his arousal, like mine, ran higher and higher.

  With deep regret, I broke the kiss. We both panted at each other for a few more seconds, and then I said, “I have to go fight crime, now.”

  “Awwwww.” He gently set me back down on my feet. “Have I told you you’re the best kisser I’ve ever met?”

  “How many have you ‘met’? And yes.” I smiled. “About a hundred times.”

  He grinned back and kissed me again, smack on the cheek. “Cadence, you are ridiculous good fun. You sure I can’t talk you into taking the day? We’d go anywhere you want, for as long as you want.”

  I shook my head. Tempting, but … the autopsy photos would haunt me. Their school pictures would, too. “Maybe later. Maybe, if we catch him.”

  “You will.”

  I shrugged. Patrick reached out and cupped my cheek. “Cadence. Listen. You will.”

  “Okay.” Please God, let him be right. “I’d better go.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always,” I told him, which he must have known was a rather large lie.

  chapter twenty-eight

  UNCLASSIFIED

  FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY

  To: Cadence Jones

  CC: George Pinkman, Emma Jan Thyme, Michaela Taro

  Date: December 9, 2012

  RE: Joseph Behrman

  Due to unforeseen circumstances, we did not get a chance to do a full interview with Joseph Behrman (see attached: BOFFO UNCLASSIFIED Internal Memorandum, Joseph Behrman’s coram nobis). As referenced in the attached paperwork, BOFFO will return Tuesday, 10:00 A.M., to finish the interview.

  I found a major discrepancy in the alibi he offered during the brief time we were there (see attached: Minneapolis/St. Paul Star Tribune, Lifestyle Section, Movie Reviews/Start Times).

  The fact that he lied suggests one of two things: 1) he is the killer, or knows who the killer is; 2) he is not the killer but was somewhere he does not want law enforcement to know about.

  The latter is not uncommon with parolees who may be skirting the rules. It is unlikely Behrman forgot we can revoke his parole and return him to Stillwater for reimprisonment should he violate any condition of said parole (see attached: Behrman Community Service Plan, Behrman sentencing paperwork, Case number 320441-B).

  I suggest we hit him hard with the lie. Depending on what the lie is, we may want to consider seeking a sneak-and-peek warrant for Behrman’s trailer.

  Thank you for your attention to this matter.

  SJ/sj

  * * *

  “Why did you just read that to us?” George asked. He and I were at our desks, and Emma Jan had pulled a chair over to sit beside us. We had only been in the office half an hour and we were already sick of each other. That was always a good way to tell when we were getting fried on a case. “We all have copies. We’ve all read the damned thing. I hate when you read me stuff I already read. Stop reading stuff to us!”

  “I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the—”

  “We’re all on the same page because we all got the same memo. And tell Shiro to stop CC’ing the fucking world with these things. I’m surprised the janitor didn’t get a copy.”

  “Don’t talk about janitors,” I said sharply. “Um, custodial engineers.”

  Emma Jan’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit! The ThreeFer Killer! One of them worked here.”

  “Cadence is right,” George said, and I nearly reeled back and fell out of my chair. “Let’s not talk about it.” He rubbed his eyes. “It’s too early for this shit.”

  “It’s past ten in the morning.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  I wasn’t surprised George didn’t want to discuss it. We’d had an awful time tracking down the ThreeFer Killer, because it wasn’t one killer; it was three. Murderous triplets, not two words that usually go together. One of them, I was sorry to see then and sorry to say now, worked here, right here at BOFFO, as a custodial engineer.

  He’s dead now. So’s his sister. The third one, the remaining triplet … well. The third one wasn’t. Probably.

  Anyway, one of their many atrocities was kidnapping George, trussing him up like a roast ready for the slow cooker, and bundling him into a closet for hours and hours and hours and hours.

  Even now, months later, I wasn’t sure if George had gotten mega-pissed because of the trussing/stuffing thing, or because the ThreeFer Killers had framed him, or because he deliberately pooped in his pants to provide us with a clue to his whereabouts, and no one noticed. (We can be a pretty self-absorbed bunch. Also, there were all sorts of weird smells on the floor, all the time, so what was one more?)

  “What’s this she’s talking about?” Emma Jan asked, tapping the memo. She was dressed in a bark-colored jacket and pants, with a crimson blouse and, of course, her gigantic purse was at her side. If I’d tried to pull off those colors I would have looked like a bleeding tree. She looked like the suit had been designed for her, and only her. “This Star Tribune thing?”

  “Yeah, while you bimbos were taking your sweet time getting here—thanks for nothing by the way…”

  “You beat us by not quite three minutes,” I said.

  “Shut up. What, d’you keep a stopwatch on your person at all ti
mes?”

  “Well, if you must know, after you kept making the same comments about you always being super-early and me always being super-late, I—”

  “Shut up! Anyway, I pulled the data she was talking about. Behrman told Shiro and me he’d been to the movie theater in Apple Valley—that great big place by Target and Best Buy?”

  I nodded. It was big and shiny clean, and they sold frozen Coke slushies, which I just loved. (If I couldn’t have a Frappuccino, an ice-cold Coke would do, and a frozen Coke would be even better.)

  They had a big gorgeous lobby with lots of tables and chairs spread around, so you could relax and socialize before or after the movie, and there was a Red Robin across the street. It was a good place to meet up with friends, see a flick, grab a burger, go back into the theater for frozen Coke number four … like that.

  There was also a sizable video arcade if your kids wanted to kill time before the movie. Or if, um, you really, really liked playing Magicka even though you were in your twenties and childless, and had an alternate personality who felt as strongly about God of War, and another one who felt like that about Rage.

  Best of all, the theater had lots of screens—so there was almost always a movie playing that was worth seeing—and ran lots of previews. I loved previews. If they had a two-hour movie that was just previews, I’d go. Twice.

  “Right.” George carefully dug through a pile of folders—stacked higher than his head when he was seated—until he found the autopsy paperwork.

  Here’s a sad thing I wish I never had to know: there are doctors who specialize in pathology; for whatever reason they are more comfortable having dead patients instead of live ones. And within that group they specialize further. There are coroners who specialize in performing autopsies on children.

  So that’s what they do. They cut up dead kids. All day long.

  See what I mean? Don’t you wish you could un-know that?