The Criminal Investigative Division was all but empty. Windermere sat in her cubicle, where she’d sat for most of the day, staring at her computer screen and trying to figure out a way around the Department of Defense’s involvement in Triple A Industries.
As Windermere had told Stevens the day Spenser Pyatt was murdered, she wasn’t much of a motive person. Where Stevens found endless fascination in exploring the reasons why a criminal committed his particular crimes, Windermere had long ago decided she couldn’t care less, as long as the right person was arrested.
Now, though, with the question of who at an impasse, Windermere found herself circling back to the why. Spenser Pyatt had been murdered, shot by an anonymous sniper. The sniper had disappeared and left a maze of disjointed clues behind him. So maybe it was time to focus on why Spenser Pyatt had died. Who stood to gain from his death?
The elevator doors dinged across the office. Windermere ignored them. Mathers, probably, returning with dinner. Windermere’s stomach growled its anticipation. She ignored it, too.
Spenser Pyatt had controlled a media empire. He’d been a very rich man. It was natural to suspect that his wealth had played a role in his demise. From what Windermere and Mathers could figure, though, the guy was crystal clean: in fifty years of business, he’d never once been linked to any untoward activity, illegal or otherwise, and his will had remained unchanged for over a decade. Pyatt’s wife and children would divide up his empire; there were no unusual life insurance policies or spurned lovers looking for payouts. By any account, Spenser Pyatt had been a remarkably simple man, and scrupulously honest to boot.
A shadow loomed above Windermere, blocking her light. “You bring the peanut sauce?” Windermere said.
“Must have forgotten it.” A new voice. Not Mathers’s. Windermere looked up and saw Kirk Stevens standing above her. He flashed her a grin. “Mind if I sit?”
Windermere felt her breath catch, involuntarily. Hated herself for it. Hated the fact that a married, middle-aged cop could get her off her game. She blinked and shook her head. “Be my guest,” she said, pulling a chair over. “You get lost or something? What are you doing all the way out here, Stevens?”
Stevens dropped a piece of paper on her desk. Then he sat and waited. Windermere tried to stare him down before curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the paper and read it. “I don’t get it.”
It was a printout from a Liberty rental agency in Duluth. The airport, it looked like. Some guy from Chicago had rented a Kia for a couple hours yesterday. Alex Kent. Windermere scanned the page. Found the payment information and stopped cold. “Triple A Industries,” she said. “Holy shit.”
Stevens frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Who is this guy, Stevens?” she said. “What’s his story? How’d you find him?”
“Triple A Industries,” he said. “What does that mean?”
Windermere exhaled, impatient. “This guy paid with a corporate credit card registered to Triple A Industries. So did Allen Salazar, though he swears he’s never heard of the company. And Triple A’s in some shady business. So what gives? How did you get in on this?”
Stevens leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know about Triple A,” he said, “but that guy Kent murdered Spenser Pyatt’s cousin up in Duluth yesterday.”
“What?” Windermere stared at him. “You kidding me, Stevens?”
“Or maybe he didn’t,” Stevens said. “Probably he’s just like Salazar, a scapegoat. Either way, Pyatt’s cousin was murdered. Strangled to death, and it looks like the same killer as Pyatt. And that’s not even the weird part.”
Windermere pushed back her chair. “Hold up,” she said. “Back to the beginning. You working this case?”
“My SAC’s good friends with Pyatt’s son, Mickey,” Stevens told her. “Mickey called in a favor. SAC sent me to Duluth to look things over, see if the family’s in any danger.”
Windermere raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I don’t know, Carla. None of this makes sense.” He shook his head. “But I found out a couple of things. First off, Elias Cody—Pyatt’s cousin—had a major crush on Pyatt’s wife. Like, obsession.”
“Okay,” said Windermere, “and the second?”
“The second.” Stevens grinned. “After killing Cody, our murderer flew back to Minneapolis.”