Murder in the North Woods

By Judith Copek

She's into high tech. He's into homicide. The North Woods rock and roll when a savvy cyber-sleuth teams up with a hunky homicide cop to route corporate miscreants and to solve a murder.

When she arrives in Wisconsin's North Woods to determine wh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953789211

Book preview

Chapter 1

A Crisis

Houston, 1999

From the rumpled bed I watched Jack, fresh from the shower, stroll into the dimly lit bedroom of his apartment. He grabbed the towel from his waist and finished drying his back with a couple of swipes. The scent of his citrus aftershave followed him. I never tired of gazing at him, tall and sturdy like a tree trunk with dirty blond hair and sexy blue eyes.

He pulled on his boxers followed by a white undershirt to soak up the sweat produced by the Black Hole of Calcutta heat that Houston produces in late summer. While he buttoned his starched blue shirt, his eyes met mine, clouded, like something was on his mind.

He sat on the bed and took my hand, pressing it to his lips. I want you to get a divorce from that jerk of a husband.

His words barreled out of left field, leaving me speechless. My heart raced and my mouth felt like the Gobi Desert.

He lowered his voice. Laura, why do you stay with him? Is it the money? Because he spends no time with you. Jesus, if I had a wife who bopped out in the evening, and disappeared at lunchtime, I would wonder where she went, and who she was with. He doesn’t have a clue, does he?

He did, but I didn’t want Jack to know this.

I don’t want to share you with anyone. Ever. Please tell me you’ll ditch him.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

We can move in together. And… The rest unspoken.

Jack, I’m not ready to think about such a drastic—

Laura. I love you. Be with me.

He stood and pulled on his khakis. Everything about him always just so: pressed, clean, starched. He popped out of the room for his gun, returned and strapped on his shoulder holster. I didn’t know where he kept the gun. Didn’t want to know. Violence repelled me. I worried about him being in danger 24/7. His protests of investigating homicides with interviews and evidence collection did nothing to reassure me.

He grabbed his sport coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves. No tie today. Too hot.

Promise me you’ll think about it. I’m looking at a busy week with a lot of OT. He frowned. I’m not sure when we can get together again.

I have a meeting in Chicago, I said. Thursday and Friday.

He pinned my arms to the bed and kissed my face all over. Then he was gone.

Jack had asked me to make a life-changing decision. He didn’t know that away from him, stress over our relationship bowed down my shoulders and guilt gnawed me. Just thinking about it called up the stomach knots, the memories of the tossing and turning until the sheet seemed more like a shroud.

I had to think hard, think long, consult my heart and my head. The sticky problem was that I managed consulting my head far better than my heart.

Chapter 2

A Business Proposition

The Greenhouse at the Ritz-Carlton was my favorite Chicago watering hole. I arrived early, savoring the icy gimlet now on the low table in front of me, wondering if I dare slip out of my heels, wondering if I should scarf down a handful of nuts to cushion the gin. Wondering if the bar was too elegant to pop open my laptop for a bit of work.

Instead, I pulled Garfield Morris’s business card out of my handbag. Chief Information Officer. Great Northern Shoe Company, DuBois, Wisconsin. CIOs are a computer-security sleuth’s main sustenance. Always on the lookout for new contacts, I wanted to hear what Morris had to say.

Punctual to the minute, he sauntered in, glanced around, and made a beeline for me while I admired his dark Brioni suit. With his salon haircut and pricey clothes, he appeared too urbane to be the typical CIO, more Madison Avenue than high tech.

We shook hands, and he eased himself into the armchair across from me. He surveyed the bar, squinting from the glare of the sun pouring in through the atrium windows.

Laura? I hope I may call you Laura. Thanks for meeting me. You chose well.

The prospect of new business and good contacts is always worth my time. I crossed my legs and watched his eyes follow my movements.

Somewhat lacking in subtlety.

It’s great that a savvy woman has the smarts to tackle IT autopsies. Your presentation this morning caught my attention. Not the typical dog-and-pony show. As I mentioned, my company has a critical problem that needs to be solved…discreetly and soon. He studied the potted palms again. Secrecy is paramount. That’s why I wanted to meet where we could talk privately.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, feet close to grazing my ankles. I forced myself not to scowl.

