“Lucy!” Carey exclaimed.
Kovac looked uncomfortable and slightly terrified. He glanced up at Carey.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
But when he looked back at Lucy, he couldn’t seem to say no. Lucy put her arms around his neck and sat in the crook of his arm, looking pleased as punch with herself.
“I’m going to pretend you’re a giant,” she said. She jabbered at him all the way to the car.
When he put her down on the sidewalk, he turned to Carey, his expression dead serious. “You call me, I’m there. Be careful.”
Carey nodded and slipped into the backseat of the Mercedes. All the way home, she thought of how much her father would have liked Sam Kovac.
29
“YOU PLACE KIDS in foster homes, you worry if the foster parents are just in it for the money or if it might turn out they’re abusive. You never think about some psycho killing them.”
Marcella Otis had been the Family Services caseworker for Wayne and Marlene Haas regarding their fostering of Amber Franken’s two children. Liska had arranged to meet her at a coffee shop on the Nicollet pedestrian mall just a few blocks from the police station. They sat at a sidewalk table, soaking up the glorious day, nursing their drinks, and talking. They probably looked as if they were just two ordinary women chatting about ordinary things. Only the people at the next table, who were quite obviously eavesdropping, knew better.
Ms. Otis was a sight to see. A woman of considerable substance in a neon green tunic and pants, an African-looking multicolored pillbox hat perched atop ropes and ropes of cornrows. She wore hip rectangular glasses and an abundance of silver jewelry.
“I was just sick when I saw it on the news. I’ll never forget that night. That terrible thunderstorm. Just waiting for a tornado to take the house. It seemed like a nightmare, but it was all too real. I remember everything turned green just before it hit, the sky, the air. Freaky.”
She closed her eyes and shivered at the memory.
“Had the kids’ father ever surfaced before the murders?” Liska asked.
“Ethan Pratt? Ha! That’s a good one. He had no more interest in those children than the man in the moon.”
“But I heard he’s suing the county for endangering them.”
Marcella pursed her lips and made a face. “He’s all interested now. Those kids are worth more to him dead than they ever would have been alive. That boy’s a damn coyote, picking at their bones. He’s making noise about suing what’s left of the Haas family too. Like those poor people haven’t been through enough tragedy.”
Liska nodded. “Yeah. I talked to Bobby Haas a little while ago. He’s been through more than any one person should go through in a lifetime. Finding Marlene and the two children. His own mother dying of cancer.”
“Cancer?” Marcella said, arching a brow.
“He told me Marlene Haas was his stepmother,” Liska said. “That his real mother died of cancer a few years ago.”
“If he was talking about the first Mrs. Haas, that’s just not true,” Marcella said. “The first Mrs. Haas was carrying laundry down to the basement, slipped, and fell down the stairs. She died of a broken neck.”
Liska sat back. “Why would he lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know. I guess you’d have to ask him. Maybe he just doesn’t want to think about one more person being snatched out of his life so suddenly.”
“Did you know that Mrs. Haas?”
Marcella nodded. “Rebecca. A very sweet lady with a big heart. She and Wayne were talking about taking on another child. I had just been to their home to speak with them about it a day or two before the accident.”
“You said if Bobby was talking about her,” Liska said. “Who else would he have been talking about?”
“His birth mother, I suppose.” She took a long sip of her chai latte.
“Bobby Haas is adopted?”
“Yes. Wayne and Rebecca took him on as their first foster child when Bobby was ten. They ended up adopting him. And now that I think about it, his birth mother didn’t die of cancer either. She committed suicide.” She fondled a chunk of biscotti while she pulled the memory up. “That’s right. She hanged herself.”
“Jesus,” Liska muttered.
“If I remember correctly, she was a seriously disturbed woman. Bobby Haas had gone through the tortures of the damned before he ever became Bobby Haas.”
“Does he have any history? Trouble in school? Trouble on the streets?”
“No. I hear he’s an excellent student. Hasn’t been in any trouble ever that I know of. Why? Is he in trouble now?”
“No,” Liska said absently. “Not that I know of.”
“He’s a good kid,” Marcella said. “If I’d gone through half of what he’s gone through, I would’ve gone crazy a long time ago.”
“Maybe he did,” Liska said softly. “There are a lot of ways to go crazy. The ones who do it quietly are the ones you have to worry about most.”
“You can’t possibly think he had anything to do with those murders,” Marcella said. “The boy was inconsolable when it happened. Karl Dahl is your killer.”
“Yeah,” Liska said, her mind already moving on from the conversation. “Actually, I’m looking in to the attack on Judge Moore.”
The social worker sniffed and made another face. “I hate to sound un-Christian,” she said, “but there are a whole lotta people in this city who would have lined up for the chance to take a whack at her.”
Yes, Liska thought, but more and more she was thinking maybe Bobby Haas had been at the head of that line.
30
“SO LET’S HAVE the update, people.”
Lieutenant Dawes stood at the head of the table in the conference room. The war room, they called it when they were working a case like this. One entire wall was covered side to side with whiteboard. Leads, questions, details were written on it in Dry Erase marker, easily wiped away for the next terrible case.
“I’ve been looking for any record of Stan Dempsey owning property other than his house,” Elwood said. “Nothing. But I did discover there are forty-one land-owning Dempseys in the metro area. One of them might be a relative. I’ve got people making those calls right now.”
“Did we locate his ex?” Liska asked.
“In a cemetery,” the lieutenant said. “She passed away last year. Brain tumor.
“And I’ve heard nothing from the daughter,” Dawes went on. “I reached out to the Portland PD to ask them to locate her if they can.”
“Did anyone warn Kenny Scott about Stan?” Kovac asked. “As Dahl’s defense attorney, he’s a prime target.”
“I called him,” Dawes said. “Got his machine. I’ve dispatched a radio car to go over there and sit on his house until he shows up. Hopefully, he got out of town for the weekend.”
“He might want to think of making that a permanent move,” Tippen said. “If his address goes public, he’s going to have angry villagers with their pitchforks and torches on his front lawn.”
“He’s court appointed,” Dawes said. “He didn’t choose to represent Karl Dahl.”
“No,” Tippen conceded, “but he chose to represent him with zeal.”
“Minnesotans hate zeal,” Elwood said. “Zeal is right up there on the list of suspicious emotional behaviors like joy and despair.”
“Always err on the side of blandness,” Tippen advised.
Dawes turned to Kovac. “Sam, what have you got?”
“A headache,” he said. “I don’t like the husband’s alibi witnesses. One is too slick; the other is a hooker. Moore checked into the Marquette around three yesterday. Moore and the hooker were in the lobby bar from six, six-fifteen on. In between time he was banging the hooker, not beating his wife’s head in. The slick one, Edmund Ivors, joined them around seven.”