《Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)》


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    Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)


    David Housewright


    For Ren¨¦e


    as always


    Acknowledgments


    I would like to thank all those whose invaluable aid and insight helped make this book possible: Cara Engler, Chris Engler, Coon Rapids City Attorney Tammi Fredrickson, Dr. D. P. Lyle, Rhonda Martinson, Tom McGlynn, David Peterson of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Alison Picard, John Rock, Ben Sevier, Michael Sullivan, and Ren¨¦e Valois.


    Pretty Girl Gone


    1


    The Degas was real.


    I had seen the painting of the ballerina at the Minneapolis Institute of Art about a year earlier. The Institute sold it at auction soon after, despite much criticism, claiming it required the income to cover overhead and pursue new acquisitions. Only the auction was less public than MIA members had been led to expect, and gossip swirled that the man who eventually purchased the painting had simply seen it, wanted it, and used his considerable connections to get it.


    I was admiring the painting in the lobby on the top floor of that man¡¯s bank, thinking it actually looked pretty good hanging there. My escort stood close by. He was wearing a gray trench coat with the belt cinched at the waist, looking like an extra in a bad Humphrey Bogart movie¡ªactually, there are no bad Humphrey Bogart movies, but you get my drift. He gestured for me to move along with the pocket of the trench coat. There was a gun in the pocket, a stainless steel Charter Arms .38 wheel gun, but I ignored him. If he didn¡¯t shoot me when we were alone, I doubted he would do it now, in a lobby filled with purposeful business people. I spoke loud enough for most of them to hear.


    ¡°Hey, pal. Do you have a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?¡±


    My escort¡¯s face went from pale to crimson so quickly you would¡¯ve thought I bitch-slapped him, which I had every intention of doing at the first decent opportunity.


    I heard the gallop of footsteps behind me, followed by a woman¡¯s voice.


    ¡°You¡¯re late.¡±


    ¡°Come,¡± my escort said, taking my arm. I shook it free and pointed at the Degas.


    ¡°Have either of you ever stopped to look at this painting? You¡¯ve probably passed it a thousand times, but have you ever taken a moment to really look at it? The lines, the blending of color, the woeful expression on the ballerina¡¯s face? Critics didn¡¯t like the ballerinas that Degas painted. They said he was vulgar and cruel. But he was neither. It¡¯s just that while everyone else at the time was painting dancers in all their resplendent glory, Degas wanted to capture them offstage, catch them when they were worn down by tedious tryouts and exhausting rehearsals. He wanted to show us the pain they endured, the suffering that went into their art. Perhaps he thought it would help us to appreciate them more.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me,¡± the woman said. ¡°You¡¯re the expert on nineteenth-century art we were told to expect.¡±


    ¡°Merely a gifted amateur.¡±


    ¡°You be sure to give Mr. Muehlenhaus your opinion of French Impressionists. I¡¯m curious to hear his reaction.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess. Muehlenhaus is one of those guys who knows nothing about art but knows what he likes.¡±


    The woman stared at me with smart brown eyes and an expression that suggested I was mad.


    ¡°Mister Muehlenhaus knows when he has been kept waiting for thirty minutes. This way.¡±


    She moved toward a pair of glass doors; I could see offices and workers beyond them. I followed. It was only polite. After all, the man had gone to such extremes just to meet me. The woman opened the doors for us and my escort gave me an unnecessary shove through them.


    ¡°You¡¯re pushing your luck,¡± I told him, but I don¡¯t think he believed me.

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    Immediately, I could detect a soft, pleasant hum¡ªthe noise of many people performing complicated tasks with the efficiency of a Maytag. Voices rose and fell as I passed small offices and cubicles and there was an occasional peal of laughter. I wondered what would happen if I suddenly shouted, ¡°Help! I¡¯m being kidnapped!¡± Would anyone come to my rescue? Would someone tell my escort, ¡°Unhand that man¡±? I was tempted to give it a try, but the woman turned abruptly, leading us down a narrow corridor.


    There was a large double door at the end of the corridor made from wood I didn¡¯t recognize. The woman rapped twice and opened one side. My escort nudged me forward into a large, richly appointed conference room. It looked as if the decorator had been admonished to fill the room with an air of grandeur, which he accomplished with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with leather-bound books and drawings by Picasso that could have been originals for all I knew. The far wall was entirely glass and provided a panoramic view of downtown Minneapolis with the Mississippi River beyond. In front of the window was a gleaming wood table long enough for a dozen English lords to have sat around while discussing the colonial tea tax two hundred and fifty years ago. A handful of men sat at the table, four at the end farthest from the door, a clear pitcher of water and several long-stemmed glasses arranged on a sterling silver tray in front of them. A much older fifth man was seated alone at the near end of the table, his ancient hands folded on top of a black leather file folder. Like the room, the inhabitants also were richly appointed, each in a suit that cost more than season tickets to the Vikings. Truth be told, I would have been impressed with both the room and the men if not for a persistent odor that for some reason reminded me of the inside of a shoe store.


    My escort said, ¡°Here he is,¡± and shoved me again.


    ¡°Thank you, Norman,¡± the older man said.


    Enough is enough, I decided.


    I pivoted swiftly on my left foot and drove my right fist just as hard as I could into Norman¡¯s solar plexus. The shock and pain doubled him over. I stepped behind him, yanked down the top of his trench coat, pinning his arms against his body, reached into his pocket and pulled out the .38. I shoved him toward the table. He lost his balance, fell against the table, hitting his face on the gleaming top, and slid to the floor.


    I pointed the .38 more or less at the table. The four men at the far end were on their feet now and looking helpless. The fifth man never stirred from his chair. He looked at me with an expression of quiet curiosity.


    Norman managed to free himself from his trench coat and struggled to his feet. He didn¡¯t want to take me on, but he would have if he were told to. The old man shook his head, and my escort made his way to a chair against the far wall and sat down. He fingered his nose, apparently relieved that it wasn¡¯t broken.


    I held up the gun for everyone to see. The four men at the end of the table were obviously frightened. I liked that. I broke open the wheel gun and dumped the five cartridges on the carpet one at a time, making a production of it, then flicked the gun shut and tossed it on the table. I arranged myself in a nonthreatening posture in a chair opposite the old man, right elbow resting on the arm, my chin cupped in my palm, adopting an expression that I hoped said, ¡°Bored.¡±


    ¡°Mister Muehlenhaus, I presume.¡±


    Muehlenhaus was elderly-looking but fit¡ªor at least as fit as someone on the far side of eighty years could be. His face was the color of old paper and framed by wisps of silver hair. He had the strong eyes of a man who knew what he wanted and usually got it, yet when he smiled¡ªwhich he was doing now¡ªhe became the kindly uncle who always had toys and candy hidden in his pockets for the kids.


    He said, ¡°Was that necessary?¡±


    ¡°Given the nature of our relationship, I thought it was prudent to make a statement early.¡±


    The other four were sitting again, but they didn¡¯t seem comfortable. Three of them were in their sixties and looked like the only exercise they ever engaged in was walking to their limousines. The fourth was younger¡ªI guessed late forties.


    One of the older men was wearing a politician¡¯s uniform¡ªdark blue suit, white shirt, and solid red tie. He said, ¡°What statement?¡±


    The old man answered for me.


    ¡°He¡¯s not afraid of us.¡±


    ¡°He should be,¡± the politician said.


    I grabbed the .38 and skipped it hard across the table. It bounced twice before smashing into the pitcher and two of the glasses. Water and glass shards spilled over the tray, table, and the four men. They jumped to their feet and brushed at the debris like it was acid.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I told Muehlenhaus. ¡°Was that crystal?¡±


    ¡°Your behavior is inappropriate, Mr. McKenzie.¡±

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    ¡°Someone might say that your behavior is even more¡ªwhat¡¯s the word¡ªindecorous? I¡¯m not suggesting for a moment that you gentlemen are above kidnapping and assault, but to do it so openly? To bring it into your office? In front of witnesses? Someone with experience in these matters might think you were putting him to some sort of test. Or playing a practical joke, although none of you look like you have much of a sense of humor. So, which is it? Why did you bring me here?¡±


    Muehlenhaus carefully opened the leather folder in front of him. He looked down on the white sheets of typed paper therein as he slipped a silver fountain pen from his pocket and prepared it to write. I couldn¡¯t recall the last time I had seen one. When I was a kid at St. Mark¡¯s Elementary School the nuns made us use fountain pens thinking it would help us learn to write with a graceful hand, except I kept breaking off the nibs.


    Muehlenhaus said, ¡°You were a member of the St. Paul Police Department, respected, decorated, poised for promotion, until you killed a perpetrator¡ª¡±


    ¡°Suspect,¡± I corrected him. ¡°They only say perpetrator on television.¡±


    ¡°Suspect, thank you. You killed an armed suspect in a convenience store robbery. There was some trouble concerning the use of unnecessary force¡ªyou killed him with a shotgun. You have, in fact, killed several men . . .¡±


    ¡°None of this is answering my question, Muehlenhaus. Why am I here?¡±


    A lightning hit of anger flared in his eyes, but passed quickly. I don¡¯t know if he disliked being interrupted or if he expected to hear a ¡°mister¡± in front of his name, probably both. He continued reciting the details of my life.


    ¡°You quit the police force in order to collect a reward for recovering money stolen by a rather industrious embezzler named Thomas Teach-well. I knew Thomas. I remain astonished by his audacity. The finder¡¯s fee amounted to several million dollars, which you have since doubled due to some rather insightful investments. Very impressive.¡±


    I tilted my head at the compliment, even though it was misplaced. For practical purposes, I was financially illiterate. All my so-called insightful investments had been made by a twenty-seven-year-old former homecoming queen living in a houseboat on the St. Croix who played the market the way some people played Texas Hold ¡¯Em.


    ¡°You are known for doing favors for friends,¡± Muehlenhaus continued. ¡°We are aware of your dealings with the so-called Entrepreneur¡¯s Club, for example, and with the Federal Bureau of Investigation last spring.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a point, Mr. Muehlenhaus?¡± I don¡¯t know why I used the ¡°mister.¡± Maybe it was because, bravado aside, he was starting to frighten me.


    Muehlenhaus carefully screwed his fountain pen back together and returned it to his pocket. He hadn¡¯t written a word. He closed the leather folder and folded his hands on top of it. It was a clever ploy, making me wait, playing off my insecurities. I was beginning to think he was clever in other ways, too.


    ¡°You are currently performing a favor for the first lady,¡± he said.


    It wasn¡¯t a question, so I didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°You met with her this afternoon.¡±


    I had no reason to deny it.


    ¡°You are friends.¡± Muehlenhaus made the word sound like an accusation.


    I stood slowly, trying to maintain the same bored expression. Norman did the same. Despite the bloodstained handkerchief he held to his nose, he looked like he was perfectly willing to go another round. I gestured toward the Picassos on the wall.


    ¡°Gentlemen, do I need to break more stuff?¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie, please.¡± The youngest of the four men at the end of the table moved toward me. ¡°Please.¡± He gestured toward my chair. I took a seat.


    ¡°First, allow me to apologize for the clumsy manner in which we brought you here today,¡± he said, but there was neither remorse nor regret in his voice. ¡°We were all quite anxious to speak with you and to judge for ourselves your capabilities.¡±


    ¡°Capabilities?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Muehlenhaus said.


    ¡°I¡¯m Troy Donovan. Allow me to introduce my colleagues.¡±

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    While Donovan recited the names, I attached numbers gleaned from the St. Paul Pioneer Press business section¡ªsomething I never read until I became filthy, stinking rich. Through his banks and investment groups, Muehlenhaus held paper on a large chunk of the metropolitan area. If the Twin Cities were a corporation, he¡¯d be the senior partner. Prescott Coole ruled an empire of over two hundred convenience stores and gas stations throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin. Glen Gunhus made a quarter from every railroad car that rolled into and out of the state of Minnesota. Carroll Mahoney, probably considered middle class by his colleagues, was founder and first president of the 22,000-member Federation of Minnesota State County and Municipal Employees and therefore a valuable friend regardless of income. I had never heard of Donovan, yet somehow I didn¡¯t believe he had gained access to this exclusive circle by selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door. Collectively, they and their friends were known as the Brotherhood by us peons, and they moved and shook the Twin Cities into whatever shape that suited them.


    Each of the men nodded when he was introduced to me, but none smiled and none of them made an attempt to shake my hand. Except for Troy Donovan. He rounded the conference table, took my hand, and gave it a firm squeeze. He smiled. True, it was a smile devoid of humor or goodwill and the tone of his voice was politely demanding, like he was speaking to a trespasser, but at least he made an effort.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be blunt, if I may.¡± Donovan glanced at Muehlenhaus. The old man nodded and Donovan said, ¡°We have been informed that the first lady has been made quite upset over something the past few days and we wish to learn what it is.¡±


    I felt the icy grip of panic on my shoulder. The answer Donovan sought was folded twice and resting inside my jacket pocket.


    Lindsey Bauer Barrett was the most attractive first lady in the history of Minnesota, maybe in the history of all fifty states. The week after her husband was elected governor they were both featured in People magazine. The following week it was Glamour. By my estimate, her face must have appeared at least a dozen times in national publications during the two years since the inauguration and Lord knows how many times in the local media. Which made the heavy knit hat and sunglasses all the sillier. Who was she kidding?


    I found her sitting alone at the Groveland Tap in an old-fashioned wooden booth, the kind with high backs that you can¡¯t see over. It wasn¡¯t hard.


    ¡°Honestly, Zee. You need to work on your disguise.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie,¡± she whispered. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the booth while glancing around to see if anyone had noticed her.


    The Groveland Tap was a neighborhood joint in St. Paul where you could get a cold beer, a bowl of chili, watch the ball game on one of a half dozen TVs, and shoot some stick in the back room. In the evenings it was crowded with college kids from St. Catherine, St. Thomas, and Macalester. During the day it belonged to the families and business folk that lived and worked in the Macalester-Groveland area. The lunch hour crowd filled most of the tables and booths, but no one paid attention to Lindsey except a heavyset man with relentless eyes who sat alone near the door.


    I sat across from her. She removed the sunglasses and smiled, her eyes sparkling like ice water. Lindsey had always possessed a kind of Renaissance quality that came very close to real beauty. Not the kind of fragile beauty flaunted so carelessly by teenage rock princesses, beauty that erodes inexorably with time. Rather it was a lasting beauty, the kind that inspires the imagination, like the canvas of a Pre-Raphaelite master that a discerning collector might study for hours, days, perhaps even a lifetime; examining, evaluating, analyzing each line, each curve, each brush stroke until he falls helplessly, hopelessly, permanently in love. I had thought so even when I was a kid, even before I knew what fine art looked like.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you,¡± I said.


    ¡°Long time,¡± she told me.


    A waitress appeared, set two menus before us, and asked for drink orders. Lindsey requested iced tea after first being assured that the Groveland Tap brewed its own. I had the same.


