Free Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder by Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon

Frisco wound
through the streets, he glanced at Jo. “So, are you buying that Mazlo doesn’t
have a copy of Rick Wilson’s project? Seems like he would have demanded to see
it the minute that lawsuit from Wellborne Industries hit their desks.”
    Jo shrugged her shoulders. “You could be right, but
why would Mazlo lie about it? Maybe the kid was a perfectionist and didn’t want
his advisor to see it until the final edits. Some people are just that way.”
      “Maybe, maybe
not. I sure as hell wish we could get our hands on a copy of that video,
though.”
    “Let’s hope MacGregor has one.”
    The female voice on the GPS system directed Frisco to
turn east on University Avenue, as they headed towards the area known as
Frogtown. The avenue was dotted with restaurants serving various Asian and
Mexican cuisines.
    Jo realized she was suddenly famished. “What do you
say we stop for a bite to eat after we’re done talking to MacGregor?”
    Frisco smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
    The GPS directed them to make one
last turn. Jo knew this part of town had a rough reputation and she saw many
houses with boarded windows, faded foreclosure signs flapping in the breeze.
    They stopped in front of a hunter
green clapboard house. Several of the shutters were missing and two more hung
askew. Frisco said, “Looks like a crack house. Think he
really lives here?”
    As Jo opened the car door, she said, “Well, this is
the address Rick’s mother gave us. Let’s give it a go.”
    Frisco followed her up the cracked sidewalk. Walking
carefully onto steps that didn’t look like they would hold her weight, she
crossed the small porch area and rang the doorbell.
    After a few moments of silence, Jo knocked and called
out, “Mr. MacGregor. I’m Special FBI Agent Jo Schwann. I’m here with Detective
Mike Frisco of the St. Paul police department. Could we have a word with you?”
    When there was still no answer, Frisco said, “Let me
go check around back. I’ll see if there is another door.”
    Jo peeked into windows that were surprisingly clean
given the shabbiness of the house, but couldn’t detect any movement in the
room. Frisco came back a moment later. “Place looks deserted.”
    “I’ll try his cell.”
    Jo punched in the phone number they had acquired from
Rick Wilson’s mother. As she waited for the call to connect, she looked around
the porch of the house. An old sofa moldered next to the front door. On the
floor in front of the sofa was an old rusty coffee can, full of cigarette
butts.
    As she ended the call, she looked across the way to
the adjacent house and saw a frail, elderly woman with faded denim jeans and an
oversized man’s coat shake out a rug over the railing of the porch.
    Before the woman could re-enter her house, Jo called
out, “Excuse me ma’am. Do you know the people who live here?”
    The woman shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Who’s asking?”
    Jo stepped off the porch of Billy’s house and began
walking toward the woman. “My name is Special Agent Jo Schwann. I’m with the
FBI.” She fished out her badge and held it out for the woman to see. “This is
Detective Mike Frisco. We’re looking for Billy MacGregor. Do you know where we
might find him?”
    The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Billy’s a good kid,
unlike most of the scum that lives around here these days. Always willing to
give me a hand. Whatcha want him for?”
    Frisco spoke up. “We just want to ask him some
questions about a friend of his. He’s not in any trouble.”
      She seemed to
consider this for a moment. Finally, she said, “Well, I ain’t seen him around
for the last day or two.” She paused, as if trying to recall the last time she
had seen him. “He carried up some boxes from my basement a couple of days ago.
Seemed kinda jumpy and distracted, now that I think about it. I asked him if
anything was the matter, but he told me he was fine. Didn’t really believe him,
but he clammed up after that.”
    The