Free Theresa Monsour by Cold Blood Page B

Dubrowski over. “Come on, Casper. Let’s put our alien heads together and do up a detailed report on Reynolds Wrap Man.”
    Murphy had to give them a hard time about their shirts before they went to work. “Hey, cute sweats. Where can I get one? Then we can all match.”
    Castro opened his desk drawer. “I already grabbed one for you.”
    Murphy thought he was joking, but he pulled a shirt out and threw it to her. She caught it and held it up. The upper left side of the shirt was embroidered with a St. Paul Homicide detective’s badge and circling it, the words: To the living we owe respect. To the dead we owe the truth . “I like that,” she said. “Where’d this come from?”
    Castro: “The union. Sandeen made them up. Says it’ll promote unity and team spirit and all that other crap. He’s trying to come up with a different one for each division. If he can’t get rid of Yo-Yo for us, at least he can dress us pretty.”
    Â 
    MURPHY wanted to find out if her mission was Yo-Yo’s idea or if the Moose Lake cops had asked for help. She walked into Duncan’s office before going home that night. He was on the phone with his feet up on the desk. He motioned for her to sit down in the chair across from his desk, and she did.
    â€œDid he have anything on him when you picked him up?” While cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he was playing with a paper clip. Unbending it. A mound of straightened paper clips on his desk, as well as foam coffee cups, piles of paper, a half-eaten bagel and a copy of Popular Science . “No kidding? Any of them been fired?”
    He wore an oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up, dress pants and a tie—Christianson ordered all his commanders to wear ties—but his clothes looked as if Duncan had slept in them for a week. He had sneakers on his feet. Murphy recognized the brand. Pricey running shoes. The tread was worn. Did the slob actually exercise? The blazer he’d brought to work was on the floor next to his desk and there was a dirty stripe across the back; he’d run over it with the casters of his chair.
    â€œI’ll ask my detective. She’s back from the house. Sure. Sure. Happy to help out. Glad the s.o.b. turned up.”
    Murphy realized he was talking about Chad Pederson. She couldn’t believe Moose Lake was seriously looking at him for this. Everything she’d learned about Pederson told her he wasn’t the killer. What did they have on him? She got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had Yo-Yo cooked up some theory and sold it to the cops up north? Duncan craved being in the middle of all the action. She hoped he hadn’t dragged her into the middle with him.
    He picked up a cup and speared it with a paper clip. “Tell you what. Here’s an idea for you.” He pulled his feet off the desk, knocking a pile of papers to the floor. “Why don’t I send her up there?”
    â€œShit,” Murphy said under her breath.
    â€œShe’s the best we’ve got. Real easy on the eyes, too.” Duncan winked at her and Murphy smiled. He swiveled his chair around to glance out the window while he talked and she flipped him the bird behind his back.
    â€œNo. No. Not a problem.” He spun his chair back around and hung up the phone. “Pack your bags, Potato Head.”
    Murphy: “What did you tell them? I haven’t even briefed you yet. Jesus Christ. I don’t think he did it. Doesn’t have a record. Neighbors love his ass. Works like a dog. He was duck hunting with his kids.”
    â€œThat’s the bullshit he laid on the authorities up there. Here’s what really happened: Pederson shoots his ex after she leaves the wedding reception, dumps the body, grabs the kids and takes off. Maybe he really does take them duck hunting; it’s a good excuse to disappear for a while. He brings them back to the ex’s