    The waitress grinned brightly. ¡°It¡¯ll be just a moment, Mrs. Barrett.¡± Lindsey nodded her approval. The waitress departed and Lindsey sighed deeply, pulled off the knit hat, and dropped it on the bench next to her.


    ¡°Ah, the joys of celebrity,¡± I told her.


    ¡°I wanted our meeting to be secret.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    The waitress reappeared. I wondered when I had last seen such brisk service.


    ¡°Here you go, hon,¡± she said, setting the beverages before us. ¡°Would you like to order now?¡±


    ¡°Later, perhaps,¡± Lindsey said.


    ¡°I¡¯m Terry, Mrs. Barrett. You just give me a wave when you¡¯re ready.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Terry.¡±


    The waitress left without once looking at me.


    Lindsey frowned.


    ¡°Shake it off, Zee,¡± I said, like she was a teammate who had just gone down swinging. ¡°You grew up not far from here. People would recognize you even if you weren¡¯t the first lady.¡±


    ¡°Zee. Now that¡¯s a name I haven¡¯t heard in a good, long time.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s Linda?¡± I asked, just to be polite.


    ¡°Working on her fourth marriage.¡±


    ¡°Too bad.¡±


    ¡°She should have stayed with you.¡±


    ¡°We were children when we knew each other. If we had stayed together, it would have only ended up being the first marriage for both of us.¡±


    ¡°You never did marry, did you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s holding you back?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still waiting for you to realize that I¡¯m the man you¡¯ve been searching for your entire life and that you made a terrible, terrible mistake marrying Barrett. That¡¯s why you called, right?¡±


    ¡°McKenzie, you are a terrible flirt.¡±


    ¡°When you say that, do you mean I flirt a lot or that I don¡¯t do it well?¡±


    ¡°Both.¡±

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    ¡°Why did you call?¡±


    She didn¡¯t reply. Instead, she gazed at our drinks for a few moments, and then at the walls of the booth and finally at me. She was dressed in silk and cashmere; a long, charcoal-colored wool coat hung on the hook next to the booth. She looked like she had never wanted for anything, but that was merely a carefully cultivated illusion. I knew her when she worked the camera counter at Walgreen¡¯s to put herself through school.


    ¡°What is it, Zee?¡±


    ¡°Probably nothing. It¡¯s just¡ªIt just makes me so angry.¡±


    ¡°What does?¡±


    ¡°I heard that you do favors for people.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes. For friends.¡±


    ¡°Am I a friend?¡±


    ¡°You know you are.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you can do a favor for me¡ªfor old time¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Be careful. You haven¡¯t heard what it is yet.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. If I can help you, I will¡ªfor old time¡¯s sake.¡±


    Her voice was serious, yet her mouth formed a smile that was almost giddy, as if she had gone some time without hearing good news. Lindsey reached into her bag and brought out an 8? by 11 sheet of white paper folded twice and slid it across the table to me. I unfolded it. It was a hard copy of an e-mail. It read:


    John Allen Barrett murdered his high school sweetheart, Elizabeth Rogers, in Victoria, Minnesota, and the police covered it up so he could become a basketball hero. If he runs for the U.S. Senate, I will expose him to the world.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± I said.


    ¡°It¡¯s a lie.¡± She spoke the word like she had just discovered its meaning. ¡°A big lie.¡±


    ¡°I should hope so.¡±


    I examined the e-mail more closely. It was unsigned. The gobbledygook in the ¡°from¡± field was unpronounceable. It had been addressed to Lindsey Bauer and sent at 6:57 P.M. Friday, three days earlier. The subject line was empty.


    ¡°Lindsey Bauer,¡± I said.


    ¡°It was sent to my dot-com account,¡± Lindsey said. ¡°I have a dot-gov address through the state, but this was sent to my private e-mail address.¡±


    ¡°How many people have your private address?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Not many.¡±


    I folded the paper and slid it across the table to her. ¡°What do you want me to do?¡±


    She slid it back. ¡°This is political, I know it is. Someone is trying to mess with Jack through me, and I want to know who.¡±


    ¡°You want to know who sent the e-mail?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°Can you do it?¡±


    ¡°Sure, but . . .¡± I gestured toward the heavyset man near the door. ¡°Why not use your own people?¡±


    ¡°Because then it becomes public record. My e-mails through the state, all of Jack¡¯s e-mails¡ªthat¡¯s public record. You can get copies through the Freedom of Information Act. But what¡¯s sent to me personally, that¡¯s private.¡±


    ¡°Unless you make it public.¡±


    ¡°It could be that¡¯s what all this is about. It would make a nice headline, wouldn¡¯t it: First Lady Asks Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, ¡®Is the Governor a Murderer?¡¯ ¡±


    She smiled slightly, and in that moment I knew she was hiding something. I didn¡¯t know why I knew, yet I did. Probably it was because I had seen her smile often when she was younger and I recognized that it wasn¡¯t the same. All of my internal alarm systems fired at once. The noise was so loud in my head I was amazed that everyone in the restaurant wasn¡¯t diving for the door.


    ¡°What the e-mail says, is it true?¡±


    Her eyes were sharp, but not angry, as she considered the question.


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s not true.¡±


    ¡°Because that would have been my first question.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an outrageous lie.¡±


    ¡°Not who sent it, but if it¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯s exactly what the writer wants you to ask.¡±


    ¡°Have you spoken to the governor about it?¡±


    ¡°Certainly not.¡±


    ¡°Does he even know about the e-mail?¡±


    ¡°He has enough to worry about without this nonsense.¡±


    The alarm bells just kept getting louder and louder. I felt sweat on my forehead and trickling down my back. I considered removing my bomber jacket, decided to leave it on.


    ¡°Was the e-mail sent to anyone else? To the governor?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. If Jack received one, he didn¡¯t tell me.¡±


    ¡°Why send it to you?¡±


    ¡°To drive a wedge between us.¡±


    ¡°Between you and the governor.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°If that was the case, why accuse the governor of murder? Why not just say he¡¯s sleeping with one of his assistants?¡±


    ¡°If I knew who sent the e-mail, maybe then I¡¯d know the answer to that, too.¡±


    She had me there.


    ¡°Is Jack running for the Senate?¡±


    ¡°People have been asking him about it, only he hasn¡¯t decided, yet. That¡¯s confidential, by the way.¡±

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    ¡°Apparently not.¡± I slid the paper off the table and into my inside jacket pocket. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make a lot of sense, though. The threat goes into effect if Jack runs for senator, not governor.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about it almost constantly since I received the e-mail. I have no answers. You will help me, though, won¡¯t you, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°You know I will. But, Zee, I gotta ask, why me?¡±


    ¡°I told you.¡±


    ¡°You told me why you didn¡¯t go to the state, not why you came to me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re smart. You¡¯re tough.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Zee.¡±


    ¡°If I¡¯ve learned one thing as a politician¡¯s wife, I¡¯ve learned this¡ªplausible deniability. I go to a private investigator, someone that can be compelled to talk, and the media learns about it, what can I say, what can I do? I go to you, an old friend from the neighborhood, who¡¯s to know, and if they did . . . ?¡± She shrugged.


    ¡°I could rat you out?¡±


    ¡°No. Not you.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°Because you never told anyone why you broke up with my sister the evening of the senior prom, not in all these years.¡± She smiled at me. ¡°It¡¯s true, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯ve never told anyone. Not even your good friend Bobby Dunston.¡±


    ¡°Not even Bobby.¡±


    ¡°And you never told anyone about us.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Most men would have. Certainly most men who were seventeen years old would have. They¡¯d have bragged about it every chance they could. Not you.¡±


    ¡°Not me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re an honorable man, McKenzie. You were an honorable man even when you were a kid.¡±


    I supposed she was paying me a compliment, so I said, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Do you ever think of that evening?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What do you think?¡±


    The question made me squirm against the back of the wooden booth. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I cherish it and let it go at that.¡±


    ¡°Do you really?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°I always feel guilty.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I used you.¡±


    ¡°In what way?¡±


    ¡°The night of the prom when I learned that my sister was sleeping with my boyfriend, that they had been together that entire spring¡ªyou know, I would have married Michael that spring if he had asked me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what made it so¡ªis ¡®sordid¡¯ the right word?¡±


    Lindsey nodded and stared at her tea. When she looked back at me her eyes were moist.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t behave much better,¡± she said. ¡°The evening I invited you over to the house, it wasn¡¯t to return all those gifts that my sister had taken from you¡ªyour records, your sweatshirt. It was because she had taken something from me and I wanted to prove I could just as easily take something that belonged to her.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t belong to her, Zee. That evening I was all yours, body and soul. And I have to tell you¡ªeven though it happened only that once¡ªit¡¯s like the song says, ¡®I feel a glow just thinking of you.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°You will help me then.¡±


    ¡°Of course I will.¡±


    In the back of my mind I was thinking, You¡¯re a schnook. Lindsey was using the memory of that one night we spent together to hook me into doing her bidding, and I was going to let her.


    ¡°So, are you going to the gala tonight? Jack¡¯s big charity do? I know you have an invitation. I saw your name on the guest list.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a gala kind of guy.¡±


    ¡°You should come. I¡¯ll introduce you to the governor. You¡¯ll like him. I know you will.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no, I¡¯m running late,¡± Lindsey said suddenly. ¡°I have to go.¡± She was standing now, pulling on her coat. The heavyset man at the door was standing as well. Lindsey gestured at the drinks. ¡°I always forget to bring money. Can you get these?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Lindsey leaned into the booth and kissed my cheek.


    ¡°It was so good to see you again, McKenzie.¡±


    She put on her hat and sunglasses and moved toward the door. The heavyset man held it open and icy air swirled into the restaurant. I called to her.


    ¡°How do I reach you?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll find you.¡±


    ¡°Zee. The e-mail? How can you be sure it¡¯s not true?¡±


    Lindsey turned. I couldn¡¯t see her eyes for the sunglasses. She said, ¡°You¡¯re a dear,¡± and hustled out of the door.


    I don¡¯t care for cell phones and the lack of privacy they represent and for a long time I resisted them, a conscientious objector in the telecommunications revolution. But over time I gave in, just as I surrendered years earlier to CDs after vowing vinyl today, vinyl tomorrow, vinyl forever. Guess I¡¯m just a wimp when it comes to peer pressure.


    I opened the tiny phone book I carry, found the correct page, and thumbed ten numbers on the keypad of the cell.


    ¡°McKenzie,¡± Kim Truong shouted after two rings. I guessed she had read my name on her caller ID. ¡°How are you, you stud muffin?¡±


    ¡°Same old, Kimmy. Same old. How are you? Staying out of trouble?¡±

 Page 7

    ¡°What can I say? Thank God for the morning-after pill. Tell me you called because you dumped the girlfriend.¡±


    ¡°Oh baby, oh baby,¡± I answered and Kim chuckled. I had never known a woman to speak the way she did, but then I¡¯ve never known a woman quite like her, either¡ªyoung, petite, pretty, a transplanted Vietnamese computer genius with a barroom personality that would make a sailor blush.


    ¡°Whaddaya need?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I have a job for you.¡±


    ¡°Hmm, I like the sound of that.¡±


    ¡°Can you track down the owner of an e-mail address?¡±


    ¡°Easy.¡±


    ¡°With just the address?¡±


    ¡°Easy. What is it?¡±


    I recited the long, seemingly meaningless series of letters and numbers in the ¡°from¡± field on Lindsey¡¯s e-mail.


    Kim was using her surfer¡¯s voice, carrying on a conversation with me while simultaneously surfing the web, reading e-mails or trading instant messages, so I wasn¡¯t surprised when she said, ¡°Wait, wait, wait . . .¡± Seconds later Kim said, ¡°Tell me again.¡±


    I did.


    ¡°When did you get the e-mail?¡±


    ¡°Three days ago.¡±


    ¡°Shoulda called then, Mac. We coulda tapped into the ISP¡¯s short-term memory cache before new records replaced the old records, know what I mean?¡±


    I pretended that I did.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. If your friend¡¯s using a route account with a concrete street address like Eudora or Outlook, it¡¯ll be like looking up a phone number. If he¡¯s using a Web-based account like Yahoo or Hotmail that exists only in cyberland, or even an anonymizer, one of those sites created to mask information about the original sender¡ªand right now I¡¯m thinking that¡¯s what this looks like¡ªit¡¯ll be tougher, but a babe like me, I can handle it.¡±


    ¡°How long will it take?¡±


    ¡°About ten minutes.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Ten minutes once I start. Can¡¯t do it now. Some delinquent launched a particularly nasty little virus and my accounts are screaming for me to purge their systems before the entire Western economy collapses around them, so I¡¯m gonna have to get back to you.¡±


    I had often wondered if Kim had ever launched a few viruses of her own in order to drum up business¡ªit would have made for a nifty extortion racket¡ªbut I never asked.


    ¡°As soon as you can get to it, I¡¯d appreciate it,¡± I told her.


    ¡°So, McKenzie. This e-mail. You got a stalker?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Would you like one?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know if there¡¯s an opening.¡±


    ¡°Here¡¯s the thing,¡± Kim said. ¡°I can hack an ISP and trace the route back to the original sender, or at least to his computer. No muss, no fuss. Only we¡¯re talking the violation of several federal privacy statutes . . .¡±


    ¡°I figured.¡±


    ¡°For that kind of exposure, I¡¯m gonna have to charge you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re on. Just don¡¯t go crazy out there, Kim. Protect yourself, okay?¡±


    ¡°Nothing to it.¡±


    ¡°Send me a bill.¡±


    ¡°What bill? I tell you how much it costs and you pay me in cash. It¡¯s not called the underground economy for nothing. ¡¯Course, I might take the price out in trade, if you know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got my number.¡±


    ¡°I wish.¡±


    ¡°Hey, Kimmy?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Pleasure talking to you.¡±


    ¡°See ya.¡±


    The sky was cloudless and pale; the sun fierce and white and glistening on the snow piled along the streets and sidewalks. Except the prettiness of the afternoon was just bait to lure unsuspecting prey out of doors. The sweat on my forehead froze so quickly in the frigid air when I left the Groveland Tap that the fingertips of my brown leather gloves came away encrusted with frost when I brushed my brow. I began to shiver as the rest of the perspiration on my body chilled, and it took an effort to keep my teeth from chattering.


    At five degrees below zero¡ªnot to mention the minus twenty-three-degree windchill¡ªMinnesotans understand that Nature gives the body a choice. Either lie down and die or run to some place warm. Me, I was running. I broke into a slow trot when I left the Tap, moving along St. Clair Avenue to my Audi parked half a block up. Not for the first time I marveled at those eccentric men and women who dash out of saunas, roll around in the snow or leap into a nearby frozen pond, then hurry back to the sauna before frostbite settles in.


