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My gut says that Danny has already figured this out.
I close the paper and shove it back in the rack.
Burke is finishing up, Teresa gesturing with her hands. “And then the Lexus just drove away, about twenty minutes before you all showed up.”
“And Gretta was how late for work?”
“She wasn’t. She usually came early. I didn’t expect her for another half hour.” Now, her gaze lands on me. She’s applied fresh red lipstick, but it doesn’t help.
“And you didn’t see Gretta get in the car?”
“No. It was parked against the curb, but I’m sure I would have seen someone get out of a Lexus…”
I turn around and look at the view through the front. “Not from here.”
“No, in the kitchen, there’s a back door. And my office window faces the street.”
My guess is that her testimony might be easily swiss-cheesed under cross-examination, but I don’t push it. No need for hostility here. But I file the information away.
“Do you remember seeing any other cars?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Not really. I wasn’t looking. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe a caravan, or a couple sedans. The usual crowd.”
“And the man she is often here with…what can you tell us about him?”
“Seemed nice. Not a boyfriend, but someone who cared. He paid for her meal, sometimes. He drove a nice car—a corvette.”
I don’t remember that from before. This is where I pull from Eve’s information. Credit card man. “Robert Swenson?”
“I don’t know.” She makes a face. “But…oh, maybe. She called him Rob sometimes.”
I hope Burke caught that. I’ve already updated him on the report from Eve.
Teresa runs her hands up her tatted arms. “She was a good person. Just…hurting.”
“How?” Burke asks.
“You know. Rough home life. Demanding parents. The sense that she never measured up.”
Burke and I both nod, for our own reasons. He gets up and hands her his business card. “Thanks, Teresa.”
“You’re welcome. If you ever need breakfast, it’s on the house.” She winks at Burke.
Oh boy. But better him than me.
We walk out and Burke is standing on the steps, trying to visualize the attack, maybe, but my mind is two hours ahead, to the shakedown. “I need to go downtown and talk to a lead.”
Burke is looking at me. “What about the Lexus?”
“I think we need to chat with Robert Swenson about how he knows Gretta.” And since I already know the answer, I don’t need to go, do I? He’s her softball coach and owns a string of apartments in the area. Gretta stayed at a nearby apartment over the past three months. He’s a legitimate businessman with a soft spot for the girls he coaches. And I know what you’re thinking, but he has an alibi for the time of Gretta’s murder—he was at home with his wife and fourteen-month-old son.
“Do you think Eve might have an address for Swenson from that stolen card?”
“Probably.” For sure. I head toward my Camaro. “I’ll meet you later.”
“I have that gig tonight,” Burke says. “The band is playing at the St. Paul Taproom.”
Right. Burke is a drummer for a local jazz band, a hobby that’s earned him the name, Sticks. Jazz doesn’t do it for me, but I follow his gigs sometimes. Tonight, however, I’m out.
