Chapter 25
Brandon Cassidy lived in the one that overlooked the river, and he had a trust fund to supplement his cop salary. My place might have been smaller and without all the extras, but it felt more like home than any of these strangely sterile buildings.
Angel guided us into a shared parking garage, aiming for the visitors’ section, and I recalled a half dozen times I’d driven into this very garage and parked. Enough to know Cassidy’s assigned parking number, which was thankfully empty as we passed. Hopefully, he was on duty somewhere else.
The two spots marked for security and police up near the main door were empty, and Angel took one of those, putting an SED label on his windshield.
“What floor is it on?” I asked.
“Twelve,” Angel said. “The kid’s dad—” He glanced at his phone for the notes. “—Michael Thayerson, said he’d meet us in the lobby.”
I checked the time and opened my computer to review the video of Ezra’s interview.
“Let’s see what fresh horror awaits.” Thankfully, the kid sat playing in the corner as Ezra’s camera recorded.
The questions were mundane enough. Some clarifying questions about their kid; Jonah’s autism, which had developed before he was a year old and became stunted interaction, worsening to non-verbal.
“Does anyone else in the family have autism?” I asked Angel. “The studies I’ve read indicate it’s hereditary.”
“Nothing in the records,” Angel said, watching the video with me.
“These guys are on twelve, which means they have money. Money is good at hiding family flaws. I wonder how much it pisses them off to have a kid with autism they can’t hide.”
“Mom’s pretty crunchy, at least per Ezra’s notes. Not in a good way.” He flipped through notes. “Five grand per month for their apartment. Income is in the million-dollar range.”
“Yeah, upper floors cost more. They’re bigger.”
Angel raised a brow my way.
“I know a cop who lives in this building. He’s on four, and his one bedroom is twenty-six hundred.
” Which I only knew because Brandon flaunted it as though it gave him status.
I liked the St. Paul side of things; older buildings and less nightlife, but also lower taxes and prices.
“My place is a third of that. Better management, even though it’s older and doesn’t have the meeting rooms or gyms and all that.
If I made that much, I’d have a house. Grandpa and Ivan could have their own spaces. ”
“And you could have dance parties without disturbing your neighbors.”
“My apartment has excellent insulation. Only time I hear anyone is from the hallways.”
“I’ve never lived in a high-rise. Not sure I’d like being that far off the ground.”
“Nikki and I started off as roommates in college, she found the one bedroom I’m in now, and I used the office as my bedroom.
We didn’t need much space back then. When the apartment across the hall opened up, she jumped on it.
Though I was sad for her to move, it’s nice to have the space.
She has a lot of family, and they are all nice, but I’m not great with family.
We both wanted a higher floor for safety, but it might be time to move to a house now that I have Ivan. ”
“Makes sense. A house is more upkeep, though.”
And money. Most of my money went to savings and caring for Grandpa.
Now I had Ivan. I hoped I could get everything to stretch.
Grandpa’s Social Security barely covered the cost of his senior living rent.
Neither he nor Grandma had ever made much, instead devoting what little they made to bettering the life of their one child, my dad, who made himself a fortune and left them behind.
"This isn’t really my vibe,” I said, waving at the fancy building.
Angel studied me for a minute, then said, “Mine either. I use the community center for a gym and recreation space in the winter. My apartment is small, but homey. Not the cover of a magazine sterile.”
“I was thinking sterile, too. Clean, yes, but also lifeless?”
“Yeah.” Angel studied the double glass doors. “You ready to go in?”
I glanced through the notes again, then shut the computer.
“Yeah, let’s go.” I added my bodycam to my belt—lower than I’d like, but less distracting—hoping to record the interview.
As I got out, I noticed Angel clipping a camera onto his SED vest. We both added basics, badge, and the SED vest before heading to the door.
A doorman met us at the glass entry, holding it for us with eyes wide and focused on the SED logo we wore. “Can I help you, sirs?” The man asked.
Angel gave him a cool nod. “Waiting for Mr. Thayerson.”
The man stood there gaping for another few seconds, then bounced on his heels and turned toward the reception desk easily a hundred feet away. The lobby stretched in both directions. A giant chandelier cast rainbow glitter over the walls from the window above.
