Playing With Fire (10 page)

The M.E. smiled.

“No question the Chief has a soft spot for you, Stryker, or
you’d have been out on your ass a long time ago. There’s only so many times
he’s gonna be willing to defend your cocky, in-your-face attitude from those
bastards at City Hall. Not that I want to goose up your ego any more than it
already is, but it would be a loss to all of us if you he fired you. I’ve never
seen anyone cut through the crap the way you do. It’s a fucking miracle.”

His wizened face cracked in a knowing smile.

“That is how you earned the moniker “The Miracle Man,”
right, Nate? Or is that a true story I heard about the eight women at Sadie
Thomas’s bachelorette party?”

Nate frowned. He snatched the stack of glossy photographs
and folded them in a messy square and stuck them his jean’s pocket.”

“A goddamned pack of lies, Jim. You know better than to
believe a bunch of irate fathers.”

Nate headed for the door and muttered under his breath, “The
least they could do is get the story straight.”

He looked over his shoulder at the M.E. and winked.

“There were eleven women at the party, Jim. Not some measly
eight.”

~~~

The casual voice of his counterpart in the Monterey Bay
Police Department grated on Nate’s nerves like a dentist scraping out a root
canal. The guy sounded more like a surfer dude than a cop. Nate could only
imagine what the cops in Monterey Bay looked like. Damn, he could see the
insufferable prick now. Hell, compared to this California dude, he’d likely
look straight-laced. Instead of boots, the fucker probably wore flip flops.
Sure as hell he didn’t wear socks.

The movie star drawl droned on.

“It’s a damn shame. I can tell you, brah, there’s gonna be
some unhappy venture capitalists crying in their single malt scotch tonight
when they find out their goose with the golden eggs coming out of his ass
begged off.”

Nate sneered.

“I think we are almost 100% sure that he didn’t ‘beg off,’
officer. We’re convinced the bullet in his skull, and the fact we found him
burned to a crisp after the shack he was in exploded under his ass had
something to do with his untimely demise.”

The ‘brah’ didn’t respond to Nate’s sarcasm if he heard it.
His voice was laced with sly insinuation.

“I’m not surprised at the explosion. Given the amount of
silicone in Camilla’s bouncy ta ta’s, I’m surprised the big bang didn’t take
out a city block. Yeah, man, I can tell you there are a lot of plastic surgeons
in Southern California who are gonna be reporting a loss on their income taxes
this year.”

Nate choked. It was one thing for him to be a crude son of a
bitch — but damn, even Charlie didn’t talk that way about a woman who’d been
burned to death.

Hollywood was on a roll.

“It isn’t only men around here that are going to be lonely.
A lot of women in this state are going to be asking what they’re going to do
for entertainment. Hell, they might just have to start boffin’ their husbands.
Not that Dylan was all that great a bedroom performer, if you know what I mean,
at least from the stories I hear. Any bragging he did was strictly in ‘dick
inches’ if you catch my drift. That ruler uses centimeters. But you know women,
brah. When it comes down to it, the only size that matters is the bank account.
And our boy Dylan had those in spades. In every country in the world.”

Nate could have taken issue with the asshole’s assumptions
about size. But the rest of the surfer dude’s conclusions about women and bank
accounts were close to something Nate might have said. Uncomfortably close.
Before he got caught up despising a guy he had never met, Nate rattled off a
series of questions, doing his best to cut through the “valley speak” answers.

In response to his inquiries about Dylan Masterson’s
financial status, Detective Franks was less knowledgeable.

“Best I can tell you is that he was a tinkerer. He made
biometric devices of some kind. His last invention had something to do with
mimicking brain waves, teaching nerves to regenerate or some damned thing. All
I know is that every venture capitalist in the country would crawl over glass
on his hands and knees to suck his dick. I don’t have to tell you that he was
one insufferable son of a bitch.”

Given who was making the observation, Nate concluded, put
Masterson in a class by himself.

“From what you’ve said, I presume the guy wasn’t married?”

“No, he
was
. I never met her and the story is she
bailed on him several years ago. Probably couldn’t handle finding six or seven
women in their bed every morning. From the word at the precinct, they never got
a divorce. If that is true, I can tell you some little gold digger is sitting a
whole lot prettier these days than she could imagine.”

Nate cut through.

“You have her address, telephone number?”

“No, man. When I say she bailed, I mean, no one knows where
she is. She took off and no one’s heard from her since. I don’t have to tell
you finding her is right at the top of our ‘to do’ list.”

Nate snorted. To do list? Would that be California speak for
an APB? Before he lost it completely and started screaming at a fellow officer,
the creep added, “The best person for you to talk to is our Chief. Bradley and
Dylan were close. They were golfing buddies and my understanding is that
Masterson was more than a little helpful getting our good Chief his current
position. Don’t know how it works in your neck of the woods, brah, but a little
scratch goes a long way in our department. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“This conversation is difficult for me, Detective Stryker.
Dylan Masterson was my friend. We spent a lot of time together. He was one of
the brightest men I know. I will miss him. You can be sure we are working
around the clock to find out who killed him and the lovely Ms. Thomas.”

