Lies Still Told, page 9
“Thank you, A.L. It means a lot to me that we’re doing this. That I’m able to do this.”
She had still been drinking last Christmas. And if this created some joy for her, he’d happily do it. Liz was a good person, a loving sister and a wonderful aunt to Traci. She was living with a lug nut, but A.L. could tolerate Tom for the evening. For Liz.
“See you later,” he said. He hung up and went to find his file.
When the records clerk handed it over, she used two hands. He could see why. It was a nice big, thick one. This case had been worked.
He took it back to his desk, freshened up his coffee and then started reading. He began with the initial report from responding officers. They’d painted a gruesome scene. The woman’s head had been bashed in, and her skull had been leaking blood and brains and whatever other bodily fluids resided therein. He’d seen a couple of these injuries in his twenty years of being a cop, and it was not pretty.
Edith Grace had been home alone at the time she was attacked. There was no forced entry. Her husband found her, admitted touching the body in hopes of reviving her, and as such, his DNA was found on the body. However, he’d said he was not home at the time of the attack.
He’d been—holy shit. He’d been playing cards with Platt Waymann, Joseph McKittridge and Francis McKittridge. His dad and his uncles had been the alibi that had made it virtually impossible for prosecutors to pursue charges against the husband.
A debt of gratitude. That’s what Badger had said.
Surely his father and Uncle Joe would not have lied about something like this. He hadn’t known Platt as well, but up until this week, he’d have not dreamed that he would fabricate an alibi.
A.L. kept reading. Investigators had determined that Edith and Scott Grace had been struggling with their marriage. Not formally separated, but multiple witness statements from friends of both had substantiated that there was trouble in paradise. Edith and Scott had two children, a reasonable mortgage on their home, and each had had a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy naming the other as beneficiary.
The police had clearly liked Scott for the killer, but they could not shake the alibi that Platt, his father and his uncle had provided. The men had been interviewed separately, and there was no disparity between their sworn statements.
A.L. closed the file and leaned back in his chair. He’d told Rena that he wasn’t falling down some rabbit hole that could suck him in. He couldn’t let that happen. This had no relevance to his current case. Scott Grace was dead—he sure as hell hadn’t killed Platt. He thought about the Grace children. Was it even possible that they harbored an old grudge against Platt? It seemed super unlikely, but he’d seen stranger things. And given that his father and Uncle Joe had also been part of the alibi, they would be at risk if this was a revenge plot.
He checked their ages in the file. Sixteen years ago, the two girls had been twelve and fourteen. That made them twenty-eight and thirty today. It was moments like this that he really missed Rena. She loved searching online for people, liked the trove of social media that she’d uncover. He hated all that. He was turfing this off to Blithe. He and Ferguson were his backup on this case. This looked like backup work to him.
He checked his watch. Midmorning already. He checked online for the hours of the two bowling alleys. Both opened at eleven. He could remember as a kid having lunch on Saturdays at the bowling alley and then playing at least three games with his friends. He’d been a decent bowler, but it had been years since he’d picked up a ball. Had never really understood Uncle Joe’s interest or passion in the sport. He could distinctly recall Uncle Joe saying once that it wasn’t just about the bowling, it was about the place, like something magical happened at a Wisconsin bowling alley.
When A.L. entered Baywood Bowl, he looked for the magic. All he saw was worn tile floors, scratched countertops, and a snack bar that was pushing bagged chips, candy bars and a few sad hot dogs rolling around in a rotisserie.
He found the lone employee, wearing a manager nametag, standing in front of a wall of well-used bowling shoes. A.L. showed his badge and held out his phone. “Was this photo taken here?”
The man looked at it. Nodded.
“I’m trying to identity the men,” A.L. said.
“Because of Platt?”
A.L. wasn’t there to answer questions. “Do you know these four men?”
“Well, that’s Joe McKittridge, but I guess you maybe know that since you got the same last name. And Platt, of course. The other two are Bernie Potts and Wade Stoner.”
Neither name was familiar to him. “Are Potts and Stoner local guys?”
The manager shook his head. “Madison, I think.”
That was more than an hour away. “Long way to come for bowling.”
The manager drew back. “People come from all over, especially for a tournament.”
A.L. had offended him. And maybe it was true. Was that all Platt and Uncle Joe had shared with these two? A love of bowling? Somehow, he didn’t think so. It was likely going to be worth a trip to Madison. He thanked the manager, bought two candy bars and left.
In the car, he searched for arrest records on Potts and Stoner. Potts had been convicted almost twenty years earlier on narcotics possession. He wasn’t interested in that. In the last ten years, Stoner had a retail theft conviction and had done ninety days in the county jail for assault and battery with a deadly weapon. A.L. clicked on the appropriate tabs to get more information.
Stoner had beat up his ex-wife’s boyfriend, then pistol-whipped him. By the time A.L. finished reading the online case notes, he was shaking his head. Stoner and his ex had been divorced for more than a year when the attack occurred. He claimed that he’d been overcome by a jealous rage after seeing the two of them at an event.