Tell me a bit about yourself, he said.

CCSC is short for Cervantes Computer Security Consulting. Sergio Cervantes is the principal. I’m a computer-crime investigator and a minority owner.

And how does the sleuth spend her days?

Sometimes she conducts information security training. Mostly she facilitates investigations. We do data analysis and trace information thefts. I met his eyes and continued. When the stakes are high, computer criminals can be as nasty as garden-variety felons.

My company needs that kind of expertise.

I’ll be happy to talk about what we can do for you. I sipped the gimlet.

Morris ordered Dewar’s on the rocks when the server appeared.

Great Northern is installing new computer systems, he said, tenting his fingers. Changing the business is always threatening to the rank and file.

In technology, the only constant is change.

Morris mentioned he was the corporate champion of the Beyond the Millennium Project, a re-engineering task force conceived to bring their technology into the twenty-first century. My ears pricked up. Big projects mustn’t fail. Big projects mean big bucks.

Morris gazed across the room to the city beyond the oversized windows. Our old network is a can of worms, and the upgrades are constantly being sabotaged. Probably by a rogue employee. He leaned back into the chair, hands folded behind his neck, elbows out, the typical male power posture.

We geeked out about his re-engineering project, yet he skirted around the disgruntled-employee problem, giving me no clue to the worms in his particular can.

Where are you staying? he asked, with his eyes roaming from the V-neck of my red blouse to my ankles.

My husband has relatives in the suburbs. An outright lie.

Oh, a husband! Back in Houston? What a bore. Spoken with a cocked eyebrow.

Not a bore, I said, pushing my marital irregularities out of my head.

I find being on the road lonely. He crossed his legs and stared again at mine.

Time to squelch the sexual stuff. I don’t mix business with pleasure. I tried to sound matter-of-fact.

Pity. He looked down, apparently thinking. Business, then. We need your company to figure out who’s throwing a pipe bomb into my Millennium Project. This must be done in secret. I can’t trust anyone.

We’ll work undercover.

His eyebrows shot up. Excellent!

But we’re not cheap. I watched an upscale crowd meeting and greeting at the bar.

"I know. I researched you. CCSC is the cream of security consulting outfits. I like working with a boutique firm like yours. Not a lot of layers of hierarchy; quick to move; quick to make decisions.

For your undercover job, I could slot you into the re-engineering team, Laura. We’ve been looking for a project admin. He reeled off a whole slew of software, everything from Project to Visio. You would need to know them or spec up fast.

I’m good, I said. Let me email you a letter of intent this evening. Fax it back with your signature. You have my card?

He nodded. The server brought his scotch, and he inhaled the aroma before sipping.

I continued, Of course, Sergio will have to approve. This is a preliminary investigation. It’s bound to be somewhat open ended. I paused. We’ll need a week’s retainer. We charge two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.

You have my card. Send the bill to my attention.

He hadn’t even blinked. Instead, he raised his glass, and I did likewise.

Where is DuBois? Around Milwaukee? Or Madison?

We’re up in the Northwoods. Fishing. Boating. Shoe Manufacturing. Sound interesting?

I smiled and nodded. Not particularly. Now I had a new assignment. And a problem.

The thing was, I wasn’t sure Sergio would go for a project that would take me into the wilds of Wisconsin for who knew how long. On the other hand, our billing hours were nothing to brag about right now. Summer, especially August, can be small potatoes.

I put my glass down and grabbed a handful of nuts. How soon?

Yesterday. Crooked grin. He reached for the nuts, too.

I’ll have to go back to Houston for a few days. How does next Wednesday sound?

Perfect. He signaled for the server.

The check or another round? The check. Why pay for a second drink when the lady isn’t willing?

We can meet when you get to DuBois, somewhere off the beaten path. I’ll fill you in on the details. He flashed that assured smile again.

One other thing, I said, grabbing my handbag and reaching for my laptop case.

Before I could finish, he jumped in. You can’t run around with a BlackBerry and an expensive laptop. You’ll have to ditch the devices. Your admin pay wouldn’t cover those kinds of goodies.

Over my dead body.

He eyed my suit and Stuart Weitzman pumps. No designer labels, either. We’re a Penny’s-Walmart kind of town. You need to blend in. Plain Jane all the way.

