“Sounds like you, Elwood.” Liska punched him in the arm as she passed.
“Hey, my hobbies are my own business.”
“Any more sightings of Jillian Bondurant?” Hamill asked.
Yurek looked disgusted. “Yeah, a Jiffy Lube mechanic in Brooklyn Park whose every third word was reward.”
Quinn took a seat at the table, his head throbbing, his mind trying to go in too many directions at once. Kate, Kate's witness. Bondurant. The profile he was struggling with. The Atlanta case. The Blacksburg case. The calls backing up on his voice mail about a dozen others. Kate. Kate . . .
His brain wanted a cup of coffee, but his stomach was saying no in strong and painful language. He fished a Tagamet out of his pocket and washed it down with diet Coke. Mary Moss handed him a packet of photographs.
“Lila White's parents gave them to me. I don't see how they'll help, but it was important to them. The pictures were taken just a few days before her murder.”
“Progress reports!” Kovac called, shrugging out of his topcoat and juggling three files as he came to the head of the table. “Anything on the parks employees?”
“Found a convicted child-molester who lied about his record on his application,” Tippen said. “Other than that, no red flags on the permanent staff. However, the parks department also gets work crews of misdemeanor offenders doing community service time. We're getting a list.”
“Jillian's phone records don't show anything out of the ordinary,” Elwood said. “Calls to her father, to her shrink, to this friend Tinks went to see. Nothing unusual in the last couple of weeks. I've requested the records from her cell phone service, but their computers were screwed up, so I don't have that yet.”
“We've got a list of employees fired from Paragon in the last eighteen months,” Adler said. “None of them stood out as being particularly vindictive toward Peter Bondurant. We ran their names through the system and came up with petty shit.”
“One guy convicted of soliciting a prostitute,” Hamill said. “But that was a one-time, bachelor-party situation. He's married now. Spent last weekend at his in-laws'.”
“That could drive me to murder,” Tippen quipped.
“One guy with a third-degree-assault charge. He attacked his manager when he got the news Paragon was giving him the ax,” Adler said. “That was nine months ago. He's moved out of town. Lives in Cannon Falls now and works in Rochester.”
“How far is that?” Quinn asked.
“Cannon Falls? Half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“An easy drive. He's not off the hook.”
“Our Rochester field agent is checking him out,” Hamill said.
“In general,” Adler went on, “no one who works for Bondurant seems particularly fond of him, but no one had anything bad to say about him either—with one notable exception. Bondurant started Paragon back in the late seventies with a partner—Donald Thorton. He bought Thorton out in 'eighty-six.”
“About the time of his divorce,” Kovac said.
“Exactly the time of the divorce. He paid Thorton top dollar—more than, according to some. Thorton developed serious problems with booze and gambling, and ran his Caddie into Lake Minnetonka in 'eighty-nine. Lake patrol fished him out before he drowned, but not before he sustained serious brain damage and a spinal cord injury. His wife blames Bondurant.”
“How so?”
“She wouldn't say over the phone. She wants a face-to-face.”
“I'll take it,” Kovac said. “Anyone has something bad to say about Mr. Billionaire can be my friend.”
Walsh raised one hand, covering his mouth with the other while he tried to cough up part of a lung. When he finally drew breath to speak, his face was purple. “I've been on the phone with the legal attaché's office in Paris,” he said in a thin, strained voice. “They're checking out the stepfather—Serge LeBlanc—with Interpol and with the French authorities. But I'd say he's a dead end. Come all the way over here to off two hookers and then his stepdaughter? I don't think so.”
“He could have hired it done,” Tippen offered.
“No,” Quinn said. “This is classic sadistic sexual homicide. The killer had his own agenda. He doesn't do it for money. He does it because he gets off on it.”
Walsh pulled a nasty-looking handkerchief out of his pocket and stared into it, contemplating a sneeze. “LeBlanc is plenty pissed off about the inquiries, and not being too cooperative. He says he'll release Jillian's dental records—which will do us no good. He'll release any X rays she's ever had taken, but that's it. He won't let the whole file go.”
Kovac's face lit up. “Why is that? What's he trying to hide?”
“Maybe the fact that he had sex with her, drove her to a suicide attempt, then had her committed,” Liska offered, looking pleased to have scooped the boys. She filled them in on what she had learned from Michele Fine.
“I also asked Fine to stop in and get fingerprinted so we can eliminate her prints from the ones found in Jillian's apartment. And, by the way, somebody definitely cleaned the place up over the weekend. Fine says Jillian was a slob. The place is way too clean and the friend says there was no maid service.”
“Maybe the killer was in her house that night,” Adler speculated. “Didn't want to leave any trace.”
“I can see he'd wipe the place for prints,” Elwood said. “But tidy up? That doesn't make sense.”
Quinn shook his head. “No. If he was there, he wouldn't have cleaned up. If anything, he would have made it worse as a sign of disrespect to his victim. He would have trashed the place, maybe urinated or defecated somewhere obvious.”
“So, we got us another mystery,” Kovac said. He turned to Liska again. “You ran Fine through the system?”
“No wants, no warrants, no record. No boyfriend, she says, and I'd believe that. She says she and Jillian weren't lovers. There's a dope connection there somewhere. Small-time, I'd say.”
“But it might be worth digging on,” Moss said. “Lila White had connections too. One of them beat the snot out of her last fall.”
“Willy Parrish,” Kovac said. “He was a guest of the county at the time of White's murder. Had no connection to Fawn Pierce.”
“I also checked the guy White's parents blame for hooking her on drugs in the first place,” Moss said. “A Glencoe local named Allan Ostertag. No convictions. Strictly small-time. Works as a salesman at his father's car dealership. He can be accounted for all this last weekend.”
“Jillian and Fine wrote music together,” Quinn said, jotting himself a note. “What kind of music?”
“Folky alternative stuff,” Liska said. “Man-hating female angst bullshit, I'd guess from my impression of Fine. She's a real trip. Alanis Morissette with PMS.”
“So where's the music?” Quinn asked. “I'd like to see it.”
“Super G-man and talent scout on the side,” Tippen remarked snidely.
Quinn cut him a look. “Music is personal, intimate. It reveals a lot about the person who wrote it.”
Liska's brow knitted as she thought. “I saw sheet music, like you'd buy in a store. I didn't see anything handwritten.”
“See if the friend has copies,” Kovac suggested.
“I will, but I think Vanlees is the direction we should be sniffing. The guy's got a screw loose, and he fits John's preliminary profile pretty well.”
“Criminal background?” Quinn asked.
“Nothing serious. A slew of parking tickets and a couple of misdemeanors three or four years ago. Trespass charges and a DUI—all spread out over a period of eighteen months or so.”
“Trespass?” The word raised a flag in Quinn's mind. “Was that the original charge or did he plead down from something else?”