    I had just about reached my car when a man on the other side of the street called, ¡°Excuse me.¡± He was dressed for business in a gray trench coat over black dress slacks and wingtips. He was carrying an unfolded map in both hands and looked hopelessly lost. It was one of the oldest ploys in the book, but I didn¡¯t see it until he crossed the street and shoved the .38 into my gut. I blamed the weather. After all, how many muggers prowl the streets at five below looking for vics?


    ¡°My employer wishes to speak to you,¡± he said politely, his warm breath rising like mist.

 Page 8

    ¡°He could have called,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m in the book.¡±


    A combination of cold fear and hot anger thrilled through me as he pressed the muzzle under my ribs. It was a dangerous combination for all involved¡ªfrightened, angry men don¡¯t always do what¡¯s in their best interests. I carefully reviewed his words in my head. ¡°My employer wishes to speak with you.¡± I took that to mean that he didn¡¯t want me killed, whoever he was¡ªat least not for the time being. I decided to keep it uncomplicated, give my escort no reason to make any fatal mistakes. So, a moment later when a black Park Avenue pulled up, I said, ¡°Is this our ride?¡±


    My escort yanked open the back door.


    ¡°Inside,¡± he said calmly.


    ¡°After you,¡± I told him.


    He gave me a gentle poke with the gun.


    ¡°Well, since you asked nicely.¡±


    A few minutes later, we were on I-94, crossing the Mississippi River into Minneapolis¡ª¡°Sin City¡± some of us St. Paulites call it, and not always in jest. A few minutes more and we were deep inside downtown Minneapolis, pulling into the parking ramp of one of the newer glass and steel towers. It was when we were on the public elevator with three other people going up that I realized the kidnapping was all for show and that I had little to fear.


    ¡°You¡¯re new at this kidnapping thing, aren¡¯t you,¡± I told my escort.


    A panicked look spread across his face as our elevator mates glanced at him while pretending not to.


    ¡°I gotta tell you, though, the trouble with shooting through your pocket? You can¡¯t really be sure where the gun is pointing.¡±


    My escort¡¯s face became a shade of red that you don¡¯t often see in nature. Yet he didn¡¯t speak. Nor did he take his hand out of his pocket. Instead, he stood motionless, watching the floor numbers change on the electronic display. Once the doors slid shut after our final companion departed the elevator, he turned toward me with an expression of snarling anger.


    ¡°Uh-uh,¡± I grunted and pointed toward the upper corner of the car. My escort followed my finger to a small security camera.


    ¡°You could end up on America¡¯s Funniest Home Videos.¡±


    He faced the door again and said nothing.


    ¡°Seriously,¡± I asked him. ¡°What did you do before you got into this line of work?¡±


    Now Norman, my escort, was sitting in a chair against the wall, nursing his pride. The three men at the far end of the table were all leaning forward, waiting to hear what I had to say. Muehlenhaus was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest like he already knew. Donovan was pacing, his hands behind his back like he was an eighteenth-century naval commander bestriding the deck. There was a streak of vanity in the man, I decided. It was long and wide.


    ¡°If the first lady is upset, I am unaware of it,¡± I announced calmly.


    Mahoney¡ªhe was the one wearing the politician uniform¡ªgrunted loudly and looked at me as if he didn¡¯t believe me, as if he hadn¡¯t believed anything anyone had told him in years.


    Donovan apparently agreed with him. He said, ¡°I think you¡¯re lying.¡±


    I said, ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡±


    The pain in his expression was so severe, you¡¯d think I shot him.


    ¡°Whom do you think you¡¯re talking to?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you when I get to know you better.¡±


    The tension in the room was suddenly a thin wire stretched too tight. Just the slightest pressure and it would snap.


    ¡°Gentlemen, gentlemen,¡± Muehlenhaus repeated in an attempt to calm us.


    ¡°Gentlemen, gentlemen,¡± I said. ¡°Under what scenario can you imagine that I would betray the confidence of my friends to you?¡±


    ¡°We know how to reward our friends,¡± Gunhus said.


    ¡°I bet. But we¡¯re not friends. We¡¯re not even acquaintances, and if someone doesn¡¯t start volunteering information in a hurry, I¡¯m going to leave.¡±


    Coole, Gunhus, and Mahoney looked at each other to see who would speak first. Donovan beat them all to it.


    ¡°Can we rely on your discretion?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Not even a little bit.¡±


    They didn¡¯t like my answer. I watched the five men discuss it with glances and gestures. Not a word was spoken¡ªit was as if they communicated with ESP. I rotated in my chair and faced Muehlenhaus.


    ¡°What is it you want of me?¡±


    He in turn made a nearly imperceptible gesture with his bloodless hand.


    Donovan read it and said, ¡°Mr. McKenzie, we have an assignment to discuss with you. One that requires fine sensibilities and good judgment, one that requires the utmost in secrecy.¡±


    ¡°You have already proven to us that you can keep a secret,¡± Muehlenhaus informed me.


    I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms and ankles. And people say I watch too many movies. I half expected the theme from Mission Impossible to begin wafting through the room from hidden speakers.


    ¡°Do you know the governor?¡± Donovan asked.


    ¡°We¡¯ve never met.¡±


    ¡°Do you like him?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve never met,¡± I repeated.


    ¡°We have a great deal invested in Governor Barrett.¡±

 Page 9

    ¡°A great deal,¡± Mahoney confirmed.


    ¡°Just so,¡± said Muehlenhaus.


    ¡°We made him governor,¡± Donovan added. ¡°We would like to make him a U.S. senator.¡±


    ¡°Why stop there?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Why indeed?¡±


    Jesus.


    ¡°We¡ªas I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll appreciate¡ªare prepared to protect that investment.¡±


    ¡°When we say ¡®we,¡¯ we¡¯re referring to the party,¡± said Muehlenhaus. ¡°After decades of being in the minority, the party has made great strides in Minnesota,¡± said Coole. ¡°Much of that is due to Governor Barrett. He¡¯s comparatively young. Attractive. Charismatic. He¡¯s well known in the state and becoming well known throughout the nation¡ªa high school sports hero, a self-made man rising above small-town poverty to become successful in business, respected for his philanthropic activities. He has been a splendid standard-bearer. So much so, that many people are considering him for higher office, perhaps the highest office.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s also willing to spend as much as twenty million dollars of his own money on his campaign,¡± added Mahoney.


    ¡°There¡¯s that, too,¡± said Coole.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the problem?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You tell us,¡± Donovan said.


    Muehlenhaus leaned forward.


    ¡°The first lady asked you to do a favor for her¡ªplease, don¡¯t deny it. The favors you perform for your friends don¡¯t always bear up well to public scrutiny. We would like to understand what this particular favor entails, but we will no longer press you on the matter. We wish only to impress you with this one fact: If there is a problem with the first lady, we can make it go away. We are determined to make it go away. In that regard, are we not allies?¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie,¡± said Donovan. ¡°We are not asking you to help us. We are asking that you allow us to help you.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll reward you well for your cooperation,¡± added Mahoney.


    A feeling of excitement grew in my stomach and a kind of hollow feeling, too, that I couldn¡¯t give a name. I couldn¡¯t do anything about the feeling and wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to. Like most people, I have been on the outside looking in while men and women I didn¡¯t know manipulated events and made decisions that affected my life, sometimes gravely. Now I was being asked to participate, albeit in a somewhat roundabout manner. It made me feel the way I had when I was a freshman in high school and the ¡°cool¡± kids invited me to lunch at their table. It made me feel important.


    Then Donovan had to ruin it all by saying, ¡°At the same time, we will not allow you or anyone else to devalue our investment in the governor.¡±


    Suddenly, I was a guy who found himself lost in an elaborate maze without a ball of string or a trail of bread crumbs to lead him to safety. The voice in the back of my head that I had learned to trust long ago was now screaming at me. These men can¡¯t be trusted. ¡¯Course, I knew that before I even walked into the room.


    ¡°Gentlemen, I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± I stood and rolled my chair under the table. ¡°The first lady is my friend, that¡¯s true. But if she has a problem, as you say, I am unaware of what it could be. ¡¯Course, if I did know, I wouldn¡¯t discuss it with you or anyone else. That¡¯s a promise I make to all of my friends and I never break my promises. Just to prove it, I¡¯ll make you a promise. You fuck with me or my friends, I¡¯ll fuck with you. I won¡¯t pretend that you and your resources don¡¯t scare me. They do. But you know what? I can be pretty scary, too.¡± I pointed at the file in front of Muehlenhaus. ¡°Ask around.¡±


    Coole, Gunhus, and Mahoney looked at each other to see if they were even remotely frightened by my remarks. Apparently not. Muehlenhaus seemed delighted. He clasped his hands together and laughed. Donovan laughed with him, just not as vigorously.


    I was astonished by their reaction and probably looked it.


    The old man said, ¡°You¡¯ll do, McKenzie. You¡¯ll do fine.¡±


    The thought I had at the Groveland Tap pushed itself from the back of my brain right up front. You are a schnook.


    2

 Page 10

    Normally, I would eschew the Minneapolis skyway system. Only normally it wasn¡¯t five degrees below zero and normally the wind that seemed to gain velocity as it was funneled between the downtown skyscrapers wasn¡¯t powerful enough to lift you off your feet.


    The skyway system was a network of streets in the sky, connected to each downtown office building with an enclosed pedestrian bridge or skyway that spans the street below. The original purpose was to allow pedestrians to travel from one building to another without suffering the cold and wind of Minnesota¡¯s winters or the heat and humidity of its summers¡ªneither of which was nearly as brutal as their reputations suggest, although have you been outside lately? Yet, over time, the skyway virtually took over downtown Minneapolis as people abandoned the city streets for its artificially controlled environment. Most businesses followed the pedestrians. In fact, very few businesses other than restaurants and shopping centers still had entrances on the street. It had reached the point where one intrepid magazine writer of my acquaintance wrote how he was able to ¡°live¡± on the skyway for an entire month¡ªworking, lodging, eating, shopping, dating, and generally entertaining himself¡ªwithout once allowing the warmth of the sun or the cool of moonlight to touch his face. Personally, I don¡¯t think the man¡¯s been the same since.


    Muehlenhaus had offered me transportation back to St. Paul, but I didn¡¯t want him to believe for a moment that we were partners. Nor did I trust Norman. The look on his face¡ªcall me paranoid, but I had a feeling he was the type who held a grudge. So, I decided to hoof it to a hotel where a cab could be found that would take me back to my Audi.


    It was getting close to the rush hour and most of the people in the crowded skyway moved relentlessly as they completed last-minute errands or rushed to parking ramps in hopes of beating the traffic. When I slowed to punch the numbers for directory assistance into the pad of my cell phone, and then later the first lady¡¯s office, the human current jammed up behind me like debris caught against a rock in a fast-flowing river.


    I wanted to warn Lindsey that her cover had been blown. The Brotherhood knew exactly where we had met and when, which meant there was a leak on her end. Only he or she didn¡¯t know what we spoke about, which meant the source wasn¡¯t necessarily someone close to Lindsey. My chief suspect was her bodyguard or driver or whatever the big guy was. But I couldn¡¯t get through to her. I was passed from a receptionist to an assistant to an aide until I finally connected with a senior aide who took my name and number. I had the impression that she took a lot of names and numbers without passing them on.


    I didn¡¯t think it was possible to just show up at the front door of the Governor¡¯s Mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul, but there was another option. I used the memory function on my cell to dial Nina Truhler¡¯s number. She answered on the fourth ring.


    ¡°Rickie¡¯s, how may I help you?¡±


    ¡°Nina, you answer your own phones now?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve even been known to sweep out the place. How are you, Mac?¡±


    I could hear music in the background. Hoagy Carmichael. ¡°Stardust.¡± Nina owned and managed a jazz club on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul that she had named after her daughter.


    ¡°Very well, thank you, especially now that I¡¯m speaking to you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you sweet-talker. What¡¯s going on? Anything interesting?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Interesting. That¡¯s a good word for it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re off on another one of your adventures, aren¡¯t you? I can tell by your voice. It always sounds excited when you¡¯re into something.¡±


    ¡°Am I that obvious?¡±


    ¡°To me you are. What is it? Can I help?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you what it is. Truth is, I¡¯m not exactly sure myself, yet. But yes, you can help.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Can you get away tonight?¡±


    ¡°I could be talked into it.¡±


    ¡°Remember that $3,600 dress you gave yourself on your birthday.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Would you like a chance to wear it?¡±


    Turned out she did.


    After arranging the logistics for our date, I said good-bye, deactivated my cell phone, and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Almost immediately afterward, a man grabbed me. Strong fingers closed around my right hand and yanked violently, twisting and pulling it up between my shoulder blades. The pain in my shoulder forced me to cry out, a moment of weakness I immediately regretted. At the same time another hand pressed hard against my spine, steering me out of the skyway traffic, driving so hard and fast I didn¡¯t even think of ordering my legs to resist.


    He flung me up against the thick glass wall of an office that sold life insurance and leaned his full weight against me, pinning me there. My forehead was mashed against the glass and the point of my elbow was wedged between my body and his, making the pain in my shoulder even more excruciating.


    I couldn¡¯t see his face, but I felt his lips close to my ear.


    ¡°Do the right thing,¡± he hissed.


    ¡°What? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Do the right thing,¡± he repeated.

 Page 11

    ¡°What is the right thing?¡±


    He stepped back and shoved hard again, using his weight and leverage to bounce me against the glass wall. He released me.


    I wasn¡¯t thinking now, merely reacting. I spun around into a fighting stance, my legs wide apart, the outside edge of my heels more or less lined up with my elbows, my feet at forty-five-degree angles, my body sideways, my hands curled into forefists and held high in front of me. It¡¯s called a ¡°horse¡± stance and exposes few vulnerable targets to an opponent. Only there was none.


    I craned my neck searching for a target. A few pedestrians had stopped and were staring at me. I tried to look around and past them, spotted a man with brown hair and a dark blue jacket¡ªit could have been a Minnesota Twins baseball jacket¡ªswiftly bobbing and weaving away from me through the skyway traffic, and then he was gone.


    I brought my left hand up to massage the ache in my shoulder. Pedestrians continued to stare at me.


    ¡°What the hell,¡± one of them said.


    My sentiments exactly.


    I kept the thermostat set at sixty-eight degrees. Even so, it cost a small fortune to heat my English Colonial and not for the first time I wondered if it wasn¡¯t time to move on. It was big, something like 2,650 square feet of living space, including bathrooms and a finished basement. Yet just four rooms were furnished and I lived in only three of them. Shelby Dunston had once called it ¡°the biggest, most expensive efficiency apartment¡± she had ever seen. I bought the house because, at the time, I wanted my father to live with me, and so he did, until he died six months later. Afterward, the kitchen, my bedroom, and what my father used to call ¡°the family room¡±¡ªwhere I kept my PC, TV, VHS and DVD players, CD stereo, and about a thousand books, some of them even stacked on the shelves¡ªwere all the space I needed.