Then you must stick out like a sore thumb.

"Okay, but my condition is absolutely no hanky-panky."

He tendered a half smile. None whatsoever. Scout’s honor.

Morris and I shook hands. His handshake was warm with just the right firmness. Half a dozen women eyed him as he left the bar.

The weight of the world had been parked on my shoulders for months. Now I glimpsed a longed-for possibility of relief. A visit to the North Woods would be a perfect excuse to take a break from The Triangle. From all the angst and the tension. If I could just disappear for a few weeks…somewhere quiet, where I could get my mind around my situation. The idea of getting away from it all was so tempting. As was the thought of being alone in my bed.

* * *

Later, sitting at the bar at La Frontera, I treated myself to a fantastic Mexican meal. Wood-grilled carne asada with guacamole, beans, and plantains. Con margarita. Despite the tequila, a niggle of worry persisted. Sergio might nix the deal. Which gave me an idea. Make an executive decision. Go. Just go. Vamos!

Chapter 3

A Second Crisis…And a Scumbag

Never be late to a briefing, especially for an undercover job. I climbed out of the Datsun, eyeing the two other weathered pickups in the parking lot of Zeke & Edna’s. Garfield Morris wouldn’t drive either of these old beaters. I was late, but he was even later. Or had he already come and gone?

I had wasted a frustrating half hour lost on country roads where all the cornfields looked identical and instead of highway markers I passed signs advertising seed corn: Kaltenburg, Pioneer and Golden Harvest.

Approaching the tavern, I noted the faded plastic geraniums sprouting from the rotting whiskey barrel by the doorway of this solitary log structure. A Leinenkugel beer sign glowed in the window. Two muscular dudes strolled out of the bar and roared off on big-assed bikes. A biker bar? Why would Garfield Morris pick this place?

Last week, Morris had been eager to hire me, but he hadn’t provided details about who might be hosing his project. Old Bedroom Eyes must be massively paranoid or ungodly cautious to schedule a meetup at an isolated bar in the middle of nowhere. I hoped he would be prepared to tell me the exact nature of the sabotage problem. Some vague inhibition made me reluctant to enter the tavern. I paused in the entrance while my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, and then I followed a shaft of sunlight into the room.

The chill of the AC hit me. Behind the bar, a blonde woman with a ponytail dried Pilsner glasses. She didn’t look like an Edna. A gangly man in a baseball cap lounging on a barstool was the lone customer.

I took in the pine tables and chairs, the collection of neon beer signs, and the doors in back leading to Ladies, Gents and Private.

Behind the counter, the waitress dropped the dishtowel and smiled my way. What can I get you?

A big glass of water, then a Coke. I’m parched.

It’s so hot, the waitress said, nodding toward the guy at the bar, that Chuck went fishing and caught a tuna melt.

Chuck rolled his eyes.

You’re not from around here? the waitress asked as I pulled out my wallet. I liked her tight faded jeans and white t-shirt, my kind of leisurewear.

The man gave me a sidelong glance.

From…around Chicago. The first lie.

Just passing through?

I’m meeting someone and I’m running late. He might have already left.

Two guys on Harleys?

No. A businessman. Tall. Dark hair. A sex addict.

Nobody like that. She grabbed a bar rag and wiped the counter.

It’s quiet today. I guzzled the water.

Everybody’s at the funeral.

Who died? I asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

Gar Morris.

Who? I could not have heard right.

She stopped wiping the counter and stared at me. Garfield Morris. From Great Northern Shoe. Pause. The company where you want to work.

It was all I could do not to scream Shit! Instead, I took a deep breath. What happened?

He was murdered.

She watched my reaction as I croaked something like Oh how terrible. My heart had seized up in my chest, and I had trouble speaking. When I could breathe again, I turned and left. There was no plan B.

Outside, the atmosphere felt close, like the oxygen had been sucked out the air, and the strata of cloud layered the sky in metal shades from pale gray to graphite.

A scrawny guy in dirty coveralls climbed out of a beat-up pickup parked next to mine.

Honey bunch, don’t think a leaving when I’m coming. He smirked, running his hand through his lank blondish hair. Name’s Darrell.