A.L. could definitely remember the first year after his divorce from Jacqui. It had taken a bit to get used to being single again, and he’d missed the hell out of seeing Traci every day because she’d been splitting her time between the two of them. But once the marriage was over, the only concern he’d ever had about Jacqui dating was whether the guy was a good person to be around Traci. To the best of his knowledge, she hadn’t dated anyone serious until this past year, when a relationship had developed between her and Craig Olson, a teacher at the high school.
He closed out that file and then looked for Potts’s and Stoner’s addresses in Madison. He found them both. He’d worked in Madison for almost five years right after college, first on patrol and then as a member of the SWAT team. He knew the city well and could immediately place the two addresses. Both were middle-class neighborhoods. Sort of like Platt’s.
And look what had happened to him. Gunned down in the front hallway of his own home.
He looked at his watch. If he left right now, he could make it to Madison by one. If Rena were there, they’d have kicked the case around on a drive like that. Revisited clues. Argued approaches.
It just wasn’t the same when he was talking to himself.
Chapter Eight
A.L. started driving. The plows had left nice big piles of snow on the edges of the road. Pretty and white. In another day, they’d be gray blobs. The best you could hope for was that it would snow again so that everything would get a fresh coat. Well, not true. The best you could hope for was a nice thaw. But that was unlikely until mid-March. He’d seen years where the snow was piled six or eight feet high on the sides of the highway. There’d been years where continuing to pile had been deemed unwise and the city had paid for big trucks to ferry the snow off to the local quarry.
Winter in Wisconsin was not for the weak of heart. Good place to be a kid, though. Lots of winter sports. Hockey, downhill skiing, ice fishing. Kids didn’t feel the cold.
Adults, on the other hand, felt it settle into their bones. That thought hit him hard as, seventy minutes later, he knocked on the door of Bernie Potts. The man, looking rather frail in a thick sweater and loose-fitting corduroy pants, answered the door. He’d gone downhill since the bowling photo had been taken.
“Bernie Potts?” A.L. asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Detective A.L. McKittridge from Baywood, Wisconsin.” He showed his ID and held it steady for the man to inspect. “Do you have a few minutes for questions?”
“McKittridge, huh? Francis’s boy?”
“Francis McKittridge is my dad.” A.L. was really getting tired of this. Never before in his career had his family name been a big deal.
“Good man,” Bernie said. “Come in. Have a seat.”
He did. “I’m investigating the death of Platt Waymann.”
The man nodded. He did not look surprised.
“What can you tell me about your relationship with Platt?”
“I’ve known him for years,” Bernie said. “Casual acquaintances. When we ran into each other, we’d stop and say a few words.”
“Last year, you participated in a bowling tournament in Baywood with Platt.”
“And your uncle Joe, as I recall.”
“That’s right.” It really would have been so much better for Rena to have done these interviews. She had none of the family baggage to deal with. But that was off the table now.
“We won,” Bernie said. He glanced at his television. The sound was off, but closed captioning ran across the bottom of the screen. It was an old Western, reminding A.L. of how Uncle Platt had loved Lee Marvin.
“When’s the last time you talked to Platt or saw him?” A.L. asked.
“He came to Madison a couple months after the tournament. So I guess that would have been early spring of this year. We had a beer and a sandwich.”
“That’s the last time?” A.L. went back at it.
“That’s what I just said.”
“Do you have any idea of who might want to harm Platt?”
Bernie shook his head. “Damn bunch of morons running around these days. Who knows why anybody wants to hurt anybody else? They just do.”
A.L. didn’t think they were getting anywhere fast. “Do you know Colby Kane?”
“Nope.” Bernie looked back at the television.
A.L. stood up. Extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Potts. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” He handed the man a card.
“Sure. Give my best to your uncle Joe.”
“I’ll be sure and do that.” A.L. walked to his car. Of course that would require he and Uncle Joe to be on speaking terms and he wasn’t all that confident of that right now.
He put Wade Stoner’s address in his GPS. Twelve miles. If he didn’t get more from Stoner, this trip was likely going in the bust column. He found the house and had to park on the street because the driveway and the sidewalks had not been shoveled. He stepped through a foot of snow to get to the front door.
A woman, maybe late sixties, answered his knock. “Mrs. Stoner?” he asked.
“Yes.”
So the man had remarried at some point. He pulled out his badge. “My name is Detective A.L. McKittridge. Is your husband home?”
Her eyes took on a wary look. “He…uh…”
“I just have a few questions about something that happened in Baywood, Wisconsin.”
That seemed to reassure her a little. “Wait here.” She shut the door in his face.
He was still on the front porch, so that meant the cold wind was whistling through his pants while Mrs. Stoner went to find her husband. He wasn’t worried about them making a quick getaway. Nobody was getting out of that garage. He turned sideways so that he could watch the house and the street at the same time. In the process, he caught a view of the living room through a slim slit in the heavy curtains. The woman and Stoner, who A.L. recognized from the bowling photo, were in the living room. Stoner had a cell phone to his ear.
The call was short, and the two moved out of view. It was a good five minutes later that the door was finally opened. By Mr. Stoner. “You can come in, Detective.”