    A few minutes after I arrived home, I settled in front of my computer with a coffee mug emblazoned with the logo of the St. Paul Police Department that Bobby Dunston had given me. It had not occurred to me to take souvenirs when I left the job, and Bobby had been supplying me with sweatshirts and other paraphernalia ever since. Sometimes I wished I could go back and get my own.


    I fired up the PC and began dragging databases. Kim Truong had taught me how. An ex-girlfriend named Kirsten had hired Kim to develop a specialized research program for Kirsten¡¯s business. She introduced us, mostly, I think, because she had wanted to prove that she was broad-minded when it came to hiring minorities. Kim didn¡¯t like her. After a while I didn¡¯t, either.


    Later, I hired Kim to teach me how to conduct computer investigations of people my travels brought me into contact with. She proved to be a persistent and uncompromising instructor. Under her tutelage I soon mastered the full spectrum of credit reporting, public records searches, database access, medical information retrieval, and how to explore the countless other nooks and crannies where personal information lies hidden. No amount of information¡ªprivileged or otherwise¡ªwas safe from my prying eyes. Kimmy¡¯s massive tip sheet made it easier¡ªI had had it laminated¡ªalong with other helpful hints on what to look for and how. Yet even without them, I soon became pretty adept at exposing an individual¡¯s history with only a few strategic keystrokes and cursor movements. I am continually amazed by the depth and breadth of data available out there.


    Take John Allen Barrett. I didn¡¯t have his social security number. Yet that didn¡¯t prevent me from learning that he was born on November 30, at 01:13 A.M. C.S.T., in the State of Minnesota, in the County of Nicholas, in the City of Victoria, in Nicholas County Hospital to father Thomas Robert Barrett, age twenty-eight (at time of birth) and mother Kay Marie Barrett, age twenty-six (at time of birth), whose mailing address was 1170 County Road 13, Victoria, Minnesota. Or that C. T. Brown, M.D., certified that he had attended the birth of the child who was born alive at the place and date stated above. Or that, except for treatment of a sprained knee when he was a shooting guard coming off the bench for the University of Minnesota Golden Gopher basketball team, it was the only time that Barrett had ever been hospitalized for any reason.

 Page 12

    Nearly a quarter of the U.S. population has a criminal record of some kind, but not Barrett. According to the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension¡¯s database¡ªwhich I accessed for only a $5 charge to my credit card¡ªhe had never been arrested for a felony or gross misdemeanor of any kind. Nor could I locate any juvenile police incident reports with his name on them. ¡¯Course, if there had been, I was pretty sure his political opponents would have exploited them long ago.


    The Department of Motor Vehicles database listed two speeding tickets and one accident on Barrett¡¯s driving record: he had rear-ended a Ford Taurus during a sleet storm. No one was injured, no citation was issued, and his insurance promptly paid for the damage. He currently owned three vehicles: a Lexus sedan, an SUV, and a 1965 Ford Mustang for which he had purchased ¡°collectible¡± plates. It was a modest fleet considering his vast wealth. ¡¯Course, the state was chauffeuring him around these days at public expense.


    A visit to the Web site of the secretary of state gave me more information about his businesses and partners than I knew what to do with. Barrett wasn¡¯t on the board of any corporation except his own¡ªBarrett Motels, one of the top five motel chains in the nation. He had been among the initial twelve investors who brought the Minnesota Wild National Hockey League team to St. Paul, and he had briefly pursued partial ownership of the St. Paul Saints minor league baseball team, only nothing came of it.


    The Ramsey County Property Tax Web site indicated that Barrett owned a 6,249-square-foot house built in 1967 on Pleasant Lake Road in the city of North Oaks with an estimated market value of $1,069,400. It was the only residence Barrett owned in Minnesota that I could discover and, of course, he divided his time between there and the Governor¡¯s Mansion. His polling place in North Oaks was the East Rec Center, where he had voted in every election in the past decade.


    Barrett continued to contribute to numerous and varied charities and nonprofit organizations, including the American Cancer Association, the Children¡¯s Heart Fund, Big Brothers, Minnesota Public Radio, the Loft Literary Center, the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, and the Minnesota Institute of Art. I wondered what he thought of Muehlenhaus¡¯s purchase of the Degas.


    Most of the other information I gleaned came in the form of newspaper and magazine articles, starting with the most recent events in his life and working backward. I skipped everything that dealt with politics or the governor¡¯s office, staying strictly with his personal information before he ran for office:


    John Allen Barrett rejects Marriott¡¯s latest offer. Barrett Motels remain the top independent in the upper Midwest, according to the Wall Street Journal.


    John Allen Barrett¡¯s fiftieth birthday party on November 30 attracts over 350, including many celebrities.


    John Allen Barrett hailed as a financial guru for predicting the sudden decline in tech stocks traded on NASDAQ.


    John Allen Barrett visibly embarrassed during the dedication of Barrett Hall, the addition to the University of Minnesota¡¯s Business School that he helped finance with a $25 million contribution.


    John Allen Barrett congratulated in the business section of the St. Paul Pioneer Press upon the grand opening of his fiftieth motel.


    John Allen Barrett and his bride, the former Lindsey Bauer, mugging for the cameras following their nuptials . . .


    I lingered here for a few moments, examining an electronic photograph of Barrett and a startlingly lovely woman in a white gown that someone estimated cost over $50,000. Yet Zee wore it as if she was either unaware or unconcerned by that fact. Barrett, a half-dozen years older than Zee, was wearing a tuxedo cut in the English style with matching gloves and hat. Still, the way they smiled and clung to each other, I could believe they would have been just as happy if they had been married in burlap sacks.


    And on and on it went.


    John Allen Barrett forms partnership to build motels for travelers on a budget.


    John Allen Barrett to provide color commentary during TV broadcast of the Minnesota State High School Boys Basketball Tournament.


    John Allen Barrett returns to the University of Minnesota after a brief professional basketball career in Europe to gain his master¡¯s degree in business administration.


    John Allen Barrett agrees to play for Milan in the European basketball league.


    John Allen Barrett in tears after the University of Minnesota Gophers basketball team is eliminated in the first round of the NCAA Basketball Tournament.


    John Allen Barrett triumphant after leading the ¡°Victoria Seven¡± to a 52¨C50 victory over heavily favored Duluth Central to win the Minnesota State High School Boys Basketball Championship before a raucous sellout crowd at St. Paul Auditorium.

 Page 13

    The Victoria Seven were as well known in Minnesota as the 1980 ¡°Miracle¡± Olympic hockey team was to the rest of the nation. Seven kids from tiny Victoria High School overcame incredible odds to win the tournament. This was before the state high school league divided the schools into four different classes, back when there was only one state champion, when it was still possible to have upsets and underdogs and Cinderella stories, when it was still possible to build a legend.


    There was surprisingly little information about the team on the Internet, probably because the game had been played so long ago¡ªover thirty years. Most of the stories that mentioned the Seven were connected to the governor¡¯s election campaign, although there was one stand-alone piece written on the eve of the team¡¯s thirtieth anniversary. In it, the writer praised the team for the heroic manner in which it faced adversity throughout the season, including the brutal murder of Victoria High School cheerleader Elizabeth Rogers one week prior to the state tournament.


    So, there was an Elizabeth Rogers, and she had been murdered. I attempted to learn more. Had anyone ever been arrested or convicted of the crime? I accessed the Web sites of both the St. Paul Pioneer Press and the Minneapolis Star Tribune and browsed their archives. Both papers had stories, but they were short and to the point: A seventeen-year-old high school cheerleader was found murdered in the tiny town of Victoria, according to authorities, with little additional information. Each article linked the woman to the Victoria Seven, but not to John Allen Barrett personally. There were no follow-up stories that I could find.


    I switched gears and began searching for intel on the Brotherhood. There was surprisingly little information about Muehlenhaus. Apparently the man shunned publicity, although I unearthed a nice joke about him: ¡°Muehlenhaus is so cheap when he walks onto a green he picks up all the dimes.¡± Mahoney, Gunhus, and Coole, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy publicity, although they didn¡¯t do much that anyone would be interested in. Troy Donovan was a bit harder to read. He had been everywhere for a while and then apparently decided to keep a lower profile, not unlike Muehlenhaus. I learned that he was single, that he had inherited a $7 million stationery business from his father and grew it into a $60 million concern, and that a few years ago he began exploring the possibility of building a Kinko¡¯s-like copy and print shop franchise throughout the Upper Midwest. I wasn¡¯t interested enough to read how it turned out.


    I was staring at the computer screen, wondering what to do next, when my phone rang.


    ¡°Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby,¡± Kim Truong¡¯s voice chanted.


    ¡°Hey, Kimmy. Long time, no see.¡±


    ¡°At least five and a half hours.¡±


    ¡°Seems longer.¡±


    Kim thought that was pretty funny. After she finished chuckling, she said, ¡°I have what you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re talking about the information I was needing, right?¡±


    ¡°Well, that, too. Write this down: one six zero point nine seven point two eight six point one eight seven.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°The number of the computer that sent your e-mail.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t exactly help me, Kimmy.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout this, then. The computer is located at¡ªAre you writing this down?¡±


    ¡°I am. I am writing it down.¡±


    ¡°The computer is located at 347 Second Avenue, Victoria, Minnesota.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a name?¡±


    ¡°No, just a location.¡±


    ¡°Victoria, Minnesota.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense.¡±


    ¡°In what way?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the scene of the crime.¡±


    3


    The Sixteenth Annual Charity Ball to raise money for the Governor¡¯s Endowment for a Drug-Free Minnesota was held at International Market Square, an enormous brick-and-mortar warehouse on the outskirts of downtown Minneapolis. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, it had been remodeled to house 135 upscale home furnishing showrooms, designer studios, architectural firms, remodeling resources, and advertising agencies as well as a spectacular atrium located at the heart of the Square beneath a huge glass and steel girder roof.


    After depositing our winter coats and Nina¡¯s boots at a makeshift coat check just inside the entrance of the building, we made our way from the lobby down a corridor toward the atrium. There were several retail businesses located along the corridor, all shuttered for the evening, and Nina could see our reflections in the windows as we passed.


    She stopped. I was two steps past her when I felt Nina¡¯s hand slip from mine and turned about.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked.


    My first thought was that she had halted to admire her gown. It was what she was doing when I arrived at her home earlier, posing this way and that in front of a full-length mirror like a model at a photo shoot. Red velvet stretched lovingly over her thighs, hips, waist, and chest, and a shawl, attached to the bodice, rose up from under her arms to hug her neck. There was plenty of exposed flesh both front and back. The hem of the gown grazed the bottom of her ankles and the side slit was high enough to expose much of Nina¡¯s leg, yet not so high as to cause her embarrassment.

 Page 14

    I searched my vocabulary for a word and found it. ¡°Sinuous,¡± I said aloud. The dress was full of devious curves. She liked the word and repeated it twice as she examined herself over her shoulder.


    I enjoyed watching Nina, enjoyed her short black hair, high cheekbones, narrow nose, and generous mouth; enjoyed the curves she refused to diet away; enjoyed the way she moved so smoothly and effortlessly. But mostly I was charmed by her eyes, the most arresting eyes I had ever seen in a woman. From a distance they gleamed like polished silver. Up close they were the most amazing pale blue.


    Watching her own movements in the shop window, Nina reached out for me. I took her hand, marveling not for the first time at how comfortable it felt in mine.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°We make a nice-looking couple.¡±


    ¡°You make anyone look good,¡± I told her, although I had to admit the tuxedo I wore helped some.


    She didn¡¯t reply.


    ¡°Nina?¡±


    ¡°Hmm? Nothing. It¡¯s just . . .¡± She curled her arm around mine. ¡°Nothing.¡±


    Which meant something. I knew she would get around to it when she was ready.


    Nina tightened her grip on my arm and we moved to the edge of the atrium. The band was in full swing, playing a cover of one of Elvis¡¯s early recordings for Sun Records. Yet while Elvis was content with guitar, bass, and drums, this orchestra added trumpets, saxophones, trombones, clarinets, violins, and piano to the mix¡ªso many instruments that musicians were in danger of being crowded off the makeshift stage set up in front of the glass elevator. Directly across from it on the other side of the atrium, red-vested waiters and waitresses stood guard behind long buffet tables garnished with trays of hors-d¡¯?uvres, pastries, and salads and shallow pans with silver lids and tiny fires glowing beneath them. A sunken pebblestone floor sprawled between the orchestra and the food. A temporary wooden dance floor in front of the orchestra took up half of it. Dozens of small round tables covered with white linen and adorned with fresh flower centerpieces filled the other half. More tables and chairs were scattered on the perimeter of the sunken floor, and long bars were strategically located in every corner. Most of the tables were occupied and the bars were crowded. Looking up, I could see the moon and a few of the brighter stars through the glass ceiling. It was jarring to think that on the other side of the glass was a world where it was cold almost beyond measure.


    We glided to the steps and waited for several couples to descend before us. I studied the throng. All the women wore expensive gowns or cocktail dresses and the men were dressed in tuxedos or elegant suits. They had paid a thousand dollars each to be there. Their affluence was great, but while others might feel small and out of place among them, I did not. In the past few years I had come to understand money and I wasn¡¯t intimidated by it.


    Finally, Nina and I descended the short flight of stairs and twisted and turned our way across the dance floor and through the maze of tables beyond. Eyes and occasionally entire heads turned toward us as we passed. Nina pretended not to notice. Eventually, we found an empty space between tables. At least a dozen partygoers glanced our way. Some smiled to indicate they liked what they saw.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I said. ¡°People are watching us.¡±


    ¡°Of course they are. We¡¯re all dressed up,¡± Nina told me.


    ¡°So are they.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but we¡¯re pretty.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°Besides, at the risk of sounding even more conceited than I am . . .¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not conceited.¡±


    ¡°When I dress up like this, I expect to be watched.¡±


    ¡°Seriously?¡±


    ¡°Why else would I dress like this? Are you telling me you don¡¯t ogle pretty girls as they walk by? Don¡¯t lie, McKenzie. I¡¯ve seen you do it. I¡¯ve even seen you do it when you were out with me.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think women noticed.¡±


    ¡°Of course we notice. You guys are so obvious. Besides, a woman¡ªwe can feel it. It¡¯s almost instinctual. We don¡¯t have to look around for it. We just know.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t it piss you off, guys always checking you out?¡±


    ¡°No. I find it flattering, as long as they don¡¯t cross the line.¡±


    ¡°What line?¡±


    ¡°If you want to give me a smile, an unobtrusive nod, the clandestine glance when you think your date isn¡¯t looking, that¡¯s cool. Only don¡¯t speak to me unless we¡¯re introduced. Don¡¯t give me, ¡®Hey, babe.¡¯ Don¡¯t give me, ¡®It must be jelly cuz jam don¡¯t shake like that.¡¯ That¡¯s just plain rude. And don¡¯t stare. It makes me nervous when guys stare. Especially the guys who give you that million-mile stare, who don¡¯t reveal anything in their expression or body language, who just stand there¡ªthey scare me most of all.¡±


    ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought of that.¡±


    ¡°No reason why you should.¡±


    Nina glanced about the atrium.