I gave him a curt nod and unlocked the Datsun’s door.

Hey, I’m talking to you! The smirk morphed into a scowl. He took a step toward me, and I smelled his boozy breath and got up close and personal to his bloodshot eyes and whiskery face.

I’m in kind of a hurry.

He pushed my car door shut and looked me up and down. Ah, just have one beer. I’m buyin’.

Sorry, Darrell, but I don’t drink and drive. How lame did that sound?

Well, excuse me all to hell, Miss Prissy Pants!

I looked him in the eye, shifted my weight and grasped the car key. He sensed some change in the power dynamics, glowered at me, and stepped back. Giant raindrops splattered us as the heavens opened.

Woman, just stand there in the rain like a damn stupid turkey. He took off toward the tavern.

I jumped into the pickup and locked the door. My legs felt like melting rubber. If I ever met Darrell again, it would be too soon. I drove a ways, stopped under some oak trees, and loaded my luggage from the pickup bed into the cab. I adjusted the tarp over the boxes in the back. Everything was soaked, including me.

Damp and depressed, I drove toward DuBois. This could not be happening. There were 450 pages of re-engineering theory under my belt. I had boned up on the shoe business, and even learned a bit about the North Woods: supper clubs, muskie fishing and polkas.

During two days in Chicago, I bought the oldest truck I could find and acquired a wardrobe of gently used clothing and some linens and kitchen supplies. How could I slink back home to a deserted husband, a lover whose calls I wasn’t answering, and a boss who didn’t even know I had gone? There would be hell to pay, and hell doesn’t take plastic.

Gar Morris, my sole contact on the project, was the late Gar Morris. Consulting 101 didn’t have a chapter, hell, not even a paragraph on how to proceed. SOL summed up my situation.

Chapter 4

I Rescue A Puppy

Down the highway, I saw the headlights of a convoy. A hearse approached, followed by three long, black Lincolns. The funeral procession. Car after car went by, with windshield wipers churning, an endless cortege passing through the dreary grayness.

The rain abated to an anemic drizzle as I left the highway and entered DuBois, founded in 1876, population 2,300. I cruised Main Street, noting The Fashion Nook, the Coffee Pot Cafe, and the First National Bank.

DuBois reminded me of the village of Valentine, in the Nebraska Sand Hills near where I’d grown up. It looked prosperous, not like the jerkwater East Jesus I had imagined from the tiny speck on the Wisconsin road map.

Now, I had to decide what to do.

I stopped at the drugstore. From the stack of newspapers on the counter, the headline screamed, Garfield Morris Burial Wednesday. Killer Still At Large.

Feeling sucker-punched, I bought a paper, aspirin and water while declining the offer of a frequent buyer card.

Killer Still at Large grabbed my attention as I drove to the edge of town and checked into The Wishing Well Motel. A dilapidated Coke machine stood outside the office. I could hear the semis pulling into the truck stop along the highway.

I schlepped two tan Samsonites into a drab but clean room with the lingering odor of disinfectant and sank onto the brown bedspread with the DuBois newspaper.

Body of Great Northern Shoe executive recovered in Green Heron Lake.

The paper reported that Morris had failed to return from a meeting last Friday afternoon. We had talked in Chicago on Thursday, and on Friday he had emailed me details about where to meet.

I downed two pills with a gulp of water.

The article stated that the police were waiting for the final autopsy results. A source close to the department reports that Morris died of a gunshot wound to the chest.

My shaking hands made the newspaper crackle. What have you walked into now?

The paper carried a photograph of The Lake Club, the lodge where that meeting had been held. Unlike Zeke & Edna’s, the club looked like North Woods millionaires had plunked down serious cash.

The obit quoted Norm Mintzmeyer, company president: Gar is irreplaceable. Survived by his wife Catherine, two sons, and a sister. A big lump jammed my throat. A wife and kids.

Morris had mentioned he was the Corporate Champion of the Millennium Project as well Chief Information Officer. The champion is cheerleader and figurehead, a high visibility position. Gar’s death would be a blow to the project.

I opened a manila envelope and spread the contents out on the bed. The credit report on Great Northern noted plenty of debt and slow to pay. How were they financing this big project? The annual report put a good face on a bad year. The letter of intent was signed by the company president, Norman Mintzmeyer. He alone would know whether I still had an assignment.

