The construction site was busier and louder than the first time I’d been there. The white van had been joined with another smaller one. I let Brock take the lead. Experience had taught me that I wouldn’t be taken seriously by any member of the construction crew. They took orders from men, worked with men, and while on the job, expressed their opinions of women by leering and shouting suggestive remarks. It wasn’t fair and I didn’t like it. But I was also very aware that I was an uninvited creature on their turf. An alien who didn’t understand or speak their language.
But everyone paid attention and understood when Brock asked where we could find the foreman.
We were pointed toward a man in his forties, holding a clipboard. Obviously angry, he waved his arms, shouting at one of his crew. But with all the noise, I couldn’t make out a word.
After explaining that we wanted to talk to him about Charles Kerrigan, the head honcho escorted us into the trailer where he’d set up a temporary office. He took off his hardhat, then closed the door.
“Ahh, that’s better,” he said. “Have a seat.”
There were several folding chairs scattered around the room. Brock dragged two over to the table that served as a desk.
“Now what exactly is it you want to know about Charlie?” he asked, making eye contact with Brock.
I leaned forward. “My name’s Katherine Sullivan, and this is—”
At first he seemed surprised when I spoke, like he hadn’t seen me sitting there. But then he took a good look. “You were the police chief in Edina, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Ray DeYoung. My brother worked with you for years. Said you were fair and decent, an all right broad—pardon my French.”
It was my turn to study his face. “Jim was one of my best men. And now that I take a good look at you, I see the resemblance around the mouth and nose.”
“I’m Brock.” The big guy must have been feeling left out.
“Nice to meet both of you,” Ray said. “Can I offer you something? The coffee’s cold, but I’ve got soda or water.”
Brock shook his head. “Nothin’ for me, thanks.”
“We’re good,” I told him. “I understand that Mr. Knight personally hired Charles Kerrigan.” I went on to explain about how Nathan was missing and how our investigation had led us to this trailer.
Ray leaned back and whistled. “All I can tell you is the guy was a bona fide, grade-A loser. ’Course I’m sorry he’s dead and all, but those kind usually come to a bad end. I’ve seen dozens just like him.”
“What do you mean, ‘those kind’? Did he make trouble for you?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t call it trouble, really. Just little stuff here and there, but it all added up. One day he’d come in late; the next he wouldn’t show up at all. Then I’d have to send him home for being drunk. His girlfriend would sit out there, waiting for him. With all this heavy equipment, it was dangerous. She was a distraction. But I couldn’t say a word because of her being Mr. Knight’s daughter.”
“Did he have any friends? Guys he hung out with?”
“The men out there didn’t take to him much. But there was a woman, a real beauty. She’d come around sometimes.”
“She have a name?” Brock asked.
“His girlfriend didn’t say anything about Charlie cheating on her, but it’s a possibility,” I said. “I guess that was the other woman?”
“I doubt it. Didn’t look like any kind of a romance going on between them,” Ray said.
“Why did you think that?”
“As you found out for yourselves, it’s almost impossible to hear much out there. But you can tell from a smile or look if there’s some heat. Know what I mean? I never saw them even come close to touching. No lovebird stuff. He always seemed very respectful toward her.”
“An’ you never heard him call her nothin’?” Brock asked.
“He called her Mrs. something. She looked a few years older than Kerrigan. I never could get a handle on what was going on there.”
“Would you happen to know what kind of a car she drove?” I asked.
“Man, would I ever! It was a shiny new blue Porsche. Beautiful machine. When she’d drive up in that car, the guys weren’t paying attention to the beautiful blonde behind the wheel. No, they were drooling over that Porsche.”
“Blonde and beautiful—that’s something to go on, I guess.” But the odds weren’t too good. Minnesota was overflowing with blondes. “And each time she came here, he’d get in the car, and they’d leave together?”
“No, they’d just talk. Both of the times I saw her, she’d drive off by herself over to that house.” He pointed. “Number thirty-four. Just figured the old coot who lives there was her father.”
The door suddenly opened, and a man wearing a hard hat stuck his head in. “We need you out here, boss.”
Ray rolled his eyes and said, “It’s always something. I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” With that, he left.
Brock got up to look out the window, and I stood to stretch my legs. From that position, I could see a canvas leaning against the wall behind the desk. My curiosity got the best of me, and I had to go take a better look.
Carefully, I picked it up and turned it around. It was a Molly Hartung piece, the same size as the ones in the Larkin house. If this was the missing one in the series, why did Ray DeYoung have it here, in a dirty trailer? Did he know its value? Had he stolen it?
“He’s comin’ back,” Brock said.
Quickly, I set the painting back down where it had been, facing the wall.
“Sorry about that,” Ray said, walking back to his desk. “Do you have any more questions for me?”
“No. You’ve been great, thanks. If I need anything else, I’ll be back. Say hi to Jim for me.”
“Will do.”