    ¡°Do you know these people?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Some to nod at. You?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know anybody. Wait. Yes, I do.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The band.¡±

 Page 15

    Nina shaded her eyes with her hand.


    ¡°That¡¯s Bobby DeNucci playing piano,¡± she said. ¡°Nick Weiland. Abby Hunter on violin. Joey Anthonsen and his brother Mark. You¡¯ve heard these guys.¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°Most of them have played my place at one time or another. Played jazz. Tonight, though, they seem to be playing a primitive kind of music that¡¯s popular with young people today. I think they call it rock ¡®n¡¯ roll.¡±


    ¡°Philistines.¡±


    ¡°Barbarians.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯ll let you sit in.¡±


    ¡°Puhleez.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one thing to let me play with them when they¡¯re in my club¡ªit¡¯s my customers we¡¯re driving away. Not here.¡± Nina shook her head. ¡°Let¡¯s dance.¡±


    I draped my arm over her shoulder and gazed demurely into her eyes.


    ¡°How ¡¯bout I buy you a drink, sweetheart.¡±


    ¡°You never dance with me anymore.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll dance with you. I just thought a drink first . . .¡±


    ¡°Fine. But we are going to dance.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I told her while wondering how I could get out of it. I don¡¯t like to dance. The way I dance is sort of like potatoes falling out of a sack.


    I selected the bar that seemed least crowded and went toward it. The orchestra swung into a cover of the B-52¡¯s ¡°Love Shack¡± with Abby Hunter and Mark Anthonsen supplying vocals. Unfortunately, an opera of loud chatter and laughter rose up around me in opposition to the music, and midway through the song I gave it up.


    As Murphy¡¯s Law would have it, the line I picked moved slowest. I engaged in some people watching while I waited my turn. It wasn¡¯t nearly as interesting as it was at, say, the Minnesota State Fair. Too many women wore black, and while some of their hairstyles demonstrated boldness and imagination, most did not. Women enthusiastically greeted other women whose names they couldn¡¯t recall while men nodded stoically and offered perfunctory handshakes during introductions that were quickly forgotten. Small groups formed, swelled with importance, dissolved, and reformed at the next table. Alliances were forged and broken, plans were made and abandoned, and suggestions on how to squeeze even more fun out of the evening were proposed, debated, and rejected. Meanwhile, a handful of wanderers drifted from group to group in search of a familiar face.


    Something caught my eye and I turned toward it.


    A small hurricane of people swirled and grew larger as it tracked slowly along the atrium opposite where I was standing. At the eye of the hurricane was a man I recognized immediately. John Allen Barrett. Governor of the state of Minnesota. He was part of the crowd, yet seemed to stand apart from it at the same time, as though some trick of light brightened the area immediately around him while casting everyone else in shadow. It was a wondrous trick, and I tried to determine how he managed it. He certainly had the size to have once played college basketball, and instead of the pale cast of most Minnesotans in winter, his skin had the glow of good health. I could see the blue in his eyes all the way across the room, and his smile, which never seemed to leave him, threw off sparks like a welding torch you¡¯re not supposed to view with the naked eye. Yet it was more than physical appearance that attracted. It was attitude. Barrett had the look of victory about him.


    Standing next to him, Lindsey seemed both young and not so young. Her face was as flawless and smooth as when it was new, yet I detected in her eyes an intelligence and thoughtfulness that came only with time and hard lessons learned. She wore a simple black silk sheath with a high, square neck, low back, and long skirt and no ornament save the star that sparkled on her left hand, yet she seemed to shimmer like moonlight on dark water. For a moment I was alone with her in the living room of her parent¡¯s home, the house empty except for us, Miles Davis on the stereo, Lindsey smiling her lovely smile and saying, ¡°Can I get you anything?¡±


    I didn¡¯t become a man because of Lindsey, I reminded myself. But she did make it a lot easier.


    Barrett exchanged greetings easily with the people who gathered around him, shaking hands with his right while his left circled his wife¡¯s waist and held her in a protective embrace. Occasionally, she would slip free and drift away from him as the hurricane surged forward. When that happened, Barrett would reach back for her, refusing to acknowledge anyone until she was once more safely at his side.


    That¡¯s what love looks like, my inner voice told me.

 Page 16

    Miraculously, the Barretts found an empty table and the crowd began to disperse. The hurricane was soon downgraded to a squall and Lindsey was able to sit, which brought an expression of relief to her face.


    Only relief soon gave way to something else that I couldn¡¯t name. Lindsey¡¯s face was still as lovely, yet suddenly it seemed hard. I watched her eyes. They were locked on an object far away. I tried to locate it, failed, and then realized that Lindsey wasn¡¯t looking at something, but purposely looking away from something. I had no idea what it could be. I searched the faces of the people around Lindsey until I found one I recognized.


    Troy Donovan.


    He stood above and behind Lindsey with one hand on the railing of the second-floor balcony while the other gripped the stem of a wineglass. He was watching her, yet his face revealed nothing¡ªneither pleasure nor pain, neither joy nor reproach. It was the million-mile stare that Nina had explained to me, the one that unnerved her so.


    I finally bought our drinks and returned to Nina.


    ¡°Sorry it took so long,¡± I told her. ¡°Apparently, the Sixteenth Annual Charity Ball for a Drug-Free Minnesota doesn¡¯t consider alcohol a drug, because there sure are a lot of people lapping it up.¡± I offered one of the drinks to Nina. ¡°Not that we¡¯re hypocrites or anything.¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡± Nina took the drink. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°Vodka martini, shaken not stirred.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t actually order that.¡±


    ¡°Sure, I did. I¡¯m wearing a tuxedo. What else would I drink?¡±


    ¡°What did the bartender say when you ordered it?¡±


    ¡°Oh, he thought it was hilarious.¡±


    ¡°I bet. I hope you tipped him.¡±


    ¡°Does James Bond leave tips?¡±


    ¡°Now that you mention it, in all his movies I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen him pay for anything.¡±


    ¡°Well, then.¡±


    Nina sipped the drink and shuddered.


    ¡°Wow,¡± she said.


    ¡°It might be a tad strong.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, are you, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°Moi?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought.¡±


    I took a sip of my martini and gazed back toward Lindsey Barrett. Barrett had disappeared, leaving his wife in the company of a woman who had joined the table and was waving her arms with great animation. She was wearing what resembled a ballerina¡¯s costume, a fitted slip dress on top and layers and layers of black tulle on the bottom. The dress and waving arms reminded me of a spider. Whatever tale she wove must have been quite enthralling, because Lindsey never looked away from her.


    I did lift my eyes, however, scanning the second-floor balcony. Troy Donovan had gone. But he hadn¡¯t gone far.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± he wanted to know. Donovan was standing directly behind Nina, speaking to me over her shoulder as if she wasn¡¯t there.


    ¡°Good evening,¡± I replied.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Supporting a worthy cause. How ¡¯bout you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re being flip.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one of my hobbies. Why are you here?¡±


    Donovan chuckled.


    ¡°Supporting a worthy cause,¡± he said.


    ¡°And so . . .¡±


    ¡°I apologize,¡± Donovan said. ¡°To you and your date.¡± He moved next to Nina and held out his hand. ¡°Good evening, I¡¯m Troy Donovan.¡±


    ¡°Nina Truhler,¡± she replied, taking his hand.


    ¡°Ms. Truhler, if I seemed rude earlier it is because the matter we discussed this afternoon with Mr. McKenzie is quite important to me, to us, and when I found him here I panicked a little.¡±


    ¡°Who is we and what matter did you discuss?¡± Nina asked.


    ¡°You don¡¯t . . . He didn¡¯t . . . Of course not.¡± Donovan pivoted toward me. I was beginning to think he wasn¡¯t very bright¡ªone of those guys who couldn¡¯t make scrambled eggs without an instruction manual.


    I said, ¡°I haven¡¯t discussed our business with Ms. Truhler, but, please, feel free.¡±


    He nodded. His smile reminded me of the blade of a knife gleaming in sunlight and I realized it had been a test. The sonuvabitch had been testing me. Again.


    Donovan bowed his head toward Nina and said, ¡°A pleasure to have met you. Have a good evening.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not doing a favor for him?¡± Nina asked when he was out of earshot.


    ¡°Not even at gunpoint.¡±


    ¡°Who, then?¡±


    I turned my attention back toward Lindsey. She was sitting at the same table, still listening to the same woman.


    ¡°Mac?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say,¡± I answered absently.


    Nina followed my gaze to Lindsey.


    ¡°Can I guess?¡±


    ¡°Forgive me, Nina, but there¡¯s something I need to do.¡± I handed my drink to her. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget. You promised to dance with me.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    I walked in a straight line to where Lindsey sat. The woman in the spider outfit said, ¡°That¡¯s not even the half of it¡ª¡±


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I said and offered Lindsey my hand. ¡°Mrs. Barrett. Would you care to dance?¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie,¡± she said. ¡°I would be delighted. Please excuse me, Evelyn.¡±


    Evelyn didn¡¯t seem even remotely happy to have been interrupted, but said, ¡°Of course,¡± just the same.

 Page 17

    I led Lindsey to the dance floor. Nina watched us. She was frowning.


    ¡°Thank you, thank you,¡± Lindsey chanted just above a whisper. ¡°Thank you for getting me away from that dreadful woman.¡±


    ¡°My pleasure,¡± I said.


    I took her lightly in my arms. It was the first time I had held her in nearly twenty years, yet the thrill of electricity that flowed through me was the same as it had been that evening in her living room. I tried to ignore it. She was a married woman after all.


    Lindsey was wearing perfume or cologne¡ªI never understood the difference¡ªwhich made her smell vaguely like a pine tree. People smiled at her and nodded their heads. If they noticed me at all it was to wonder, ¡°Who¡¯s that guy?¡±


    The orchestra segued into a full arrangement of Edwin McCain¡¯s rock ballad, ¡°I¡¯ll Be.¡± I led Lindsey into a waltz step as best I could. She followed without effort.


    ¡°You dance very well,¡± she said.


    ¡°Stop it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised to see you here. I thought you weren¡¯t a ¡®gala kind of guy.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°It was the only way I could think of to speak to you. Your aides wouldn¡¯t put me through.¡±


    Lindsey¡¯s body stiffened beneath my hands.


    ¡°Do you know who sent the e-mail?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Not yet. I did learn where it was sent from.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°An address in Victoria.¡±


    ¡°Victoria, Minnesota? Jack¡¯s hometown?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯ll run down there tomorrow and check it out. There is something else you should know.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t talk here on the dance floor,¡± she insisted.


    ¡°I¡¯m open to suggestions.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a restroom at the end of the far corridor. Meet me there five minutes after the dance is over.¡±


    We continued to twirl on the floor in time to the music, floating between other couples that mostly danced in tiny, graceless circles. I looked over Lindsey¡¯s shoulder for Nina. I couldn¡¯t find her. Instead my eyes rested on Troy Donovan. He was glaring at me. Lindsey and I spun a few times and I lost sight of him. When I saw him again, his eyes appeared serene and were directed elsewhere. I watched cautiously. A moment later, Donovan looked at us again. The expression that flamed across his face¡ªif only for an instant¡ªwas curiously familiar, one that I had seen on a man¡¯s face before, and it didn¡¯t take long for me to recognize it. Jealous anger.


    Why?


    The answer became painfully clear when Lindsey said softly, ¡°I miss my old friends,¡± and rested her head against my shoulder. Donovan witnessed the move, grimaced, and turned away.


    You¡¯re kidding, my private voice said. You are absolutely kidding.


    The song ended. I stopped dancing and released Lindsey from my embrace. We applauded politely along with the other dancers.


    Lindsey whispered, ¡°Five minutes.¡±


    She left the dance floor while I stood there watching, a post in the ground.


    I searched for Nina, but couldn¡¯t find her. After a few minutes, I headed for the restrooms farthest from the atrium. Along the way I snatched a long-stemmed glass filled with white wine off a silver tray carried by a waiter. I didn¡¯t know if the glass was meant for someone else and I didn¡¯t care.


    The noise from the ball that followed me down the corridor became blessedly hushed by the time I reached the restroom.


    Lindsey¡¯s driver¡ªthe man I had seen at the Groveland Tap¡ªstood watch at the door. He could¡¯ve been one of the guards at Buckingham Palace for all the acknowledgment he gave me when I paused next to him. I sipped from the wineglass. Chardonnay. I didn¡¯t like chardonnay. Too dry. I drank it anyway and stepped inside.


    I had never been in a woman¡¯s restroom before. It seemed larger than most men¡¯s restrooms and there was a long sofa with black cushions hard against the wall opposite the sinks and mirrors. Lindsey had slumped down into it.


    ¡°You¡¯ll wrinkle your dress,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Oh, God,¡± she said and stood up, smoothing the silk with her hands. ¡°It¡¯s been a long day.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not over yet,¡± I reminded her.


    Lindsey went to the mirror, examined her face carefully, and slipped her hand into her clutch bag for lipstick even though she didn¡¯t need it. She dabbed her upper lip while her eyes, as clear and sharp as a sunny day in July, examined my reflection with polite curiosity.


    ¡°What do you want to talk about, McKenzie?¡± she asked.


    I told her about the Brotherhood, the fact they had me kidnapped five minutes after she left the Groveland Tap, that lacking any other suspects, I blamed her driver for ratting her out. She didn¡¯t seem a bit surprised.


    ¡°Tell me the truth, Zee. What exactly is going on?¡±


    Lindsey pretended to tend to her makeup and I pretended to watch. After a few moments, she slipped her lipstick back into her clutch bag.


    ¡°You know everything I know,¡± she said.


    ¡°Do I?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    I told her about my assailant on the skyway.

 Page 18

    ¡°Are you all right?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Five minutes, Zee. Five minutes after I left the Brotherhood he came at me, which means he was waiting. Just like the guy outside the Groveland Tap had been waiting. Now, why do I have a feeling that everything that¡¯s happened today was staged for my benefit? Like I¡¯m a minor piece being maneuvered around a chessboard.¡±


    Lindsey paused for a moment before saying, ¡°If you¡¯re being maneuvered, then so am I.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do about it.¡±


    From the expression on her face, Lindsey didn¡¯t have a clue, either.


    ¡°This is bigger than it seems,¡± I told her.


