Cold Blooded Lover Read online

  “How’s it going over there?” Julia asked.

  “Fine.”

  “What’s Lance Corporal Miller doing this time?”

  “She’s defusing the bomb before it goes off.”

  “Impressive,” she clucked. “Maybe you could compile all these adventures and write the next Hollywood blockbuster hit.”

  I scribbled hard on the yellow legal pad. “It’s not for entertainment,” I grumbled.

  “I know, love. I was just having a little fun.”

  “This isn’t phony. It really works. I haven’t had a nightmare in a long time.”

  “I know that, too, Cassidy. I sleep next to you every night.”

  “Yeah. In your bed.”

  Julia removed her reading glasses and gave me a hard look. “Why are you trying to start a fight?”

  I snapped my mouth shut. I didn’t know why I’d said any of those things, or why I’d become so defensive.

  Beside me on the end table, my cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. Normally I would have let the unknown number go to my voicemail, but Julia had gone back to her book.

  “Cassidy Miller,” I answered.

  “I found something.”

  It took me a beat to connect the disembodied voice with a face and a name. “Stanley?”

  “Tracey Green didn’t pay for the rental car with her own credit card.”

  I leaned forward in bed and my features scrunched in concern. “Did you go back to the office tonight?”

  “I was looking through the paperwork you guys added to the Jane Doe file,” he said, ignoring my question. “The rental company billed someone else’s insurance company for the stolen car. It’s the same someone whose credit card was used to rent the vehicle.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite. You got an address for me?”

  “Yeah, it’s out in the suburbs. One of the really fancy ones.”

  I wrote down the address in my sleep journal as Stanley relayed the information.

  “I’m on it,” I told him before hanging up.

  Julia looked to me questioningly. Her caramel eyes scanned my face. “What are you on?”

  “It’s that case I’ve been working on,” I explained. “Our Botox victim used someone else’s credit card to rent a car just before her death. My co-worker got me the address of the person who owned the credit card.”

  “And you’re going there right now?” Julia frowned. “You’re off the clock, Detective.”

  “I know. But it’s our first real lead,” I explained. “And I kind of owe it to Stanley to see this through.” I still harbored guilty feelings about letting Sarah coerce me into moving forward on the case without him.

  Julia sighed loudly. “Fine. But don’t let this become a habit. You can’t work at all hours of the night. You need balance.”

  I could have pointed out that her bed was regularly covered with court case files. Instead of starting another unnecessary fight, I gave her a quick, yet fierce kiss. “Yes, ma’am,” I readily agreed.

  + + +

  Eden Prairie was one of the more affluent suburban areas surrounding the Twin Cities. I’d never had need to visit before, but I knew it by reputation. Nearly everyone I’d been in the police academy with had hoped for an eventual reassignment or transfer that took them out of the city and into the relative mundane routine of the distant suburbs.

  I idled my motorcycle outside of a gated estate. A man in a black tuxedo stood at the closed entryway holding a computer tablet.

  “Name, please?”

  “I’m not gonna be on your list,” I told him as I shut down my bike. “Detective Cassidy Miller, Minneapolis Police Department.”

  “Minneapolis? Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”

  Being on the Cold Case Unit blurred the lines of my jurisdiction boundaries, but I didn’t want to announce the reason for my visit, especially if Stanley had gotten the address wrong.

  “I need to speak with Victoria LeVitre. Does she live here?”

  “Sure. But you’re going to have to come back tomorrow. The LeVitres are hosting a benefit tonight.”

  “I’m sure you’re not trying to obstruct a police investigation,” I challenged.

  I hadn’t really thought this through. I had no warrant of any kind; there was nothing that said this man had to let me past the imposing wrought-iron gate.

  The left corner of his mouth twitched. “Let me see if Mrs. LeVitre is available.”

  The man fished a cell phone out of a hidden inner pocket in his tuxedo jacket and made a call. “Kyle, can you check if Mrs. LeVitre is available? I’ve got Minneapolis police at the gate, and they’d like to speak with her.” He held his hand over the lower half of his phone. “What is this concerning, anyway?”

  “That’s between Mrs. LeVitre and me,” I told him.

  We waited for a long, awkward moment while attendants tried to track down the woman I sought. The longer we stood outside of the gated driveway, the more obvious his appraisal became. I was no longer in pajamas, but I’d simply put back on my work clothes from that day. My dress shirt and trousers were in need of a hot iron. Even though I wasn’t in uniform, I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the idle rich.

  “She’ll see you,” he finally announced. “You can leave your motorcycle out here. She’ll be waiting in the front den. It’s the first door on the left when you enter the house.”

  I left my bike outside of the gate, trusting that no one in that neighborhood was going to mess with it. My discomfort elevated as I walked down the long driveway to the mansion at the end of the private drive. The two-story colonial was all lit up. Meticulous landscaping adorned the front yard. It made Julia’s home in Embarrass look like a quaint cottage.

  “Jesus, what do these people do for a living?” I wondered aloud.

  “Doctor,” a bystander chimed in. The man wore a tuxedo, but I had no idea if he was staff or a party guest.