A switchboard message said the company was closed for the day. The phone book covered half a dozen little towns in the area. Mintzmeyer lived here in DuBois.

The recorder on his phone kicked in.

Mr. Mintzmeyer? This is Laura Lewis from CCSC in Houston. I just got into town and heard about Gar Morris’s death. I’m so terribly sorry. It must be a tragedy for your company and the entire town. Would it be possible for us to meet this evening to—to clarify a few things? I’m staying at the Wishing Well Motel. Morris and I were to meet at Zeke & Edna’s this afternoon, so I know where that is. Please call me here at the motel. Room 104.

I left the phone number.

A glance through the space where the drapes didn’t meet revealed blue sky inserting itself between the clouds. I could scout the Great Northern facility. And go for a run to clear my pounding head. The guy at the front desk gave me directions.

Dressed in a T-shirt, faded red gym shorts, and a Chicago Cubs cap, I drove back into downtown DuBois. The streets, all named after Great Lakes and major rivers, formed tidy rectangles.

The two-story limestone factory on the edge of town looked as well-worn as a pair of comfy house shoes. A sign in front advertised Home of Badger Boots, Shearling Slippers, Fur-Bearing Critters and Florence Nightingales for Nurses. Parking lot empty. I drove back into town.

Copper Creek ignored the town’s neat rectangular grid and bisected DuBois with a gentle meander. Leaving my truck parked next to a band shell, I loped along the sidewalk next to the creek. Weeping willows broke the monotony of grass and water. A family of ducks paddled under a low bridge.

Driving for hours had knotted my back and shoulders. The murder had messed with my mind. Life without my left-behind BlackBerry sucked more than I could have imagined. I wanted to get my mojo back. Putting my brain in neutral, I jogged along the creek until the sidewalk ended in the countryside, and then I loped back.

My abrupt departure would have freaked out my husband. Poor Taylor. I pictured him leaving message after message before realizing that my phone was on the dresser. Jack would just get mad. And then worried.

The west side of Copper Creek had Victorian houses set back from the street, with low privet hedges and long drives. I admired the gingerbread on a big white Queen Anne when a door slammed and a male voice shouted, I can’t take this crap for one more goddamned minute!

A red Corvette backed down the driveway, shot across the street, and jumped the curb in front of me. A squeal of brakes and the car barrel-assed down the road. License plate: TKING. Maybe not such a sleepy little town.

I slogged across a bridge and followed the footpath on the opposite side of the creek, past a neighborhood of modest frame houses.

On the next bridge, a girl in a pink sundress confronted two bigger boys in a high, near-hysterical voice. Please, Ethan, please don’t hurt my puppy!

The sly-faced boy clasped a wriggling animal with two hands. I heard pathetic yips.

Here’s your dog, Shelly! he yelled. As she held out her arms, he tossed the pup off the low bridge into the creek. The boys raced off laughing.

You little bastards!

The girl screamed and leaned over the railing. A small furry head bobbed in the water.

I kicked off my shoes and waded in. The water wasn’t cold, but the bottom dropped off sharper than I expected, and I had to swim to the pup who paddled in circles. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and executed an awkward sidestroke to get back to the bank, taking in a gulp of creek water.

Some cars had stopped on the bridge and curious faces peered down at me. I smelled damp dog as I scrambled up to the bridge and handed the shivering of pup to the sobbing girl. She buried her face in his wet fur.

A large woman in a white uniform bore down on us, followed by a second woman, an elegant blond in a black suit, her pace hampered by stiletto heels.

I retreated down the bank to grab my shoes and vamoose. The blonde was waving at me. Wait! I want to talk to you.

Dripping with creek water, I turned my back and raced along the footpath toward my truck, cursing that bratty kid with every squishing step. What could go wrong had gone wrong, like I had whacked a piñata open and instead of a cascade of sweets and treats, vile and smelly garbage rained down on me.

My unthinking intervention might have consequences, because even an animal rescue could generate notice. Working under cover, I had to keep a low profile.