    ¡°You will help me, though, won¡¯t you, Mac? You¡¯ll help me despite everything?¡±


    ¡°Everything?¡±


    ¡°The Brotherhood and all that.¡±


    It was back¡ªthe feeling I had had at the Groveland Tap that Lindsey wasn¡¯t telling me the truth, at least not the whole truth¡ªbut I said yes just the same, for old time¡¯s sake.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°Zee,¡± I asked innocently.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Tell me about Troy Donovan.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°How well do you know him?¡±


    ¡°Not well at all,¡± she answered easily. ¡°We¡¯re acquainted through events like this, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve spoken more than a dozen words to him. Why?¡±


    ¡°The way he looked at you when you first arrived . . .¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be amazed at the way some men look at me.¡±


    ¡°The way he looked at us when we danced together.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to say.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°What happens next?¡±


    ¡°Good question.¡±


    I gave Lindsey a head start before leaving the restroom and making my way back to the atrium. I searched unsuccessfully for Nina, wondering if she had become so fed up with me for ignoring her that she left the ball. Couldn¡¯t say I blamed her.


    The orchestra was taking a break and there was no one on the dance floor. It was getting late for a weeknight. Wives were looking at husbands the way they do when they want to go home, and husbands, at least for the time being, were pretending not to notice. Yet the exodus would soon begin. The couples with younger children would depart first, followed shortly by those with older children, followed by the single and the childless. Most of the partygoers would be gone by the time the orchestra finished its final set.


    I thought the set might be about to begin when Bobby DeNucci walked to the microphone at center stage.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± DeNucci announced. ¡°We have a treat for you while the orchestra takes a few moments to catch its breath. Please welcome Nina Truhler.¡±


    Oh my God.


    Sparse applause followed Nina across the stage. She briefly hugged DeNucci and sat at the piano and immediately began to play. I moved to the edge of the sunken floor while a few partygoers ventured onto the dance floor itself. They were met there by a piece of classical music, one of the variations on Bach¡¯s Goldberg Variations; I didn¡¯t know which one. The would-be dancers glanced at each other as if to say, who is this woman? Wait for it, wait for it, I urged them silently.


    After a full minute of playing the slow, melodic music, Nina¡¯s left hand began to beat out a hard rhythm. The dancers looked up at her in anticipation. People who weren¡¯t listening suddenly were. DeNucci and a few of the other musicians gathered next to the stage. I was sure I heard Abby Hunter exclaim, ¡°Bring it, girl.¡± Nina brought it. After establishing the baseline with her left hand, her right abandoned Bach¡¯s sweet sound for something much grittier¡ªJay McShann¡¯s bluesy ¡°My Chile.¡± When she squeezed as much out of the song as she wanted, Nina segued without pause into ¡°Cow Cow Blues¡± by Meade Lux Lewis. Soon a few of the musicians joined her on stage¡ªshe had percussion, a bass keeping time for her, and Abby Hunter¡¯s violin lending unexpected shadings to the melody she riffed. The floor began to fill, yet the people didn¡¯t dance so much as they swayed and hopped to the sound Nina was laying down. At the edge of the sunken floor, I clapped my hands in delight.

 Page 19

    Nina dropped out and let Abby take four choruses. When she came back she was playing Otis Spann¡¯s hard-driving ¡°Spann¡¯s Stomp.¡± I wasn¡¯t all that surprised that the other musicians were able to follow her so well. Unlike most rockers, jazz musicians know how to listen to each other. Still, how was she going to get out of this? I wondered. Nina must have had a plan because she said something to Abby, who relayed her message to the bass and drummer. After three more choruses, Abby dropped out with a flourish, followed by the drummer. That left Nina and the bass talking to each other, one taking the lead, then the other, and when Nina nodded, the bass dropped out and she retreated to the Goldberg, ending it with her right hand playing Bach and her left hand pounding out a blues rhythm.


    A moment of silence was followed by loud applause. Nina waved at the audience, curtsied elaborately, and waved some more. She crossed the stage, stopping only to shake hands and to hug Abby. DeNucci returned to the stage, took up the microphone, and pointed at her.


    ¡°Miss Nina Truhler,¡± he said, and the audience applauded louder.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be right back,¡± DeNucci added.


    Nina shook some more hands while I watched from my spot at the edge of the floor. There was a lump in my stomach that floated up through my chest and lodged in my throat, making speech impossible. It wasn¡¯t a hard lump, but soft and squishy, and it seemed to vibrate, causing my body to hum like a tuning fork. I recognized it for what it was. Pride. I was proud of Nina Truhler.


    I continued to watch her. She gave me a half wave and a smile and I grinned in return. After a few moments, she detached herself from her admirers and attempted to make her way along the perimeter of the sunken floor to where I stood. However, before she could reach me, she was stopped by still another fan.


    John Allen Barrett offered his hand and Nina shook it casually. Barrett said something and Nina laughed. Nina said something in reply and Barrett laughed. A moment of panic seized me, I don¡¯t know why. The e-mail accused him of being a murderer but it couldn¡¯t possibly be true, so why should I worry that he was chatting with my girl? Nina waved me over and I joined them, hoping none of the trepidation I felt had touched my face.


    ¡°Mac,¡± said Nina, as she slid a hand behind my neck. ¡°Allow me to introduce Governor Barrett. Governor, this is Rushmore McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that name,¡± Barrett said. ¡°You¡¯re an old friend of Lindsey¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a story she told me about your name.¡± He turned toward Nina as if for confirmation. ¡°He was conceived at a motel in the shadow of the Rushmore Monument when his parents took a vacation through the Badlands.¡±


    She said, ¡°But it could have been worse.¡±


    ¡°It could have been Deadwood,¡± they both said in unison.


    ¡°I definitely need new material,¡± I told them.


    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to finally meet you, Rushmore.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Just call him McKenzie,¡± Nina said. ¡°He doesn¡¯t like Rushmore.¡±


    ¡°Who can blame him?¡±


    Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time at my expense.


    ¡°It is good to meet you,¡± Barrett said. ¡°Lindsey said you were one of her most trusted friends from the neighborhood.¡± He took my hand and gazed directly into my eyes, and in that instant I felt as though John Allen Barrett had attended this ridiculous, self-indulgent ball for the sole purpose of meeting me. I couldn¡¯t explain it. Or why I felt a pang of jealousy when he released my hand and directed his attention to Nina.


    ¡°What you played reminded me of the blues you¡¯d hear in Chicago,¡± Barrett said, as if he was continuing a conversation already in progress.


    ¡°Some of it was,¡± Nina said. ¡°Otis Spann and Meade Lux Lewis were from Chicago. Lewis used to play boogie-woogie piano at rent parties when he was a kid and Spann probably did, too. The first bluesman I played, though¡ªJay McShann¡ªhe came out of Kansas City in the thirties. Charlie Parker used to be one of his sidemen.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know that.¡± Barrett spoke in a way that made me believe that freely admitting ignorance didn¡¯t faze him a bit. It was a small thing, yet filled with courage, and suddenly Barrett seemed less wealthy, less intimidating, less like the improbable icon I had been researching all afternoon.


    ¡°I presume you play professionally,¡± Barrett told Nina.


    ¡°Goodness no,¡± said Nina.


    ¡°Yes,¡± said I.


    ¡°I used to play a bit when I was a kid,¡± Nina added. ¡°Not so much anymore.¡±


    ¡°What do you do now?¡± asked Barrett.


    ¡°I have my own club.¡±


    ¡°Really? Where?¡±


    ¡°Rickie¡¯s on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been there,¡± Barrett insisted. ¡°It has two levels, a kind of lounge on the first floor and a restaurant on the second.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± said Nina. ¡°You should come again. We¡¯ll take good care of you.¡±


    ¡°I have an idea. I have a radio program for an hour on WCCO Friday mornings. I¡¯m going to give you a call¡ªnot this week, but the next. We¡¯ll talk about your club on the air.¡±


    ¡°That would be wonderful.¡±


    Barrett smiled at Nina like a doting father praising his child. I watched him smile. His unexpected interest in Nina reminded me of something¡ªa sentence, a phrase, a fragment of words that I had heard or read when I was younger. Except it stayed tantalizingly out of reach and I gave up the struggle for it, and then there it was, a line of Wordsworth from a long-ago English Lit class:


    That best portion of a good man¡¯s life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love . . .

 Page 20

    ¡°Jack,¡± said Lindsey.


    She had appeared behind Nina and crossed in front of her to reach Barrett. She wore the regal and slightly forced smile of a homecoming queen and if she felt any anxiety over seeing her husband conversing with Nina and me, there was no sign of it that I could detect.


    Barrett¡¯s eyelids pricked up like an animal¡¯s ears when he heard his wife¡¯s voice, and he reached for her the way a child might reach for a butterfly. He took her hand, nodded toward me, and announced, ¡°Look who I found.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie,¡± Lindsey said and kissed my cheek. ¡°But I saw him first. We danced together earlier.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I noticed,¡± Barrett said. ¡°Danced awfully close, I thought.¡± To me, he added, ¡°You¡¯ll be getting a call from the Minnesota Department of Revenue in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± I said. ¡°Look at the time. We should be going.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it,¡± Nina told me. ¡°We¡¯re going to dance.¡±


    ¡°Forgive me,¡± said Barrett. ¡°Lindsey, this is Nina Truhler.¡±


    ¡°Nina, I enjoyed your performance very much,¡± Lindsey told her as they shook hands.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Nina.


    ¡°What a lovely gown.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re very kind.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m also very tired,¡± said Lindsey. ¡°Excuse me, but we¡¯re heading home.¡±


    ¡°We are?¡± said Barrett.


    ¡°Jack,¡± Lindsey said. ¡°You made me promise to drag you home before midnight no matter how much fun you were having.¡±


    ¡°Why would I do that?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re flying to Washington in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Let¡¯s dance.¡±


    Lindsey turned to Nina and me.


    ¡°You kids,¡± she said. ¡°I bet you could dance until they rolled up the floor, go out for a nightcap, maybe a moonlit walk . . .¡±


    ¡°Hummida, hummida,¡± I said.


    ¡°And still get up at the crack of dawn and be fresh as a daisy.¡± She turned back to her husband. ¡°Remember when you could do that?¡±


    ¡°Are you calling me old?¡±


    Lindsey crossed her arms over her chest.


    Barrett sighed. ¡°Message received,¡± he said. ¡°Good night, Nina. McKenzie. And hey,¡± he added, looking first at Nina and then glancing at me, ¡°do the right thing.¡±


    I felt my body stiffen at the phrase and then go soft as I watched John and Lindsey Barrett disappear down the corridor beyond the bandstand. It can¡¯t be, my trusted voice announced. There is just no way. Followed by, What the hell is going on?


    ¡°Mac, are you okay?¡±


    I took Nina¡¯s arm and pulled her close. She rested her head against my shoulder.


    ¡°Mac?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m okay. A little dizzy. I had some bad chardonnay before.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The orchestra returned to the stage and Nina asked, ¡°Would you care to dance?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I told her.


    And we did, until they rolled up the floor.


    At 1:15 A.M. it was actually warmer in the parking lot of the International Market Square than it had been when we arrived, such was the weather in Minnesota. My arm was around Nina¡¯s waist and her arm was curled around mine, and we walked slowly and silently as lovers do toward my Audi. We had arrived late, so the car was parked in the farthest, darkest corner of the lot. The lot had been plowed down to the asphalt and the heels of Nina¡¯s boots made nice clicking sounds as we walked.


    I was escorting Nina to the passenger door, car keys in hand, when a voice called out.


    ¡°McKenzie.¡±


    We stopped in front of the car. I edged Nina behind me, shielding her with my body.


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°Is that your girl? Nice.¡± The voice came from out of the darkness between the two SUVs parked directly in front of me. It was masculine. Disguised. Unsettling.


    ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°To give you a warning. To give you both a warning.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°There is nowhere you can run that I can¡¯t follow. There is nowhere you can hide that I can¡¯t find you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me this¡ªwhy?¡± I moved my thumb over the key chain.


    ¡°Barrett cannot be allowed to run for the U.S. Senate.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because I said so.¡±


    I pressed the red panic button on my key chain. Immediately, a loud, piercing alarm reverberated across the parking lot. The Audi¡¯s headlights flashed on and off, illuminating the space between the two cars. The man standing there brought his arm up to guard his face. It wasn¡¯t necessary. His face was encased in sheer nylon and I couldn¡¯t make out his features. He screamed an obscenity and started running in the opposite direction. He was wearing a brown leather coat instead of the blue jacket worn by my assailant on the skyway. I watched him hit the street, turn right, and disappear down the block.


    I wonder who he works for?


    I turned around and embraced Nina. I searched her face for a suggestion of fear or anger, but there was none.


    She said, ¡°Governor Barrett is running for the Senate?¡± over the noise of the car alarm.


    ¡°Shhh. It¡¯s supposed to be a secret.¡±

 Page 21

    Nina had nothing to say during the drive home, which I took as a bad sign. It meant she wanted to have a serious conversation and was just waiting for the right moment to begin. I pulled into her driveway and put the Audi into park, letting the engine idle.


    ¡°Would you like to stay the night?¡± Nina asked.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t Erica home?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then, no.¡±


    ¡°I have to think Rickie knows we¡¯re sleeping together.¡±


    ¡°Maybe so, but that¡¯s a lot different then seeing me in her mother¡¯s bed when she¡¯s getting ready for school. It¡¯s tough enough raising a teenage daughter, teaching her the things she needs to know, without explaining that. Besides, it¡¯s like what my dad used to say. ¡®The best lesson is a good example.¡¯ ¡±


    Nina leaned across the seat and kissed me.


    ¡°I knew you were going to say that,¡± she said.


    ¡°That¡¯s because I¡¯ve said it before.¡±


    ¡°I like constancy in my men.¡±


    ¡°I have to tell you, that dress you¡¯re wearing makes me consider the virtues of inconstancy, if you get my meaning.¡±


    ¡°I take that as a compliment.¡±


    ¡°Please do.¡±


    ¡°How long have we been together, Mac? Fourteen, fifteen months?¡±


    ¡°Closer to sixteen.¡±


    ¡°In all that time, we¡¯ve never discussed the M word.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to discuss it now?¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the one who brought it up.¡±


    ¡°We make a terrific couple.¡±


    ¡°You said that earlier.¡±


    ¡°But I don¡¯t want to get married.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to marry me?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that. I said¡ªI¡¯ve been married. It wasn¡¯t fun. Even now I think about it and my hands begin to tremble. Look.¡±


    Nina held her hand flat in front of me and it was trembling.


