Tami Hoag - Dust to Dust

DUST
TO
DUST

TAMI
HOAG

BANTAM BOOKS

NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

CONTENTS

TO THE VERY GOOD FRIENDS WHO
HELPED ME THROUGH A VERY BAD TIME:
BOB, BETSY, JESSIE
AND, AS ALWAYS, THE DIVAS.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE AUTHOR WISHES to thank the following people for their help and support in the making of this book:

Special Agent Larry Brubaker, FBI (retired); Sergeant Mark Lenzen, Homicide unit, Minneapolis Police Department; Sergeant Mike Carlson, Homicide unit, Minneapolis Police Department; Commander Thomas Reding, Internal Affairs, St. Paul Police Department; Robert Crais; Eileen Dreyer; Nita Taublib; Beth de Guzman; and Andrea Cirillo.

PROLOGUE

IT IS STUNNING how quickly it happens. How little time it takes to go from trouble to tragedy. Seconds. Mere seconds without air and the brain begins to shut down. No time to struggle. No time to panic even.

Like a boa constrictor choking the life from its prey, the noose tightens and tightens. It makes no difference what thoughts explode in the brain. Move! Grab the rope! Get air! The commands dont make it down the neural pathways to the muscles of the arms. Coordination is gone.

The sturdy rope makes a tearing sound as the weight of his body stretches it. The beam creaks.

His body turns slightly this way and that. The arms pull upward in hideous, slow-motion spasms. A macabre marionettes dancearms moving up and down; hands twitching, twisting, bending; fingers curling. The knees try to draw upward, then straighten again. Posturing: a sign of brain damage.

The eerie contortions go on and on. The seconds stretch as the death dance continues. A minute. Two. Four. The rope and beam creak in the otherwise silent room. The eyes are open but vacant. Mouth moves in a final, futile gasp for air. The most acute, exquisite split second of life: the final heartbeat before death.

And then it is over.

At last.

The flash explodes in a brilliant burst of white light and the scene is frozen in time.

CHAPTER

THEY OUGHTA HANG the son of a bitch came up with this shit, Sam Kovac groused, digging a piece of nicotine gum out of a crumpled foil pack.

The gum or the wrapper?

Both. I cant open the damn package and Id rather chew on a cat turd.

And that would taste different from a cigarette how? Nikki Liska asked.

They moved through a small throng of people in the wide white hall. Cops heading out onto the steps of the Minneapolis city hall for a cigarette, cops coming back in from having a cigarette, and the odd citizen looking for something for their tax dollar.

Kovac scowled down at her from the corner of one eye. Liska made five-five by sheer dint of will. He always figured God made her short because if she had the size of Janet Reno shed take over the world. She had that kind of energyand attitude out the wazoo.

What do you know about it? he challenged.

My ex smoked. Lick an ashtray sometime. Thats why we got divorced, you know. I wouldnt stick my tongue in his mouth.

Jesus, Tinks, like I wanted to know that.

Hed given her the nicknameTinker Bell on Steroids. Nordic blond hair cut in a shaggy Peter Pan style, eyes as blue as a lake on a sunny day. Feminine but unmistakably athletic. Shed kicked more ass in her years on the force than half the guys he knew. Shed come onto homicideChrist, what was it now?five or six years ago? He lost track. Hed been there himself almost longer than he could remember. All of his forty-four years, it seemed. The better part of a twenty-three-year career, for certain. Seven to go. Hed get his thirty and take the pension. Catch up on his sleep for the next ten years. He sometimes wondered why he hadnt taken his twenty and moved on. But he didnt have anything to move on to, so he stayed.

Liska slipped between a pair of nervous-looking uniforms blocking the way in front of the door to Room 126Internal Affairs.

Hey, that was the least of it, she said. I was more upset about where he wanted to put his dick.

Kovac made a sound of pain and disgust, his face twisting.

Liska grinned, mischievous and triumphant. Her name was Brandi.

The Criminal Investigative Division offices had been newly refurbished. The walls were the color of dried blood. Kovac wondered if that had been intentional or just trendy. Probably the latter. Nothing else in the place had been designed with cops in mind. The narrow, gray, two-person cubicles could just as well have housed a bunch of accountants.

He preferred the temporary digs theyd had during the remodeling: a dirty, beat-up room full of dirty, beat-up desks, and beat-up cops getting migraines under harsh white fluorescent lights. Homicide crammed into one room, robbery down the way, half the sex crimes guys wedged into a broom closet. That was atmosphere.

Whats the status on the Nixon assault?

The voice stopped Kovac in his tracks as effectively as a hook to the collar. He bit a little harder on the Nicorette. Liska kept moving.

New offices, new lieutenant, new pain in the ass. The homicide lieutenants office had a figurative revolving door. It was a stop on the way for upwardly mobile management types. At least this new oneLeonardhad them back working partners instead of like the last guy, whod tortured them with some bullshit high-concept team crap with rotating sleep-deprivation schedules.

Of course, that didnt mean he wasnt an asshole.

Well see, Kovac said. Elwood just brought in a guy he thinks is good for the Truman murder.

Leonard flushed pink. He had that kind of complexion, and short, white-gray hair like duck fuzz all over his head. What the hell are you doing working the Truman murder? Thats what? A week ago? Youre up to your ass in assaults since then.

Liska came back then, wearing her cop face. We think this guys a two-fer, Lou. He was maybe in on Nixon and Truman. I guess the Nation wants to start calling the Bloods the Dead Presidents.

Kovac laughed at thata cross between a bark and a snort. Like these dickheads would know a president if he pissed on them.

Liska looked up at him. Elwoods got him in the guest room. Lets go before he uses the L word.

Leonard stepped back, frowning. He had no lips, and ears that stuck out perpendicular to his head like a chimpanzees. Kovac had nicknamed him the Brass Monkey. He was looking as if solving a murder would ruin his day.

Dont worry, Kovac said. Theres more assaults where that one came from.

He turned away before Leonard could react, and headed for the interview room with Liska.

So this guy was in on Nixon too?

Beats me. Leonard liked it.

Brass asshole, Kovac grumbled. Someone should take him out and show him the fucking sign on the door. It still says Homicide, doesnt it?

Last I looked.

All he wants is to clear assaults.

Assaults are the homicides of tomorrow.

Yeah, thatd make a great tattoo. I know just where he can put it.

But youd need a miners hat to read it. Ill get you one for Christmas. Give you something to hope for.

Liska opened the door and Kovac preceded her into the room, which was about the size of a spacious coat closet. The architect would have described it as intimate. In keeping with the latest theories on how to interview scumbags, the table was small and round. No dominant side. Everybody equal. Pals. Confidants.

No one was sitting at it.

Elwood Knutson stood in the near corner, looking like a Disney cartoon bear in a black felt bowler. Jamal Jackson had the opposite corner, near the totally useless and empty built-in bookcase, and beneath the wall-mounted video camera, which was required by Minnesota law to prove they werent beating confessions out of suspects.