Chapter 5

Yet Another Crisis, And a Confrontation

The red light on my room phone blinked. The male voice identified itself as Ken Mintzmeyer. Please meet him at Zeke & Edna’s at 7:30. I showered, scarfed down a slice of pizza at a joint across the highway, and reviewed the Great Northern documents again. Maybe now I would get some answers.

* * *

Zeke & Edna’s wouldn’t make the Mobil Guide, but it might make the Country Taverns Hall of Fame. Raucous laughter competed with Shania Twain on the jukebox. I grabbed a small table in front, sat in a chair facing the door, and opened Re-engineering the Corporation. The waitress, ponytail flouncing, came around and grinned. You again! What’ll it be?

A Point, please, I said, and slipped on my reading glasses.

She sashayed off to fetch my beer.

Whenever a man came through the door, I screened him while trying to look uninterested. The book and the glasses maintained my wallflower persona abetted by a long tan skirt and a drab cotton sweater. I refused to think about the murder until I knew if I still had an assignment.

During the two days in Chicago, I had a firm headlock on my problems. Now they ran amok. When I bolted, Sergio had been on vacation in Spain. What would he do when he found out I was on undercover job in Wisconsin without getting permission? With a murdered client? He could demand that I return to Houston. He might congratulate me for being assertive, but I doubted that. I needed a quick win for our business, along with some time to think. Assuming I still had an assignment.

With a brisk stride, a man came through the door. Middle-aged. Navy pants, short-sleeved dress shirt open at the collar. Jowls. Trustworthy. Presidential.

He glanced at me, noticed my book, and approached my table.

The consultant from Houston? he inquired in a low voice.

I stood. Mr. Mintzmeyer?

I know our CIO talked to you in Chicago. He paused and shook his head. Poor Gar. We’re all still in shock.

I’m so sorry. He seemed like a nice man.

Mintzmeyer strode to the bar and spoke to the waitress. She raised her eyebrows and gave me an appraising look.

I followed him to the door marked Private. Lots of tables and chairs—a function room.

We exchanged business cards.

Let’s get this settled. He gestured for me to sit opposite him. You can call me Norm. Everyone does.

Norm took a deep breath and exhaled. Gar told me someone has been sabotaging the Millennium Project, and it’s costing us big. He said he found your company at that meeting in Chicago. I gave Gar the green light to resolve the situation. He folded his arms across his chest. Gar didn’t go into details. He knows, hell, everyone knows that technology is not my strong suit. He made a wry grimace. I’m sure Gar didn’t mention hiring your company to anyone. He spread his hands out, fingers splayed. I noticed a Masonic ring. We need CCSC’s expertise.

I have excellent technical resources.

He cleared his throat. Can you use an assumed name so no one associates you with CCSC?

Laura Goode, my married name. Knowing I still had an assignment, my nerves felt less taut.

Gar wanted to slot you in as project administrator, correct? He indicated you’d report to Sonora Consulting, but you’ll be on our payroll.

That’s what we agreed on.

Gar had mentioned that Sonora managed the Millennium Project. He hadn’t mentioned our billing rate, because when I quoted it, Mintzmeyer’s jaw dropped, but he didn’t protest. I hoped Great Northern would pay us quicker than their other vendors.

Any idea how long this will take? Mintzmeyer asked.

Not more than a few weeks, but I can’t be sure until I know what we’re up against.

After we went over a few details Norm stood, indicating the meeting was over.

Wait. How can I get access to whatever information Gar had about the problem? Did he have a laptop where he kept the documentation about the…sabotage? I can’t go in without a single clue.

You’ll have to. The police took Gar’s office computer. His laptop was stolen in Europe.

I would be flying as blind as a goose in a hailstorm. But—

You have to keep this ah, business, under wraps. Mintzmeyer paused, frowning.

"Doesn’t anyone know anything?"

Not to my knowledge. Studying me, he hesitated. One last thing. Gar was shot at close range. He stared at a blinking beer sign. I don’t think the police have any suspects. They’re still interviewing. We’re all a bit jumpy with a murderer on the loose. Be careful.

Where did it happen? The paper had been vague.

A fisherman found his body on Saturday. Near Beer Can Island.

I pictured a mountain of red and blue silvery aluminum cans with a few bushes poking out of the heap.

"Would the murder have had anything to