    ¡°I¡¯m not your ex-husband,¡± I reminded her. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be the same.¡±


    ¡°I know but¡ªListen, you don¡¯t want to get married, either.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t need to be married. I¡¯ve been married and I learned the hard way that I can be happy without a ring on my finger. You¡¯re the same way.¡±


    ¡°I am?¡±


    ¡°Most men, they need to be married. They need someone to take care of them. When they¡¯re kids, they have their mothers. When they get older, they find wives. That¡¯s why when a man and women get divorced, the man usually remarries within a year or something like that. It¡¯s because they can¡¯t be alone. They can¡¯t take care of themselves. My ex-husband¡ªWell, enough about that. But you, McKenzie. Your mother died when you were very young, so you and your dad, you guys took care of yourselves and did a pretty nice job of it, too, if you ask me. You¡¯re the best cook I know who doesn¡¯t do it for a living. You don¡¯t need to be married.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s needing and then there¡¯s needing.¡±


    ¡°I know. Only we haven¡¯t reached that point yet.¡±


    ¡°Speak for yourself.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, McKenzie. Think about it.¡±


    ¡°I think you don¡¯t want to marry me and now you¡¯re trying to convince me that I not only don¡¯t want to marry you, I don¡¯t want to get married at all.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to marry me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about it.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t answer my question.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re starting to annoy me, Nina.¡±


    ¡°Why can¡¯t you just say it? You don¡¯t want to get married.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to get married tonight.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I. So, we¡¯re both on the same page. What¡¯s the problem?¡±


    ¡°I might change my mind tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°If you do, let me know. We¡¯ll work something out.¡±


    ¡°What happens in the meantime?¡±


    ¡°Nothing happens in the meantime. We just keep on going the way we have been.¡±


    This is a good thing, my inner voice told me. You don¡¯t want to get married. The beautiful, intelligent, successful woman you¡¯ve been sleeping with doesn¡¯t want to get married, either. Yet she still wants to sleep with you. Most guys would kill for a relationship like this.


    So why was I angry?


    Despite her protests, I insisted on walking Nina to her door. I stood back while she unlocked it and slipped inside.


    ¡°Come in for a moment while I disarm the security system,¡± she said.


    A few moments later she returned. She had removed her overcoat and her red velvet dress shimmered in the light behind her.


    ¡°Thank you for coming,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Thank you for inviting me.¡±


    I hesitated for a moment.


    ¡°When you played piano, tonight¡ªthat was for me, wasn¡¯t it? You were performing for me.¡±


    ¡°I just wanted to remind you that I was there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I left you alone for so long.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all right.¡±


    ¡°I should have been more attentive.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you should have.¡±


    Nina stepped forward and kissed me. The kiss was warm and moist and lasted a long time.


    ¡°I should go,¡± I told her.

 Page 22

    She held open the door and I stepped through it and made my way to the Audi. I had just about reached it when I turned. She was watching from the door. There was considerable distance between us now and she had to shout.


    ¡°I said I didn¡¯t want to get married and I meant it, but . . .¡±


    ¡°But what?¡± I shouted back.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never find anyone better for you than I am, Rushmore McKenzie. Never.¡±


    I lay in my bed a long time yearning for sleep that did not come. My brain was convulsed by too many thoughts and images that made me toss and turn and twist and continually flip my pillow to the cool side. The incident in the skyway. Do the right thing. Wasn¡¯t that a Spike Lee film? The parking lot. There is nowhere you can run that I can¡¯t follow. There is nowhere you can hide that I can¡¯t find you. If that wasn¡¯t a line from a movie, it should be. Jack and Lindsey Barrett, Donovan, Muehlenhaus, and the others. Nina. Maybe I didn¡¯t want to get married, but what the hell! Who could sleep though noise like that?


    Eventually, I gave it up and padded in bare feet down the stairs and into my kitchen. In the freezer compartment of my refrigerator I retrieved a half-filled bottle of Stolichnaya. I poured two fingers of the icy vodka into a short, squat glass and took a sip. It was so cold it made my teeth ache, only, Lordy, it went down nice. I returned the bottle and glanced about. The kitchen appliances on my counter gleamed in the moonlight that filtered through my windows¡ªblender, espresso machine, bread maker, ice cream churn, microwave, pasta maker, George Foreman grill. My sno-cone, mini-donut, and popcorn machines were stored in boxes on my kitchen table¡ªI reminded myself to take them to the Dunstons.


    I took another sip of vodka and drifted to the breakfast nook. I sat at the end of the table, surrounded by eight windows arranged in a semicircle, each window with a view of my backyard. The pond had been frozen over since early December; the ducks that lived there had been gone since late September.


    Nina.


    The first year there had been seven ducks, Tracy and Hepburn and their five ducklings that I named Shelby, Bobby, Victoria, and Katie, after the Dunstons, and Maureen, after my mother. Victoria and Katie returned with their mates the next year and had nine ducklings between them that I named after an assortment of friends. Yet I had never named one after Nina.


    Why not?


    The phone rang before I could answer the question.


    ¡°There is nowhere you can run that I can¡¯t follow,¡± a voice told me. ¡°There is nowhere you can hide that I can¡¯t find you.¡±


    The voice startled me. The malice it conveyed was unmistakable and I had to remind myself that it was merely a voice on the phone. It can¡¯t hurt you. Besides, I had heard it before.


    I turned on the light to read the number in my caller I. D. attachment, but the field was empty.


    ¡°Did you hear me?¡± the voice asked.


    ¡°There¡¯s nowhere I can run that you can¡¯t follow, there¡¯s nowhere I can hide that you can¡¯t find me. Anything else?¡±


    The voice hesitated as if it was unsure of itself. ¡°John Barrett must not be allowed to run for the Senate,¡± it replied in a rush.


    ¡°Okay. Thanks for sharing.¡±


    A moment later, the connection was severed, leaving me staring at the silent receiver.


    This is what happens when you agree to do favors for old friends.


    4


    The difference between five below zero and five above is mostly in the mind. The odds that your car won¡¯t start are just as slim at either temperature; the likelihood that your water pipes might burst is just as high; the danger of frostbite, of numbing death from exposure, is just as real. Yet there was something joyous in the fact that the Twin Cities had finally crept into positive digits. I could see it in the robust gait of pedestrians who no longer felt as anxious over the climate as they had the day before and I could hear it in the voices of the customers at the Dunn Brothers coffeehouse where I had stopped for a mocha. It made me glad to be about with a job to do and a heart for any fate, as the poet once wrote. I didn¡¯t even mind that the early morning rush hour traffic had forced me to rein in the 225 horses beneath the hood of my Audi as I made my way to Merriam Park. For once the prevailing traffic laws seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

 Page 23

    I had moved to the suburbs. It was an accident. I thought I was buying a home in the St. Anthony Park neighborhood of St. Paul, but after making an offer I discovered I was on the wrong side of the street, that I had actually moved to Falcon Heights, though I won¡¯t admit it to anyone but my closest friends. Bobby Dunston, you couldn¡¯t get out of the city, not with a crowbar. He purchased his parents¡¯ home after they retired and was now raising his children in the house where he was raised directly across the street from Merriam Park, where he and I played baseball and hockey and discovered girls.


    I parked on Wilder in front of his house. It took me a few moments to wrestle the popcorn machine out of the passenger seat. If I hadn¡¯t fumbled my car keys in the process and had to pick them out of the snow, I might not have looked up and seen the white Ford Escort parked about a block behind me, its exhaust fumes plainly visible in the cold air.


    I carried the machine up the sidewalk, across Bobby¡¯s porch, and knocked on the door. While I waited, I directed my eyes across the street as if there was something in the park that interested me. It wasn¡¯t an abrupt gesture, but casual¡ªfor the benefit of my tail. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, or rather I watched the car. I couldn¡¯t see who was in it.


    Shelby opened the door with a smile that could guide ships at night. Which in turn made me smile. I tried to picture her at sunrise, telling myself that in the morning¡¯s first light she would look as attractive as a wrinkled grocery bag, but failed. I had known her since college, known her, in fact, for three minutes and fifty seconds longer than her husband¡ªthe exact length of Madonna¡¯s ¡°Open Your Heart,¡± the song they were playing when we met¡ªand she always looked good to me.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± she asked, pointing at the box.


    ¡°A 2554 Macho Pop popcorn popper.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is. Do you need help carrying it in?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got it. Can you get the door?¡±


    I muscled the machine into her house and set it on her living room carpet.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Bobby asked.


    He had come from the kitchen, a newspaper in his hand.


    ¡°Popcorn machine,¡± Shelby told him.


    ¡°How did the Wild do last night?¡± I asked him.


    ¡°Lost 2¨C1.¡±


    ¡°Nuts.¡±


    When I went back outside, he followed me. Bobby and I had started together at the very beginning and watched the world evolve in fits and starts, in disappointments and small victories. He was me and I was him and we felt exactly the same about most things most of the time, and since we lived in the same place at the same time forever, we were able to communicate volumes to each other with a single word or sentence fragment or a raised eyebrow.


    He lifted my Belshaw Donut Robot Mark I, capable of making one hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour, thank you very much, while I grappled with my Paragon 1911 Brand Sno-Cone Machine. I do like my treats.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the Jeep Cherokee?¡± he asked.


    ¡°In the garage.¡±


    ¡°I thought the Audi was going to be the summer car.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just so damn fast.¡±


    Last spring a Chevy Blazer I was chasing outraced me on the freeway. The Audi satisfied my vow that it would never happen again.


    ¡°Why are you home?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Accumulated time off. I put in sixty-seven hours last week.¡±


    ¡°Nice hours if you can get them.¡±


    ¡°If people would stop killing each other, I might actually have time for the family.¡±


    ¡°Where are the girls?¡±


    ¡°They had better be in school.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they be?¡±


    ¡°Gee, I don¡¯t know. Maybe because their surrogate uncle likes to tell them stories about how he and their father used to skip class to run around the city and they think it¡¯s cool.¡±


    ¡°Sorry ¡¯bout that.¡±


    ¡°I can tell.¡±


    A few moments later, the machines were arranged side-by-side in the Dunstons¡¯ living room.


    ¡°I thought you were bringing these over Friday,¡± said Shelby.


    ¡°I have to leave town and I¡¯m not sure when I¡¯ll be back. I wanted to make sure the girls had them for their fund-raiser.¡± I turned to Bobby. ¡°That¡¯s why you don¡¯t have to worry about them skipping school. Because they¡¯re Girl Scouts and we¡ª¡±


    ¡°We were never Scouts.¡±


    ¡°Not even a little bit.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Shelby asked.


    ¡°Victoria, Minnesota.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m doing a favor for Zee Bauer.¡±


    ¡°No kidding,¡± said Bobby.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Zee Bauer?¡± Shelby asked.


    ¡°Lindsey Bauer,¡± said Bobby. ¡°She¡¯s married to the governor now.¡±


    ¡°Lindsey Barrett, the first lady? You know the first lady?¡±


    ¡°She used to live not far from here, near Summit Avenue, on what, Howell?¡± Bobby said. ¡°McKenzie dated her younger sister, Linda, when we were seniors in high school.¡±


    ¡°You called her Zee?¡±


    ¡°Lind-zee,¡± said Bobby. ¡°Not to be confused with Lind-duh.¡±


    ¡°Linda wasn¡¯t the smartest girl in the class,¡± I said.


    ¡°She was a slut,¡± Bobby said.


    ¡°Hey, hey, hey, c¡¯mon . . .¡±


    ¡°Tell me I¡¯m wrong.¡±


    I didn¡¯t. I couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°What are you doing for the first lady?¡± Shelby asked.


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you.¡±


    ¡°Figures.¡±


    ¡°Does it have anything to do with the Ford Escort parked down the street?¡± Bobby asked.


    ¡°You noticed.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an experienced law enforcement professional.¡±


    ¡°I heard that rumor. Didn¡¯t they just promote you to lieutenant of something?¡±


    ¡°A richly deserved reward for my many years of outstanding service working homicide.¡±

 Page 24

    ¡°Want to do me a favor?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know who¡¯s in the Escort, do you?¡±


    ¡°Not a clue.¡±


    Bobby sighed, said, ¡°I¡¯ll make a call.¡±


    ¡°When you find out, call me on my cell. I want to lead him out of the neighborhood in case there¡¯s trouble.¡±


    ¡°Trouble?¡± Shelby said the word like she had just heard it for the first time. ¡°Why does there always need to be trouble?¡±


    I didn¡¯t know how to answer that.


    ¡°I understand why Bobby takes risks,¡± Shelby said. ¡°It¡¯s his job. But why do you?¡±


    ¡°We all take risks everyday, Shel. We all walk down dark alleys without knowing what lurks in the shadows . . .¡±


    ¡°Metaphorically speaking,¡± said Bobby.


    ¡°We risk death riding in hurtling automobiles and by golf balls that are sliced out of bounds and from burritos that aren¡¯t cooked properly. There are diseases waiting for us out there that we¡¯ve never even heard of and probably couldn¡¯t pronounce if we had¡ª¡±


    ¡°Here we go,¡± Shelby said like she had heard it all before, which, of course, she had.


    ¡°The thing is, ain¡¯t no one getting out of here alive, so we might as well have some fun while we can. Besides . . .¡±


    ¡°Live well, be useful,¡± Bobby said.


    ¡°I bet I could learn to like you if I worked at it,¡± I told him.


    He said, ¡°You¡¯re my hero. When I grow up I want to be just like you.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re both a couple of cowboys,¡± Shelby insisted.


    Who were we to argue?


    I explained that instructions for using the machines were in the boxes as well as a hefty supply of ingredients. I told them if I wasn¡¯t back in time, they should call my cell with questions about setup and operation. Then I headed for the door.


    I walked briskly to my Audi. I pressed a button on my key chain and the lights flashed and doors unlocked. Once inside the two-seat sports car, I started the engine and waited. The Ford waited, too. I pulled away from the curb. The Ford did the same. I led it to Marshall Avenue and hung a left. It followed.


    He¡¯s not being careful at all.


    I flashed on my assailant in the Minneapolis skyway, heard the voice of my late-night caller. I wasn¡¯t frightened. Nor was I particularly angry. Mostly I was curious.


    I headed east until I hit Lexington and hung a right. The Ford closed on my rear bumper, then fell back again. At University I hung another right and drove west. The Ford stayed with me. I caught the traffic light at Hamline. The Ford was two cars behind me. My cell rang and I answered it.


    ¡°McKenzie?¡± Bobby said.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°The license plate is registered to Schroeder Private Investigations. It¡¯s a one-man shop owned by Schroeder, Gregory R.¡±


    ¡°PI, huh.¡±


    ¡°Schroeder is five-eight, 160 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, age fifty-five.¡±


    ¡°Practically a senior citizen.¡±


    ¡°Do you need more? I can get you more?¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯ll do. Thanks, Bobby.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have the girls call you later, thank you for the sno-cone machine and whatnot.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not necessary.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is.¡±


    Bobby¡¯s daughters¡ªVictoria and Katie¡ªwere my heirs. If Schroeder, Gregory R., should put a bullet in my head, they¡¯d get to keep my treat machines, and my cars and house, and all my money.


    I deactivated the cell phone and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I glanced in the mirror. My assailant in the skyway had brown hair, I recalled.


    Now what? I wondered.


    It¡¯s like your dear old Dad used to say, my inner voice replied. If you don¡¯t ask questions, you¡¯ll never get answers.


    Ask what?


    Let¡¯s start with, why is he following you?


    Sounds like a plan.