I stared at the spiky ball overhead, gaze drawn to a purple glint near the ceiling, but it was too far to make out.
A boring beige and gray décor stretched the entire length of the lobby, making me wonder who would have added purple near the ceiling.
The doorman spoke with the woman at reception while Angel took up a spot near the empty fireplace, leaning against the wall rather than sitting.
The doorman made his way back over. “He’s on his way down. I can take you two to a conference room if you’d like.”
“No, thank you. We’ll be heading upstairs with Mr. Thayerson once he arrives,” I told the doorman politely.
The poor guy looked around as if worried our presence in the entry would make residents run.
Maybe it would. Were there variants living here?
We lived in one of the few states that didn’t allow businesses to discriminate, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t make someone walk right back out by the way they got snubbed.
The elevator opened and the doorman rushed over to greet him, but the man ignored him, crossing the reception area to glare at Angel.
“Mr. Thayerson?” I asked, though I recognized him from the video. I held out my hand. “I’m Agent Holt from the SED, and this is my partner, Agent Mao. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
The man stared at my hand for a moment, gaze going from the band on my arm to my hand, and then back to Angel, before hesitantly taking my hand with the tips of his fingers as though afraid to touch me. That was going to take some getting used to, but I plastered a pleasant smile on my face.
“My wife and son are upstairs. I had really hoped this whole thing was over.”
“I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” I motioned toward the elevator, hoping he’d lead us back up. The doorman cleared his throat and we all glanced his way, but it was Mr. Thayerson that moved first, heading toward the elevator.
“Let’s get this over with.”
I followed, with Angel at my back. The two of us stepped in and the door closed.
“I really appreciate you giving us the chance to talk to you and your wife,” I told Mr. Thayerson. “Do you think maybe I could talk to Jonah, too?”
The man eyed me. “He doesn’t talk. I’m sure your notes told you that.”
“I read that, yes. He seems to love coloring.”
“Yeah. Coloring and Legos. It’s all he cares about.”
We all fell silent as the elevator rose. Angel kept at my back, a wall of neutral strength, like he could go either way if our witness turned shady. That he let me take the lead made me grateful, though my questions were more of a jumble I didn’t think Mr. Thayerson could put to rights.
The elevator door opened and Mr. Thayerson led us down the hall.
There were only three doors on this floor, and a line of purple marbled through the wall.
Was it weird art? I glanced at it as we passed, frowning as it seemed to move.
An illusion, or something else? The door at the end opened before any of us got there, and Mrs. Thayerson stood there, frowning at us.
I gave her my usual bland smile, a mask of ‘look how non-threatening I am’ and ‘trust me to fix this problem’ I’d perfected over the years. She stared at me, glanced at Angel, then back to me.
“Mrs. Thayerson.” I greeted as her husband passed her to enter the apartment. “Thank you for your time.”
She clutched the door as though it held her up, face pale, and lips thin with stress. She looked like she hadn’t been sleeping well. Maybe Jonah was experiencing nightmares from the events at the daycare?
“Come in. Sorry. It’s been a trying few weeks.”
“I totally understand,” I told her as we entered the apartment. As expected, it was high-end sterile. Did a kid live here at all? There was no sign of toys, or anything a child might like; paint, dolls, snacks, nothing.
“Jonah’s in his room,” Mrs. Thayerson said.
“Can we sit?” Angel asked, speaking for the first time since meeting the pair. He waved his hand at the massive white sectional. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he added. “Clarify some things.”
“Sure,” Mr. Thayerson said, heading toward the couch and dragging his wife with. “We’d like all of this to go away. Jonah has already had a difficult childhood.”
“He’s a good kid,” Mrs. Thayerson said. “We’d do anything for him. Brought him to all sorts of doctors. The daycare was supposed to specialize in care he needed.”
“We’re suing them of course,” Mr. Thayerson said.
“Can you tell me about that?” Angel asked. “What sort of things they offered? Your perception of the business?”
I walked around the open space, glancing out the wide windows to the city below, thinking the view would have been nice at night and waiting for the pair to protest my perusal. Neither did.
“Can I talk to Jonah?” I asked in a short lull as Angel flipped through his notebook for more questions while making notes.
Mrs. Thayerson pursed her lips but finally nodded. “He’s in his room.” She indicated toward a far door.