Kovac watched her out of the corner of his eye. Her demeanor toward Taylor instantly softened at the compliment. She couldn’t help herself. Though she was clearly annoyed with the situation in general, she gave him a little smile, looking up at him through batting lashes.
“You’ve got a point,” Kovac said. “My apologies, Ms. Chamberlain, if I seemed abrupt. We’re all running on a lack of sleep trying to solve the murder of your parents.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about it. I’ve told you a hundred times.”
“Let’s try this again,” Kovac suggested, holding up the photograph. “This is Gordon Krauss. You met him while you were a participant at Rising Wings, an outpatient drug rehab on the North Side. You met him again when you were at your parents’ house the day they had repairs done. He is now wanted for questioning in the murder of your mother and father. Is any of this ringing a bell?”
“Are you saying I had something to do with him?” Diana asked, her face twisted with disgust. “That’s just gross.”
“He didn’t try to ask you any questions about the security system at the house that day?” Taylor asked.
“No,” she snapped, done with it. “I have to go. Get out of my way.”
She made a move to go forward. Taylor blocked her.
Kovac looked around at the sorry old house with the peeling brown paint and ill-fitting aluminum replacement windows, the porch cluttered with students’ bicycles and a trash can full of beer bottles.
“I suppose you’ll be moving out of this dump and back to the house as soon as we release the scene,” he said. “Assuming you inherit.”
She looked offended. “Of course we inherit. We’re their children. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well, your dad was pretty fed up with you. He spoke to his lawyer on Monday,” he lied. “Of course, the lawyer can’t tell us what it was about, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”
“And we know for a fact he was donating his collection to the university ASAP to secure the promotion you were trying to keep him from,” Taylor said. “So that’s off the table as far as inheritance.”
“You don’t know any of that.”
Kovac shrugged. “Maybe they died before the paperwork was done, but yeah, I’d say you were getting chucked off the gravy train, sweetheart.
“But maybe Charlie will throw you a bone,” he suggested. “He was the good kid, right? Always trying to pull your pretty butt out of the fire. You might want to reconsider using him for a punching bag. Maybe take up a career in the UFC instead. Put your rage in the cage. Earn a paycheck doing it. You’ll need it.”
“I’m leaving now. Namaste,” she said directly to him, enunciating each syllable with venom. Her eyes were nearly white with anger.
This time when she started for the stairs, Taylor stepped aside and let her go. They watched as she dashed across the street, hiking the strap of her yoga mat up on her shoulder. She got into her car and pulled away, tires hissing on the wet pavement.
“Namaste,” Taylor said.
Kovac gave him a look. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”
“In this case I think it’s yoga for ‘Fuck you.’”
*
FROM DIANA’S RAMSHACKLE STUDENT HOUSING in Dinkytown they drove south to Charlie’s neat, nondescript apartment building. He didn’t answer his door, even though they knocked hard enough to rouse a neighbor from down the hall. His car was gone from its designated parking spot. Taylor tried calling. The call went straight to voice mail.
“He could be out making funeral arrangements,” Taylor offered as they went back to the car. “Or getting a CAT scan.”
“Where did he say he worked?” Kovac asked, settling into the passenger’s seat. He was getting used to being chauffeured. Getting soft in his old age.
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.”