“Mr. Stoner?” A.L. asked, wanting to make sure he verbally verified who he was talking to.
“Yes.”
“Where is Mrs. Stoner?”
“Upstairs. Don’t worry. She’s not going for a gun.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” A.L. said. It was a dumb thing to say to a cop.
Wade laughed. “You’ve got your uncle Joe’s sense of humor. Nice and dry.”
So far, he wasn’t finding much to laugh about with this trip to Madison. “I’m investigating the death of Platt Waymann. But I imagine you know that. I’m thinking that you just talked to Bernie Potts.”
“He sent me a text to call him. I hadn’t gotten around to it before you knocked on my door.”
“How long had you known Platt?”
“Maybe ten years.”
“When’s the last time you saw or talked to Platt?”
“Six weeks ago. We played a round of golf. Last round I got in this year.”
Bowling buddies. Golfing buddies. What else had they partnered up on? “Were the two of you good friends?”
“I’m not sure I’d say good friends. But we did a few things together. Similar interests.”
“Like what?” A.L. asked.
Wade chuckled. “You know, bowling, golf.”
All the things he’d already admitted to. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do Platt harm?”
Wade shrugged. “No. Platt was a good guy. Fun to have around. I think his sense of humor got him in trouble with his old lady at times.”
His old lady. If Wade Stoner had known Platt for ten years, then he knew that Platt was divorced from Virginia. She was not the old lady he was referring to. “She put the screws to him?” A.L. asked, in a way that suggested that he and Wade were just two men talking.
“I never like to accuse another man of being henpecked, but two years ago, we had a big trip to Vegas planned, and Platt backed out at the last minute. He blamed it on her.”
“Right,” A.L. said. Two years ago was way before Platt had started dating the woman from the car wash whom Rena had tracked down. Had it simply been an excuse? Was there another woman? He pulled up a photo of Colby Kane on his phone. “You know this man?”
Wade nodded. “I know enough that I’d stay on my side of the street if I saw him approaching from the other way.”
“Know his name?”
“Colby Kane.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Colby Kane is dead,” A.L. said. “Shot.”
“Only a matter of time,” Wade said, not looking concerned.
“Why do you say that?”
“He…” Wade’s voice trailed off. “No reason,” he said. “Isn’t it just a matter of time for all of us?”
Chatty Wade was clamming up. About Colby Kane. That was interesting. “When’s the last time you saw or talked to Colby Kane?”
“I have no idea. We weren’t friends.”
“Days, weeks, months, years?” A.L. pressed.
“Years. Couple,” Wade said.
“Were Platt Waymann and Colby Kane friends?” A.L. asked.
“I have no idea,” Wade said. “Listen, Detective, I’ve been a good sport here. All part of my resolve to be a law-abiding citizen. And with respect to your uncle Joe. But I think that’s about it.”
A.L. stood up. “I appreciate your time.”
“Yeah, sure. Merry Christmas.”
A.L. nodded and opened the door. He stomped through the snow back to his vehicle. He started it, pulled away from the curb and drove about two blocks before pulling over. He dialed Rena. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked when she answered.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I made brownies. Ate half the pan.”
“That’s the spirit.” He paused, unsure of how much to push. But this was Rena. If he pushed too hard, she’d simply shove him back harder. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” she said. “The Review Board had more questions. They seem fixated on the fact that I didn’t announce myself as a police officer before I fired my weapon.”
“What did you tell them?” A.L. asked.
“The same thing I told them yesterday. I explained to them that initially my goal was to avoid injury by ensuring that the armed gunmen left the store. When the door opened and the one by the cash register started firing, there was no time. He was already pointing his gun at the people by the door. There was the possibility of many injuries. I did announce myself as I apprehended the second suspect.”
“Did they accept the explanation?”
“You don’t know. There are just a lot of long looks and silences.”
“It’s their job, it’s what they do,” he said. It was a love-hate relationship for most cops. He’d rarely met any cop who wanted bad or dishonest cops to be on the streets. He’d also rarely met any cop who wanted Big Brother looking over their shoulder and second-guessing decisions that had to be made fast and acted on immediately. Otherwise, lives could be lost.
“This is bad, A.L. Bad. Did you see the headline in the paper?”
He had. Cop Kills Teen. He had not bothered to read the article. He suspected that she had. “So you nixed the vacuum cleaner idea for Tess for Christmas. What do you think about one of those fancy recliners that holds your beer and lets you stash snacks?”
There was silence. Then a sigh. “For just a minute, you almost sucked me in,” Rena said. “That’s…awfully nice of you, A.L.”
“You’re going to be okay, Rena. You’re going to get through this.”
“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?”
“Yeah, but it fucking wears us down in the process. Don’t expect it not to be tough. But you’re tougher.”
“What’s going on with the investigation?”
“I identified the two people in the photo with Platt and Uncle Joe. Bernie Potts and Wade Stoner. Both from Madison. I went to see them. Nothing interesting from Bernie Potts. Wade Stoner acknowledged knowing Colby Kane, but he wouldn’t tie Kane and Platt together. I was more interested by something he said about Platt’s old lady.”
“He knew Virginia?”
