“I don’t really know.” Taking a deep breath she added, “The autopsy will tell us more.”
The coroner had informed Marilyn that time of death was somewhere between 0900 and 1300 on Thursday morning. They would likely narrow that window after the autopsy, so her next questions about Wednesday night were crucial.
“What happened after you and Logan fought?”
“I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Then I told him …” Grant stared out at the water for a few moments. “I told him I wished he was dead.”
Marilyn watched his eyes well up with tears again. Complicated grief, she thought. She didn’t know if Grant would ever recover from Logan’s death, given his last words to his brother. And both Sophie and Grant were either not guilty of murder or they were the dumbest criminals known to humankind. Between Sophie informing the detective that Logan needed to “go down” and Grant telling her he wished his brother was dead, both parolees had completely shot themselves in the foot.
“We all say things we regret,” Marilyn offered, trying to get the suspect back on track. “I suppose Logan left your apartment after that comment?”
Grant swiped at his cheek and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, he left.” He took several deep breaths, trying to compose himself. “After that I tried to go to sleep, but I finally gave up around oh-five-hundred and went for a run on the lake. I took a shower, and I still didn’t know what to do. That’s when I went to see Officer Stone.”
“And I told you to go to work,” Jerry chimed in. “Did you do that?”
“Yes, sir. I came straight to work, and I was here until my shift finished at twenty-hundred.”
“What time did you arrive here yesterday morning?” Marilyn inquired.
“Uh, however long it takes to walk here from the courthouse—maybe nine-twenty-five or so?”
“Can anyone verify that you were here?”
Grant nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma’am. Roger was here too.”
“We’ll be speaking to him shortly to check that out.” Marilyn snapped her notepad shut and returned it to her jacket pocket. She looked into Grant’s troubled eyes. “So, Mr. Madsen, despite you having two powerful motives, it appears you have an alibi for the time period in which your brother was murdered.”
Grant’s shoulders drooped and he exhaled loudly. He looked out the window to the deck below, finding Joe looking up at him. Grant nodded, trying to reassure his uncle.
Marilyn bit her lip. “I’m wondering, who do you think might have killed your brother?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Joe thought it might be somebody Lo owed money to. He, uh …” Grant looked down. “He had a gambling problem.”
“Any ideas who he owed money to?”
“You found him near Great Lakes, right?” Grant asked. When Marilyn nodded, he said, “I was wondering about the lieutenant who won a hundred-thousand in a poker game at Angelo’s club that night two years ago. That was the money I was supposed to go and steal back when I screwed up and got arrested.”
“Yes, Officer Stone was telling me you were extorted by Logan to pull that crime? That he threatened to kill your Uncle Joe unless you complied?”
Grant swallowed, looking at Jerry. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you report that to your attorney? Or to the prosecutor?”
“It’s water under the bridge, Detective.”
“But it’s not too late to see if you can get your sentence revised. Perhaps you could even get your parole dropped if you get a sympathetic judge.”
Grant contemplated her words, then aimed a sardonic half-smile at Jerry. “But then I wouldn’t get to see Officer Stone every week, ma’am. I wouldn’t get to be slammed up against the wall, handcuffed, drug tested. I wouldn’t get to hear how I better not hurt Sophie …” His smile abruptly vanished. He had indeed hurt Sophie, just as Jerry predicted.
“It does sound like good times you’ve shared with Officer Stone,” Marilyn teased. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to give that up.” Then she advised, “I want you to be careful in the next few weeks, Mr. Madsen. Until we find Logan’s killer, nobody is safe.”
Grant nodded, looking again at Joe on the deck below. “I think my Uncle Joe will stay with me for a few days, at least.”
“I need to get down there to interview your boss,” Marilyn said. “Well, Mr. Madsen, I’ll keep in touch as the investigation continues. Take care of yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After Marilyn left the bridge, Jerry turned to Grant. “Madsen, what Detective Fox said about Taylor—it wasn’t entirely accurate.”
“Sir?”
“When we arrived at her house, I guess all she knew was we were there to question her about a murder, and for some reason she thought you were the one who’d been killed. She was freaked out, but once she found out you weren’t the murder victim, she was totally relieved. She even, uh, gave me a hug.” Jerry blushed.
For one blessed moment Grant felt the heavy load, which had been crushing him from the second he found out about Logan’s death, lift off his chest. Sophie still cared about him!
“Are you trying to steal my girlfriend, sir?”
Jerry grinned. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“I did. You just made one of the worst days in my life a little better,” Grant replied, staring solemnly at Jerry. “Thank you.”
They both looked down at Marilyn talking to Roger and Joe.
Grant sighed. “I guess Joe and I will have to plan the funeral.”
33. Casting a Pall
Grant had not seen his uncle in his dress blues since he was a teenager, and he felt a childlike awe at how distinguished and powerful Joe looked in his commander’s uniform: gleaming silver buttons and all the insignia and honors befitting the Vietnam War hero. No longer a lieutenant, Grant was relegated to the black suit, light-blue shirt, and black tie Joe had purchased him for the occasion.
Uncle and nephew—father and adopted son—walked the center aisle of St. Monica’s basilica. Joe had not left Grant’s side since Friday afternoon, and he continued to hover, guiding Grant toward one of the front pews on this Monday afternoon. Grant could not help but scan the mourners scattered across the pews, but there was no sign of her. He knew Sophie was unlikely to attend Logan’s funeral, but he searched for her all the same.
“Are you sure you can do this?” Joe asked as they were seated.
Grant sighed. His uncle had been second-guessing their decision to serve as pallbearers once the mass was finished. “I have to do it.”
“No, you don’t,” Joe countered.
“I already know you don’t like me near my uncle and cousin,” Grant assured him.