“Bobby, do you know who Ethan Pratt is?” Liska asked, changing tracks.
Bobby Haas looked confused. “Yeah. I know his name. He’s-was-Brittany and Ashton’s dad. Why?”
“Has he ever come around or called?”
“No. Why would he?”
Liska shrugged. “Just covering my bases. Call me if you think of someone who can back you up about last night,” she said. “I’ll check with the janitor. Thanks, Bobby.”
The boy didn’t say anything.
Liska walked away, wondering if Bobby Haas’s devotion to his father might extend to revenge.
24
KOVAC WAS A GREAT believer in the element of surprise. Forewarning only gave people time to get their lies straight. He didn’t like to make appointments for interviews. Better to just show up. The sudden appearance of a homicide cop with a lot of questions tended to rattle the average citizen.
Of course, he knew he wasn’t going to get the jump entirely on David Moore’s alibi witnesses. Kovac had no doubt that Moore had been on his cell phone the minute he had gone out the door the night before. But they wouldn’t be looking for him to just show up.
After Liska had gone, he ran Edmund Ivors and Ginnie Bird through the system. Both came up blank for any known criminal activity.
Ivors turned up on Google. As David Moore had said, Edmund Ivors was an entrepreneur, fifty-seven, had made his fortune in multiplex movie theaters in the Twin Cities and Chicago. He had offices downtown, a home in the pricey suburb of Edina, and a place on Lake Minnetonka, where mansions had dotted the shoreline for more than a hundred years. He sat on the boards of several film councils and half a dozen charities. A man seemingly above reproach, but then, in Kovac’s experience, those were the people who often had the weirdest skeletons in their closets.
Ginnie Bird, on the other hand, did not exist. Kovac couldn’t find her anywhere. He tried running variations on her first name-Virginia, Ginnifer, Jenny, Jennifer… nothing. Tried alternate spellings on her last name. Nothing. She was not in a phone directory, didn’t have a car registered in that name. She wasn’t on the list of registered voters, nor on the tax rolls for the State of Minnesota.
Moore claimed Ginnie Bird was an “associate” of Ivors’s, so Ivors should have her address and phone number.
Kovac glanced at his watch. His stomach was growling like a dog. He needed lunch and a gallon of coffee, and about three packs of cigarettes. If he hadn’t thought he would dislocate his shoulder doing it, he would have patted himself on the back for his restraint with the smokes. He had always run a big investigation on caffeine, nicotine, and adrenaline.
His cell phone went off before he could think too much about falling off the wagon.
“Kovac.”
“Detective Kovac, my name is Edmund Ivors.”
The element of surprise had just turned around and bitten him. A preemptive strike. He immediately believed this to be a sign of something rotten.
“Mr. Ivors. I guess you’ve spoken with David Moore.”
“Yes. I heard about the attack on Judge Moore last night. I called David right away, of course. He told me you’d have some questions.”
“Yeah, I do,” Kovac said. “I was just on my way out. Can we meet somewhere?”
“I’m at my office. Do you have the address?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Edmund Ivors’s downtown offices were sleek, modern, expensively decorated, as was the man himself. A small, immaculate man with a closely trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a navy blue pin-striped suit that would have set Kovac back a month’s pay. A subtly striped shirt, a purple tie and pocket square. Kovac never trusted a guy with a matching pocket square-they always thought too much of themselves. The shoes were probably handmade by blind monks in the Italian Alps.
Kovac took one look at him and thought: Asshole.
Ivors met him in the reception area with a too-friendly smile and a strong shake with a soft hand. This was the kind of guy who got manicures every week.
“Detective,” Ivors said, “I’m glad I was able to get hold of you.”
“Why is that?” Kovac asked. “Most people try to avoid me.”
“I wanted to be able to put to rest any suspicion you might have regarding David.”
Kovac raised a brow. “You’re tight, you and Dave?”
Ivors smiled like a politician. “I’ve known David for a couple of years. He’s a nice man. Couldn’t possibly do anything along the lines of what happened to his wife last night.”
“He was with you.”
“Yes. We met for drinks in the lobby bar of the Marquette. Sevenish.”
“How did he seem? Nervous, anxious, relaxed…”
“He seemed perfectly normal.”
“Did he say anything about his wife?”
“Not that I recall. We were discussing business.” Ivors gestured toward a hall. “Let’s go into my office, Detective. We can be comfortable. Is there anything I can get you? Water? A soft drink? I’d offer you coffee, but I’m completely inept at making it. If it weren’t for my staff, I would have to take up drinking tea. I can manage to boil water, but that’s about it.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
The office at the end of the hall had a stunning view of the city. Two walls of floor-to-ceiling glass. There was a huge art deco-style mahogany desk, and a visitor’s chair with a woman in it.
Kovac gave her the once-over. Ginnie Bird, he presumed. Another preemptive strike. He liked this less and less. It was a setup, and so obvious they had to think he was as dumb as a post.
She didn’t look like she would hold up to much. She was petite-thin, really, except for the store-bought breasts; attractive, but in a way that didn’t appeal to him. It wasn’t any one thing. She was dressed well in camel slacks and a rust-colored silk blouse. She was nicely made-up. But there was something about her that made him think
Or maybe it was just that Kovac had taken an instant hatred to her because he had it in his head that this was the woman David Moore had been screwing while his wife was lying in a hospital bed.
“Detective Kovac,” Ivors said, “this is Ginnie Bird. Ginnie was there last night.”
“Ms. Bird.”
The woman didn’t move other than to offer Kovac a limp hand when he reached out to her. She didn’t want to be here, and she certainly didn’t want anything to do with a police detective.
The end of her nose was red as if she had a cold or had been crying.
Junkie, Kovac thought. The pallor, the thinness… That was it, he thought. She looked like a junkie whore someone had tried to pass off as something better, something legitimate.
“So the three of you were out on the town until two in the morning,” Kovac said. “That’s a long evening.”
“We were talking about David’s new project,” Ivors said, walking over to a credenza to pour himself a glass of water from a clear pitcher with a dozen lemon slices floating inside. “He’s putting together a documentary juxtaposing-”
“I don’t care what it’s about,” Kovac said bluntly. “Are you backing it?”
“Yes.”
“And, Ms. Bird, what’s your part in all of this?”
She looked startled to have him turn his attention on her. As she opened her mouth to answer, Ivors said,
