Page 23 of In the Bones
“This must be some kind of record,” Shana said with a grin that accentuated the puckered scar along her jaw. “Less than ten minutes before we start talking shop. Sol hasn’t even tasted his beer yet.”
“Excuse me for being dedicated to my work.” Valerie gave a small salute that made Shana laugh. “In all seriousness, this has to be a first, even for you guys. Weirdest case ever?”
Shana looked to Tim, who slipped his arm around his wife and said, “It actually might be.”
Jenny Smith and Mikko Helle had to be connected. The idea that she’d randomly chosen his home and found the remains seemed unlikely—and then there was the fact that she’d known Mikko’s name. Tim supposed it was possible she’d seen it on a bill inside the house, but her attitude toward him, the fear and anger radiating from her when she spoke, felt personal.
More interesting still, Jenny Smith had known that the victim was a woman. That was the part that stuck in Tim’s craw. The intruder, whom they’d been about to take into custody, had personal knowledge of the victim, maybe even knew why she’d been killed. And now she was gone.
“What’s weirdest to me,” said Valerie as she flipped her hair over her shoulder, “is the basement piece. Not to sound insensitive, but if someone wanted to get rid of a body, why wouldn’t they just sink it in the river?”
“Oh, young one,” Tim said with a studied sigh. “You have much to learn.”
“In Val’s defense,” said Shana, “she wasn’t around when that boater washed up under a dock. It’s the current,” she explained to the newbie. “It’s strong as hell. Even weighting a body wouldn’t guarantee it would stay hidden. But I agree thatthe basement of a house in a town where waterfront properties are scooped up like candy is a terrible place to hide a murder victim. So.” Shana splayed her hands on the table in a way that told Tim she meant business. “Tracking Mikko’s movements over the last few months is gonna be priority number one. That, and finding Jenny Smith.”
Solomon, who’d been quietly sipping his beer across the table, went scarlet. To her credit, Shana didn’t come down too hard on him. She hadn’t witnessed Jenny’s panic attack, but she knew how visceral the experience could be, how unsettling for others, and Tim had explained he believed the episode to be the real thing. Sol had been alarmed, with serious concerns about the suspect’s health. Jenny had seen an opportunity, and taken it. Nothing to do now but keep searching and hope she hadn’t gotten far.
A server arrived carrying the wings Valerie had ordered for the table, and the team attacked them like wild dogs.
“I ran her name,” Tim said through a mouthful of hot chicken. “There are lots of Jenny Smiths out there, but none are based anywhere near Cape Vincent, and none match our perp. But then there’s Mikko Helle.” Tim stretched out the space between the names like hot taffy. At Shana’s request, he had taken the lead on compiling Mikko’s file, and though there was still work to be done, Tim felt he’d made a strong start.
“I ran a full background check on the guy. Age thirty, born in the Lapland region of Finland. Moved to the States at fifteen to play hockey at an elite private school in Massachusetts. He did two years of college and some time in the minors before getting drafted, and later, traded to the Capitals. Until he retired due to a knee injury, Helle played in the NHL for six years. Must have done pretty well for himself to buy a second home on the water up here.”
On the table next to Tim, his cell phone lit up. He could see a message from his mom. It wasn’t urgent, just a picture of Darcy, her apple cheeks visible even in the tiny thumbnail image on the screen. He picked up the phone and cast Shana a pained look before replying with a heart emoji. His wife gave him a patient smile, and under the table, she patted his knee.
“You say he stopped playing at twenty-eight,” Shana said, refocusing Tim’s attention. “Is that young to retire from the NHL?”
Pushing the photo from his mind, Tim reached for his frosty pint glass, ice-cold in his hand. “Not especially. It’s an intense career, with the potential for lots of injuries. Some players go until their mid-thirties, but that’s less common. You don’t need a lot of years with the NHL to amass a good-sized nest egg.” Tim’s fingers, he noticed, had left ghostly polka-dots on his glass.
“Thirty years old and already well into retirement.” Sol whistled through his teeth. “We’re in the wrong business, folks.”
Valerie said, “I think you’ve been taking our free dental and regular psych exams for granted, Sol.”
“Don’t forget the Sam’s Club coffee in the break room.” Tim had been bringing his own much more palatable brew from home for years. “No arrests or outstanding warrants, and nothing in Helle’s background to suggest criminal behavior,” he went on, “though the man does have a reputation for being a bad boy.”
“Go on,” Shana said, sounding intrigued.
“Well, when he wasn’t playing hockey, he liked to go out on the town. There are dozens of pictures of him online at clubs, restaurant openings, and sporting events, always with a different lady on his arm. I came across a couple news pieces on his career, and they weren’t exactly glowing. One accused him of partying too much. Another called him lazy. At the same time, Helle has no qualms about criticizing other players in the press—former teammates included. He’s given interviews saying rising stars and players worth multi-millions lack physicality and are, I kid you not, weak as kittens.”
“I’m sure they’re happy he banished himself to the edge of the world,” Shana said.
“Not exactly Mr. Popularity,” Tim agreed, “but, near as I can tell, he’s clean.”
“Hell of a welcome for Helle, if he isn’t involved,” Valerie said to a chorus of groans. “You have to wonder why someone picked his house for a burial site.”
“My money’s on convenience. We know the place was empty for months,” Shana pointed out, “and not just because of the renovation. Sol, want to elaborate on your deep dive into the former owner?”
“Sure, boss. Of course.” Solomon was making every effort to recover from his embarrassment. “A woman named Nina Lucas owned the property for thirty-nine years before Helle bought it last September. Mrs. Lucas, a long-time widow, passed away in late July. It was her son, Victor Lucas, who listed it with Stacy Peel. Lucas and his family live in Switzerland for his job, so he had a neighbor—a friend of the decedent—handle things on their behalf. That includes the cremation and retrieving a few valuables. Everything else—clothes, furniture, décor, the works—was sold right along with the house. Mikko put an offer in, and closed right before Labor Day.
“I looked into Lucas and his family,” Solomon went on. “None of them have traveled to the U.S. in over two years, not even to arrange a memorial for his mom, so while that may make him a shitty son, I’m confident we can rule him out.”
“Thanks Sol. According to Helle,” added Tim, “the renovations didn’t start until March of this year—about seven months after the previous owner died.”
“Seven months,” Shana repeated. “The fact that it was empty would be obvious to anyone who drove by. That means our perp could be someone else entirely, who saw the place as an easy dumping ground. It’s pretty remote out that way. Anyone could have gained access anytime.”
“So we’re looking at countless suspects, none of whom we can name. Light work,” Valerie said as she licked hot sauce from her thumb. Despite her sarcasm, the slope of her shoulders told Tim she felt that burden already.
“We’ll be in a better position to connect the dots on this once we’ve ID’d the body,” Shana assured her. “Any word from Art, Tim?”
