Free Relative Malice by Marla Madison, Madison Page B

limited in their station, and the officer who did it wasn’t available. Maybe she’d pass it on to Tarkowski, let the FBI experts examine it.
    “Did you talk to Ruby Rindsig?”
    “I don’t think that name was on my list. She one of the high school chicks?”
    “No, but she would have still been in school when the emails went around. I must have forgotten to add her.” Kendall had no real reason to interview Rindsig again, just that there had been something about her. “Call Tarkowski about the computers; see if they’ll do the trace on the emails. I’ll talk to the Rindsig girl myself.”
    It was after two o’clock when Kendall finally finished the mountain of paperwork related to the case. She pulled her coat on and went for her car; she needed a break from the monotony of the written word.
    Ruby Rindsig’s address turned out to be in a trailer court on the northwest side of the city, not all that far from the Glausson house and across the Chippewa River from the mini-mansions in its elite subdivision. The trailer with the number she’d written down sat at the far end of the park, long and weather-beaten, decades past its prime.
    The man who answered the door leaned heavily on a walker, its legs ending in fluorescent green tennis balls. His odor wafted out into the cool air, contaminating it with a sour, acrid stench. Kendall showed him her ID. “Detective Kendall Halsrud. Is Ruby Rindsig here?”
    He examined the ID. “Nah. She ain’t here much. What’s she done?”
    “You’re her father?”
    “That’s me. Girl spends all her time at school—hasn’t got no time for her old man.”
    Kendall felt a flash of sympathy for the girl; the father was her only relative on record. She handed him one of her cards and told him to have Ruby call her. She’d find the girl at school if she didn’t hear from her.
    It was after nine p.m. by the time Kendall headed for the apartment. She didn’t realize she’d forgotten to eat until she entered the back hall and inhaled the enticing scent of fried food coming from the bar’s kitchen. What the hell, she had to eat. She took a seat at the bar in front of the redheaded bartender she’d met the first night she came in. After ordering a beer and a burger basket, she noticed Brynn duck furtively into a booth toward the back of the room.
    A man who’d been sitting at the front of the bar walked over and stopped beside Kendall. He had collar-length, dark hair, and walked with a swagger that announced he was full of himself. She disliked him at first sight.
    He leaned on the bar at her side. “The elusive Detective Halsrud—the woman who doesn’t take calls.”
    Adam Nashlund. She should have recognized him. He looked just like she remembered him—wearing an Army Surplus store, khaki jacket, torn jeans, and an arrogant grin. Kendall raised her beer to her lips.
    He offered his hand. “Adam Nashlund. You can call me Nash.”
    Kendall remained facing the bar.
    He climbed on the stool next to her. “Hey. I don’t bite.”
    “Your fuck-ups get people shot.”
    “Ouch.” He kept studying her. “You’ve been around long enough to know there’s always more to a story than what trickles down.”
    He had a point, but Kendall wasn’t ready to concede it.
    He kept pushing. “Can we forget ancient history? I need to talk to you about the Glausson murders.”
    “Why? You’re not a cop.”
    “Gray Glausson hired me. He wants to find the baby, and he’s worried the kid isn’t your top priority. Well, not you personally, but the morons in ECPD.”
    Was one of the “morons” close to the investigation talking to him? Someone who’d been at the meeting and knew there were opposing factions on whether the Glausson baby was still alive? Not that she’d ever prove it, but it pissed her off.
    “So what, you’re a PI now?”
    “No, just doing a favor for Glausson. He’s my boss. I work security at CPP.”
    She snorted. “How nice for you.”
    He ignored the dig.