  There was no one to greet me at the front door, but I entered nonetheless. The sounds of stringed instruments floated from elsewhere in the home. Out of habit I dragged the soles of my boots on the rug in the entryway even though I knew my shoes were clean. I stared up at the cathedral ceilings and the crystal chandelier in the grand foyer, which was probably the size of my entire apartment.

  I turned into the doorway to my left, where I’d been told Mrs. LeVitre would be waiting. Overstuffed leather furniture filled the den. Animal heads from the northern woods created a collage of taxidermy on one wall. The faint scent of cigar smoke or a pipe lingered in the air.

  A woman was seated at the edge of a tan leather couch. She wore a simple, yet elegant black gown, cut high on one side to reveal a slender, bronzed leg. Her icy-blonde hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate up-do. A flash of white diamonds circled her neck.

  Her pale eyebrows knit together at my entrance. “You’re the police?”

  “Detective Cassidy Miller,” I introduced myself. “Minneapolis police, ma’am.”

  “What are you doing all the way out here and at this hour?”

  “I’m here to see you, ma’am.”

  Her features remained perplexed, almost wounded. “I’m afraid I still don’t quite understand. Did my husband promise to make a contribution? I can hardly keep up with all of his foundations.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m working on an active investigation.”

  I guessed she was in her mid-forties, but the low lighting in the room and her heavy makeup made it harder to guess.

  “Detective Miller, was it?”

  I remained standing and tugged self-consciously on my belt. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She crossed one long leg over the other. “What can I help you with?”

  “I wonder if you might be able to identify someone for me.”

  “I don’t have my glasses with me, but I’ll do my best,” she said in earnest.

  I removed a glossy photograph from a manila envelope. I’d had Sarah enlarge the photo we’d pulled from Tracey
Green’s driver’s license to add to the case file. It was more pixilated than I would have liked, and no one takes a good photograph at the DMV, but it was better than showing off pictures from the autopsy table.

  Mrs. LeVitre visibly flinched when her eyes flicked over the subject of the photograph. “Is this supposed to be funny?” she said stiffly. “Did my husband put you up to this?”

  Her words confused me. “No, ma’am? Like I told you, I’m working on a case.”

  She pursed her lips, looking displeased. “I’d like to see your badge, please.”

  “Okay.” I unfastened my badge from my belt and dropped it into her outreached palm.

  She held my badge in her hand, feeling its weight and running her fingers over the etched wording. Apparently satisfied, she returned my badge to me.

  “Her name is Tracey Green.” She frowned. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “Why would you think your husband put me up to this?” I probed.

  “Because the woman in that photograph is my ex-girlfriend.”

  Luckily, I was an expert at schooling my features, otherwise I might have gasped. When a drill sergeant is screaming in your face, you become pretty good at schooling your emotions.

  “What did Tracey do this time?”

  “Mrs. LeVitre, I regret to inform you that Tracey Green is dead.”

  The blonde woman’s eyebrows rose. “What? How?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. When was the last time you saw Tracey Green?”

  The woman took a deep breath. A manicured hand curled around the couch’s armrest. “Is this really necessary?”

  “A woman is dead. A person,” I needlessly reminded her, “with whom you apparently had an intimate relationship.”

  “I know that, Detective. But forgive me for being upset about this news,” she stated sharply. “It took a lot of work to repair my marriage, and here you come to dig up a mistake I made a long time ago.”

  “Humor me,” I prodded.

  Her features scrunched in thought. “Could I perhaps come in to your office in the morning? As you can see, I’m in the middle of a benefit event.”

  “Of course.”

  I gave her my contact information and the address to the Fourth Precinct before seeing myself out. I glanced in her direction on my way out of the den. I’d left the printout of Tracey Green behind on the coffee table. Mrs. LeVitre stared, unblinking, at the image.

  Julia was already asleep by the time I returned to her condo. I slid into bed beside her, careful not to wake her up. I shut my eyes, but I could sense that I wasn’t going to be getting much sleep that night. My brain buzzed with activity and unanswered questions.

  Our Jane Doe had a name. Tracey Green had had a girlfriend. And that girlfriend had a husband. Both of the LeVitres were now high on my suspect list, but would Victoria LeVitre actually show up in the morning?

  + + +

  “Off the filing cabinet, nothing but net,” I spoke to no one in particular.

  I sat by myself in the central office space the next morning. Stanley was at the warehouse, and Sarah was across town at her second job as a victim’s advocate. I could have sought out Captain Forrester for conversation, but he was in his office, probably dusting off his stuffed animals. I couldn’t imagine he and I ever really bonding unless I suddenly gained an interest in the underappreciated art of taxidermy.

  Instead, I passed the time by shooting crumpled pieces of paper into a wastebasket across the office. No basketball player, my misses had collected around the room. Having spent so much time trapped on a military base, stationed in the middle of a desert wasteland, I’d become adept at making up my own games to keep my brain occupied.

  I heard a tentative tap on the open office door just as I sank a particularly tricky shot.

  “Score!”

  “Hello?”

  I swiveled around in my office chair to see Victoria LeVitre, the woman from the extravagant home and party the previous night, standing in the doorway.