“When did you see him last, Chief Warner?”
“It’s over six weeks ago. No, let me check my calendar. It was actually seven.
We played together in a celebrity golf tournament in Palm Desert. Some charity.
I can’t remember which one. Muscular dystrophy, sclerosis — muscular something.
Dylan was an extremely generous man. He was the biggest supporter, ten times
over, of the new emergency wing at the hospital. Charities, politicians,
whoever had a good cause, they knew Dylan could be counted on to help. As you
can imagine, he was a much sought-after man.”

“I can imagine.”

Nate decided sarcasm was lost on California cops, no matter
what their level, when Chief Warner continued with his effusive accolades not
responding to Nate’s impertinent interjection.

After ten to fifteen minutes of background filler, Nate cut
to the chase.

“Tell me, Chief Warner. Who do you think killed Dylan
Masterson?”

There was a short pause.

“Ah, so we are finished with the preliminaries, Detective?”

“Yeah, we are, Chief. Given that you knew the man as well as
you seem to, you must have some ideas of who wanted him dead.”

“In other words, Detective, who would benefit more from
having my good friend dead than alive?”

Nate snorted.

“That would be one way of looking at it, Chief. Can I assume
you think his death is related to his financial status?”

“When you are in the income bracket Dylan Masterson
occupied, Detective, it’s the only thing
his
murder could be related
to.”

Ignoring the Chief’s ill-disguised contempt for people he
considered his inferiors, which apparently included persistent detectives from
northern Minnesota, Nate pressed.

“Did Masterson have business partners who would benefit from
his death?”

“That’s unlikely. Dylan was a smart businessman. He would
have been well protected. He had an army of lawyers surrounding him. For the
most part he was a loner. Although, he was considering working with a partner
on his latest gimmick. Before you ask, I don’t know the man’s name. I just
heard Dylan talking to him several times on the telephone. They argued a lot.
When I asked Dylan who it was, he said some guy who was convinced they should
be partners.”

“Who else, Chief Warner, would benefit from Dylan
Masterson’s death?”
The chief chuckled. “Other than the obvious one, Detective?”

“Are you talking about his wife?”

“Ah, so you already know that Dylan has a wife?”

“Yeah. Officer Franks indicated that it’s on the top of your
department’s ‘to do’ list that you find Mrs. Masterson.”

“Hmm, that would be one way of putting it. However I think
we can safely assume that at some point she will come forward. When there is
that much money involved, they always do, don’t they, Detective?”

“Is there insurance money as well?”

“Yes, indeed. A significant amount.”

“Tell me about Mrs. Masterson, Chief. I understand that she
left several years ago.”

“Ah yes, Sarah Marie Masterson. The little Irish girl, as
innocent-looking as if she’d come straight from a nunnery. Although Dylan told
me during a long night we spent together, he actually found her in a strip
joint. I never pushed him on it but from the way she looked when I met her, she
must have started her chosen profession young. She couldn’t have been seventeen
when he married her. Dylan was crazy about her — that was clear. Not
surprising. Aren’t all of us older men at least somewhat intrigued with the
Catholic School novitiate look, packaged in a whore’s body?”

As he had throughout the conversation, Nate had to remind
himself that he was speaking to a police chief. Try as he might he couldn’t
imagine that description of Masterson’s wife coming out of his Chief’s mouth.
He really was going to have to take a shower when he finished chatting it up
with his California colleagues.

“Why did Mrs. Masterson leave, Chief?”

“That’s a good question, Detective. It almost killed Dylan.”

“I understood from your officers, that Mr. Masterson was
surrounded by women. But he loved his wife?”

“Let’s face it, Detective. When you have more money than
God, before you turn thirty, excess is a way of life. No, it wasn’t that he
cared that much about the girl. I doubt love ever entered in the equation for
Dylan. Sex? Perhaps. Pride? Most especially. It was more that she left. Dylan
was fussy, possessive about his property. And he had a temper. I imagine he
wasn’t easy to live with. But that girl had everything. Money, cars, clothes,
jewelry. The only thing I can think of was that she thought by leaving she
could get him to focus on her instead of some of his diversions.”

“What kind of ‘diversions’ are you talking about, Chief?”

“Look, Detective, I’m confident in the sheltered ‘culture’
of the Northwoods, you aren’t likely to meet men with as diverse appetites as
my friend had.”

“Cut the crap, Warner. You’d be surprised the diversity I
run into every damned day of my life. Even in our ‘culture.’ Answer my
questions. Did Masterson do drugs in addition to women? If so, I presume his
wife did. So that means we should be looking for a wealthy, spoiled woman. One
who digs older men, likely does drugs, and knows her way around the streets
well enough that even your friend couldn’t find her. Oh, and for some reason,
she didn’t like your buddy. Correct?”

“I’ll ignore your rudeness, for the moment, Detective
Stryker. And yes, that about sums it up. While I am confident Sarah Marie liked
his money, she definitely did not like my ‘buddy.’ Your reference to the
‘streets’ is on target. Propitious. There’s no way that girl could have kept
Dylan from finding her without sophisticated, street-smart help.”

“The same kind of help that could come in handy if she
decided it was better to be the widow of a Silicon Valley hotshot than his
wife?”

“Precisely, Detective.”

