The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5)(109)

Taylor consulted the notes he’d made in his phone. “Obern and Phipps, family law. But he didn’t go back to work with that face. I’d say he’s feeling like a used pi?ata today.”

“No, but let’s give them a call. He said he was online working the night of the murders. Maybe they can corroborate, and we can tick off a box on our list.”

Taylor called information for the number and then put his phone on speaker. A receptionist answered with a very professional “Obern and Phipps, Family Law. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Detective Michael Taylor with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m calling regarding one of your employees, Charles Chamberlain. May I speak with his supervisor?”

“One moment please.”

Classical music came on the line to fill the time until the call was transferred. A woman’s voice broke in.

“This is Gloria Obern. How may I help you?”

Taylor went through the introduction again. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about an employee, Charles Chamberlain.”

“Oh, poor Charlie,” the woman said. “We all feel terrible about what happened to his parents. He’s beside himself, the poor kid.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

“No. We’ve been e-mailing. He’s a very quiet, private guy, but a terrific hard worker. I’ve never had such a thorough person doing my research. If there’s a scrap of information to be had anywhere on the Internet, Charlie will track it down. I’m going to miss him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Charlie e-mailed me his resignation last night. It was the first thing in my in-box this morning. Of course I’ll try to argue him out of it. He can have an indefinite leave of absence, as much time as he needs. I tried to call him, but it went straight to voice mail. I suppose he’s busy making arrangements.”

A sense of urgency spiked through Kovac. He grabbed the radio mike and called Dispatch even while Taylor was concluding his conversation with Charlie Chamberlain’s boss.

“. . . I need a BOLO on a Charles Chamberlain.” He gave the physical description as he fumbled through the pages of his little notebook. “. . . driving a gray late-model Toyota Camry, Minnesota plates Charles Ida Victor eight-seven-seven. He’s a suicide risk.”

He looked at Taylor.

“His parents are murdered, his sister beats him up, his inheritance is in question, and he won’t answer his phone. How are your door-kicking skills, Junior?”

“Let’s do it.”

They hustled back to the building. Kovac swore impatiently as Taylor punched buttons, hoping someone in the building would let them in again. Once inside, Taylor took the stairs two at a time. Kovac took the elevator. As he stepped into the hall on the fourth floor, Taylor was shattering the door of Charlie Chamberlain’s apartment with a well-placed kick. The neighbor two doors down stuck his head out, wide-eyed.

Taylor was already rushing inside the apartment, calling, “Charlie! It’s Detective Taylor! Are you here? Charlie?”

Silence.

“Holy shit,” Kovac murmured, looking around as he stepped through the door.

The neat and tidy midcentury modern sofa and chairs had been destroyed, cut open, the stuffing pulled out, and strewn everywhere. Lamps lay broken, the shades smashed. Down the short hall, the bedroom was in a similar state, the mattress and bedding shredded, the mirrored glass closet doors shattered and hanging askew off their track.

Kovac stuck his head in the bathroom, where the mirror over the sink was cracked into an elaborate spiderweb of lines. “There’s blood all over the sink in here.”

“There’s some on the door frame,” Taylor said. He picked a suit jacket off the floor and held it up. It had been cut and ruined. “What the hell happened here?”

Kovac took another look around at the chaotic destruction.

“At the risk of being politically incorrect,” he said, “this has Crazy Bitch written all over it. Get on the horn to the hospitals. See if Charlie Chamberlain made it to one of them.”





37


“I’ve been checking the homeless shelters and soup kitchens all over the area, asking about Jeremy Nilsen,” Seley said. “A couple of the places downtown thought they remembered the name. One that tries to keep track of return customers had him on their roster, but not recently.”

Nikki sat back in her chair and rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck. She had driven past Donald Nilsen’s house on the way back from Evi Burke’s. The guys sitting on surveillance reported that Nilsen had not returned. Where the hell was he?

“I’ve got two missing Nilsens, an uncooperative witness, and I talked a woman into trying to kill herself,” she muttered. “I’m batting a thousand here.”

“Don’t forget multiple threats of lawsuits,” Seley added.

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

“Where’s Mr. Congeniality?” Nikki asked, nodding in the direction of Grider’s empty desk.

Seley rolled her eyes. “He made a grand announcement that he was going to try to help smooth things over with the Duffy family.”

“Oh, right,” Nikki said sarcastically. “You watch. He’s going to try to yank this case out from under me, so it can go nowhere for another quarter of a century. Asshole.”