  She poked her head into the central office space and looked around. “Is this a bad time?” she asked.

  Her comment made me wonder if she’d overheard me talking to myself.

  I practically leapt from my chair to usher her inside. “No! Come in, come in,” I urged.

  I hadn’t expected to see her so soon, so early. I was surprised to see her at all, truthfully. Photographs of Tracey Green from the autopsy table littered the central worktable. I quickly swept the images into a pile and slid one of the archival boxes on top to hide the macabre photographs.

  I scrambled around the office to pull up an extra seat. I ushered Mrs. LeVitre into my office chair while I borrowed the one from Stanley’s desk for myself.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I offered. “Coffee? Water?”

  “I don’t suppose you have something stronger?”

  I arched an eyebrow. It was barely 9:00 a.m.

  “Sparkling water, if you have it.”

  “You’re in the basement of a police station,” I reminded her.

  The corners of her lips ticked up. “Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

  I walked to the coffee pot and poured the murky mixture into a plain, white ceramic mug. “We don’t have any sugar or creamer,” I realized aloud.

  “It’s fine,” she appeased.

  She accepted the coffee mug from me and flashed a quick smile of thanks. She took an experimental sip, and her gratitude pinched into a grimace.

  “It’s terrible, I know,” I felt obligated to apologize.

  Her grimace eased. “It’s not so bad.”

  She set the mug on the corner of my desk, and I doubted she’d take another drink.

  I took a second long look at Victoria LeVitre. The previous night she’d worn a fitted black cocktail dress. The formal wear was gone that morning, traded in for black skinny jeans and an expensive-looking top. Her eye shadow was dark and blended, a deep shape of maroon lipstick colored her lips, and her blonde hair was pulled up in a twisting braid. In short, she looked out of place in the basement of the Fourth Precinct.

  She rubbed her palms against the tops of her thighs. “You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t get much sleep last night; I’m having a hard time getting going this morning.”

  “Understandable.” I hadn’t slept well myself.

  She sighed, sounding exhausted, but pulled her torso upright in the chair. “Now, what it is that you’d like to talk to me about, Detective?”

  “Last night I asked when last you’d seen Tracey Green. How about we start there?”

  Mrs. LeVitre shut her eyes. “I can’t … I can’t really recall. It’s been a very long time. Over a decade, at least.”

  “How did you and Ms. Green first become acquainted?” I tried instead.

  “We met at a charity event for the hospital where my husband works.”

  “She was a doctor as well?”

  “No. God, no,” she laughed musically.

  I didn’t know what was so funny, and my face must have shown my confusion.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. You just had to know Tracey. It was kind of her thing—crashing other people’s events. When we met, I had assumed she was married to one of the doctors, too.” She laughed again. “Turns out she hadn’t even been invited to the party. She was charming, and she made me laugh. I quickly forgot how much I abhor those kinds of events.”

  “And you had an affair?”

  The faraway look in Mrs. LeVitre’s eyes vanished. “Yes. There was something about her. A recklessness that I envied, I suppose.”

  “And when did your husband find out?”

  Jealousy was a strong motivator. It could transform even the most ordinarily levelheaded individuals.

  Mrs. LeVitre noticeably swallowed. “A few months in. Tracey was bold—she said she didn’t care if he found out.”

  “But you did,” I guessed.

  Her gaze dropped. “I thought maybe I loved her. But
maybe I only loved the attention. The way she made me feel.”

  “When did your relationship end?”

  “As soon as Stephen discovered I’d been unfaithful. I broke it off right away.”

  “So your husband found out about the affair, yet you’re still married to each other,” I observed, thinking aloud.

  “We went through a rough patch in our marriage. I’m not proud of my infidelity, Detective, but we’ve moved past that—if your investigation isn’t going to open up old wounds.”

  “Did you tell him about coming down here today?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”

  My question seemed to touch a nerve.

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with Tracey’s family?”

  Mrs. LeVitre shook her head. “She never talked about family. I don’t know if she even had one.”

  “What about other friends? People she was close to?”

  “There was one woman. Diana Plantz.” Mrs. LeVitre’s distaste was clear. “Kind of a hippy free spirit.”

  “Plants,” I repeated, committing the name to memory. Each piece of the puzzle would be imperative to a case whose trail had long gone cold.

  “Plantz. With a Z,” Mrs. LeVitre noted. “I remember her last name because she was a gardener or something. I found it ironic that she last name was Plants, but Tracey was quick to correct me that it was Plantz with a Z.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “How were you able to make the connection between Tracey and me?” she asked. “Even though my husband knew, our affair was far from public.”

  “Credit cards. At the time of her death, Ms. Green had a rental car using one of your credit cards.”

  Mrs. LeVitre nodded. “She needed a vehicle for job interviews. We were broken up, but I felt an obligation to help out in someway. I gave her a month to use it. After that, I told her I wasn’t going to be her bank account anymore. Now I know why she didn’t return the car,” she said, putting the pieces together. “All this time. I thought she’d skipped town—maybe sold the car. I was furious at the thought that she’d taken advantage of my generosity. But now I know why.”