~~~

The conversation with the Chief still didn’t answer the
question how Dylan and Camilla, or as Chief Warner called her, the lovely Ms.
Thomas, got to Chicadia Falls. They got part of the answer the next day. Dan
and Charlie turned up Masterson’s private jet at an upscale resort outside of
Duluth on the Wisconsin side of Lake Superior. The managers of the small
commuter airport indicated the plane had been there for over a month, closer to
two. They weren’t concerned. According to Masterson’s office, Masterson often
changed his plans. As far as his office knew he could be in Europe. Apparently
a multi-million dollar private jet was nothing to be concerned about. More like
a car left in the long-term parking lot at the airport. Eventually his office
would simply send someone to pick it up.

The rest of the answer as to why the bodies ended up in
Chicadia Falls came the next day when Officer Franks sent Nate the MBPD’s most
current photograph of Sarah Marie Masterson.

After hanging his head over the toilet, retching, for how
long he didn’t know, half of the time spent on the floor with his head in his
hands, Nate stumbled back to his desk. He printed out the photograph. On the
bottom of the page, where it was labeled ‘Sarah Marie Masterson,’ he added:
‘aka: Erin McFadden.’

From her desk facing the window on Spring Street, Erin saw
the squad car pull up. She recognized one of the officers as Dan Coulter, the
other as Peter Maze. Both men worked homicide with Nate. She stacked the
reports she was working on in a neat pile, and sat back in her chair to wait.

The last three days were a blur. She didn’t remember
sleeping, but then she didn’t remember much of anything. The day after she
received the note, she called in sick. She’d never missed a day in her six-plus
months as a rookie. Connor was so concerned he called her himself.

“What’s up, Erin? My understanding is that Women of Steel
don’t get sick. You swallow Kryptonite or something? You okay, half pint?”

She assured him she had a stomach bug and would try to come
in the next morning. She didn’t make it. When she arrived yesterday, Connor
didn’t hide his concern.