    I annoyed the drivers directly behind me by driving below the speed limit. As I had intended, I caught the long stoplight at University and Snelling, probably the busiest intersection in St. Paul. I put the Audi in neutral, set the brake, opened the door, and stepped out into the street. I left my Beretta in the glove compartment. I had put it there earlier that morning because it had been my experience that after threats usually comes violence. Only this didn¡¯t seem to be that kind of play.


    The hard wind peppered my face with tiny, sharp snow crystals¡ªit was as if the weather was warning me that this was not a smart idea. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and angled my head away from the wind.


    I made my way along the line of cars to the Ford Escort. The driver of the first car I passed rolled down his window and shouted, ¡°Hey, man, what the hell are you doing?¡± I ignored him.


    Even though he must have seen me coming, the man in the Escort seemed surprised when I halted next to his door. I examined him through the windshield¡ªbrown hair, hazel eyes, not tall. I rapped on the driver¡¯s-side window. Schroeder rolled it down.


    ¡°Hey, Greg,¡± I said. Schroeder¡¯s eyes grew wide. ¡°There¡¯s a fifties-style cafe just a few blocks up University at Fairview called Andy¡¯s Garage. Near Porky¡¯s. Know it?¡±


    He nodded.

 Page 25

    ¡°Meet me there and I¡¯ll buy you a cup of coffee.¡±


    He nodded again.


    I returned to the Audi before the light changed. My hands trembled just a tad, but I didn¡¯t know if it was because of the cold or because once again I was playing fast and loose with whatever luck I had left.


    I arrived first at Andy¡¯s Garage and found a parking space in the restaurant¡¯s tiny lot. Schroeder appeared moments later and was forced to park up the street. I was already sitting on a stool at the counter when he entered. A pretty young thing with pink and purple hair was pouring coffee when he sat next to me.


    ¡°Coffee,¡± Schroeder said like he was begging for an antidote to West Nile disease.


    The waitress poured a generous mug.


    ¡°Bless you, child,¡± Schroeder said.


    ¡°Are you two together?¡± she asked, a perky smile on her face. She seemed genuinely pleased when Schroeder answered, ¡°More or less.¡±


    ¡°Let me know if there¡¯s anything else I can get for you.¡±


    I paid for both coffees, but the waitress let the money rest on the counter when she left.


    ¡°So, why are you following me, Greg?¡± I asked.


    ¡°For practice.¡±


    ¡°You need it.¡±


    ¡°Think so?¡±


    ¡°I made you in what, ten minutes?¡±


    ¡°Try a day and ten minutes.¡±


    I didn¡¯t believe him.


    ¡°I picked you up at the Groveland Tap yesterday,¡± he added.


    Yes, I did.


    ¡°The guy in the Park Avenue¡ªhe was very mediocre,¡± Schroeder said. ¡°I was surprised when he got the drop on you.¡±


    ¡°So was I.¡±


    I raised the coffee mug to my lips with both hands for no other reason than to keep them from shaking and studied Schroeder over the rim. His eyes were more green than hazel and they seemed tired. His hair was in want of a trim, he needed a shave, and judging by the way he poured it into his coffee mug, he had way too much sugar in his diet.


    I asked, ¡°Who are you working for?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t tell ya.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Greg. You don¡¯t have privilege. Private investigators have no more rights than the average citizen. Fewer, in fact, if you want to keep your license.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. If a judge orders it, I¡¯ll talk my head off. You wouldn¡¯t happen to have a subpoena in your pocket, would you? No? I didn¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°I could get one.¡±


    ¡°Sure you could.¡±


    ¡°Your honor, this man attacked me on the Minneapolis skyway and then stalked me.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t me.¡±


    ¡°You fit the description.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t me.¡±


    ¡°Say, ¡®If you run I¡¯ll catch you, if you hide I¡¯ll find you.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Is that what he said?¡±


    ¡°Another guy.¡±


    ¡°The one in the parking lot of the International Market Square?¡±


    Jesus.


    ¡°And over the phone,¡± I said. ¡°His voice was disguised. It could¡¯ve been you.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t.¡±


    I believed him.


    Schroeder decided his coffee wasn¡¯t sweet enough and added more sugar.


    ¡°How did you learn my name?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m psychic.¡±


    ¡°Then you should know who I¡¯m working for.¡±


    He had me there.


    ¡°I know who you¡¯re working for,¡± he told me.


    ¡°Are you psychic, too?¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯m clever, just like you.¡±


    ¡°We should start a club.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be president because I¡¯m older and wiser.¡±


    ¡°Greg, why would someone want Barrett to be governor, but not U.S. senator?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll bite. Why would someone want Barrett to be governor, but not U.S. senator?¡±


    ¡°Because someone wants the job but doesn¡¯t think he could win in a stand-up fight.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s one explanation.¡±


    ¡°You have others?¡±


    Schroeder nodded his head.


    ¡°Such as?¡±


    ¡°You tell me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re starting to bore me, Greg.¡±


    ¡°Just lulling you into a sense of complacency.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°Want some advice?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Tell the big boys Barrett¡¯s a helluva guy and get out while the gettin¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°What did you say?¡±


    Schroeder smiled the way a parent might at a child who¡¯s made a mistake on his homework.


    ¡°The guy who attacked you¡ªhe wants you to flush Barrett, doesn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°One does, I¡¯m not sure about the other.¡±


    ¡°Now you know that there are people just as determined that you don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Oh what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like the title of a book,¡± Schroeder said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have a scorecard that identifies the players and their positions.¡±


    ¡°Hell. I¡¯m still trying to get your number.¡±


    ¡°Swell.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you this, though. You¡¯re way over your head.¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be the first time.¡±


    I slid off the stool and put on my bomber jacket. Schroeder watched me while I searched my archives for something clever to say, a good parting line. Schroeder waited patiently.


    ¡°Ah, hell,¡± I said and left the cafe.

 Page 26

    I drove my car out of the parking lot before Schroeder could even reach his and went west on University. Schroeder¡¯s Ford entered the traffic lane and sped up behind me. I watched him in my mirror.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t paying attention yesterday,¡± I told his reflection. ¡°You won¡¯t surprise me again.¡±


    To prove it I slipped Big Bad Voodoo Daddy into my CD player. ¡°How about a little traveling music,¡± I said and cranked the volume.


    I had paid nearly $45,000 for the fully loaded Audi 225 TT Coupe because of the CD player. And the seven speakers strategically located within the car. And the Napa leather interior. And the light silver color. Mostly, however, I bought it because the 1.8-liter 225-horsepower four-cylinder turbocharged engine could propel the Audi from zero to sixty in 6.3 seconds¡ªat least that¡¯s what the manual said. I had done much better on several occasions.


    I turned left at the intersection of University and Highway 280, and took my own sweet time reaching the long, sweeping entrance ramp to I-94. Schroeder¡¯s Ford followed, just beating the light. As if on cue, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy began laying down the opening rifts to the hard swinging ¡°Boogie Bumper.¡± I downshifted and accelerated. By the time I reached the top of the ramp, I was doing seventy.


    Back in what he referred to as his ¡°sordid youth,¡± my father raced stock cars. He and his pal, Mr. Mosley, had put together a team that competed on dirt, clay, and asphalt ovals throughout Minnesota and western Wisconsin. Arlington Raceway, Cedar Lake Speedway, Elko Speedway, Raceway Park in Shakopee, the Minnesota State Fair Speedway, and even Brainerd International Raceway¡ªmy father had raced them all. It was at Brainerd that he bested actor and racing aficionado Paul Newman by the length of his front bumper in a qualifying run. He had a photo to commemorate the event, Newman¡¯s arm draped around his shoulder, the Oscar winner laughing at an off-color joke that my father never told me. It had been one of his most prized possessions and now I owned it.


    Then Dad got married. His bride was ten years younger than he and openly frowned on his dangerous hobby, and when I was born, she made him swear off racing altogether. ¡°You have a family to think of,¡± she told him. After my mother died when I was in the sixth grade, I thought he might take it up again, but he didn¡¯t: A promise was a promise. Yet, while he no longer drove competitively, my dad remained a loyal fan of auto racing. He took me to Cedar Lake and Brainerd and, one glorious Memorial Day, to the Indianapolis 500. When I was fourteen, he taught me how to drive a stick on the dirt roads Up North. I was the best driver in my class at the police academy before I even met my skills instructor, and afterward, I was better still.


    Now I was shifting through all six speeds as I raced around and past the midmorning traffic on I-94, crossing from St. Paul into Minneapolis, downshifting, accelerating through the turns. The sound of a few bleating horns followed the Audi, but Dad had taught me the difference between driving fast and driving reckless. By the time I was heading south on I-35W, Schroeder and his Ford were nowhere to be seen. I didn¡¯t care. I continued to weave in and out of traffic at speeds occasionally topping ninety miles an hour, even as I rehearsed my alibi: ¡°Thank goodness you stopped me, officer. I need help. A man I¡¯ve never seen before has been chasing me for miles. He¡¯s driving a white Ford Escort, license number yada yada yada . . .¡±


    I negotiated the congested Highway 62 interchange while Big Bad Voodoo Daddy went to town on ¡°Go Daddy-O.¡± I kept driving south on 35W, crossed under I-494 and headed into Bloomington. I didn¡¯t slow down until I was on the bridge spanning the Minnesota River and the band started playing ¡°So Long-Farewell-Goodbye.¡±


    I was actually chuckling out loud. The things my father taught me.


    5


    The radio was playing ¡°Light My Fire¡± by the Doors. John Allen Barrett had probably listened to the same song¡ªprobably the same station¡ªwhen he lived in Victoria an eternity ago. I shuddered at the thought of it.

 Page 27

    I had lost all of my radio stations long before I reached the outskirts of the city and had already spun the two CDs I had thought to bring with me. Usually I listen to jazz or what the marketing mavens call adult contemporary and modern progressive, but none of that music seemed to penetrate deep into the southwestern corner of Minnesota. Instead, my scanner picked up two Christian stations, a ¡°big¡± country music station and a ¡°real¡± country music station¡ªdamned if I could tell the difference¡ªan ¡°active rock¡± station that sounded like it had been programmed by teenage girls living in Des Moines, and a talk station on which a man with a jeer in his voice ridiculed Democrats, liberals, feminists, environmentalists, the news media, the ACLU, Hollywood movies that didn¡¯t have lots of explosions, all minorities that didn¡¯t speak English, and bad drivers before cycling back to the ¡°classic rock¡± station. I stayed with the oldies even though the station was now playing ¡°Knock Three Times¡± by Tony Orlando and Dawn.


    Two highway signs told me everything I needed to know about Victoria, Minnesota. The first bragged that it was the Home of the Victoria Seven, Minnesota State High School Boys Basketball Champions. The second announced that it was the first stop in ¡°The Ride Across Minnesota,¡± the five-day, 326-mile bike ride for charity that began in Pipestone and snaked its way across the width of the state from South Dakota to the Wisconsin border. The second sign was located at the bottom of a hill just inside the city limits. I didn¡¯t see the sign or the Crown Victoria police cruiser parked next to it until I had crested the hill, and by then it was too late. The cruiser¡¯s light bar was flashing at me before I had time to even touch my brakes.


    ¡°Good morning, Officer.¡±


    I smiled politely after pulling over and rolling down my window, my hands on top of the steering wheel where the officer could see them.


    ¡°May I help you?¡±


    The officer rested her forearm on the roof of the car and bent down to look through the window. She removed her sunglasses dramatically and announced, ¡°Sir, you were exceeding the posted speed limit.¡± Wisps of frozen breath rose from her mouth and were immediately snatched away by the wind.


    I liked her right away. She was five feet, eight inches tall, about 130 pounds, and she stepped out of her cruiser onto the icy shoulder of the highway like she was modeling police wear. The hard wind ruffled the strands of light red hair that escaped her fur-trimmed hat. Her name tag read D. Mallinger.


    ¡°I was?¡± I asked innocently.


    ¡°Seventy-six in a thirty-five-mile zone. That¡¯s awfully fast. Especially on an icy road.¡±


    ¡°Thirty-five!¡±


    ¡°The speed limit changed at the top of the hill.¡±


    I had driven into an old-fashioned, small-town speed trap and there was no arguing about it. I said, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Officer. I didn¡¯t realize.¡± I was grateful that the cold wind blew in my face. It made my eyes water and helped give me an expression of pleading innocence¡ªat least that¡¯s what I was going for.


    ¡°Nice-looking car,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°The salesman said the design was influenced by Bauhaus, whoever he is.¡±


    ¡°Bauhaus is not a he. It¡¯s an influential German school of design that held that art should be practical as well as aesthetically pleasing.¡±


    ¡°Wow. That¡¯s really smart. I bet you could go on Jeopardy or something.¡±


    The officer smirked and gave her head a half shake.


    ¡°Some women might get away with the dumb blonde routine, but you¡¯re not a woman and you¡¯re not blond. Are you?¡±


    ¡°It was worth a try.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±


    ¡°Would it help if I told you I was racing to the hospital to visit my poor, sick mother?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll need to see your driver¡¯s license, sir.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout if I told you I was eleven and a half years on the job in St. Paul?¡±


    ¡°Driver¡¯s license.¡±


    I reached toward the opening of my bomber jacket with my right hand. Mallinger stepped backward, her hand moving to her holster. I stopped and said, ¡°My wallet is in my inside jacket pocket.¡±


    I unzipped the jacket with my left hand and held it open for her to see. With my right I carefully removed the wallet. I found my license. Mallinger took the plastic card in her gloved hand.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± she said and retreated to her cruiser.


    I watched Mallinger¡¯s reflection in my mirror while I waited, watched her work her onboard computer. She was not only pretty, she was smart. Most of the women and all of the guys I knew probably thought Bauhaus was a bull. A few moments later, she returned.


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie . . .¡±


    Here it comes.


    ¡°You have two speeding tickets over the past four months, but nothing previous. Why is that?¡±


    Because the two tickets notwithstanding, most cops will give a retired police officer a break, I thought, but didn¡¯t say.


    ¡°It¡¯s a new car,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Let me guess. It¡¯s fast.¡±


    ¡°It has a top speed of 130. More if I fiddle with the electronics.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a little young to be having a midlife crisis, aren¡¯t you?¡± I didn¡¯t answer and she said, ¡°If I give you a citation the state¡¯ll probably revoke your driving privileges. I wouldn¡¯t want that to happen seeing how you were once on the job, so I¡¯m going to let you off with a warning. ¡¯Course, you¡¯ve had warnings before, haven¡¯t you.¡±


    ¡°One or two.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. Where are you heading?¡±


    ¡°Victoria.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my town,¡± Mallinger confirmed. ¡°I catch you speeding here again, I¡¯ll hammer you like a nail in soft wood.¡±


    Nice metaphor, I told myself.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be on my best behavior,¡± I promised.


    ¡°Either grow up or get rid of the car.¡±

 Page 28

    Neither one us had anything to say after that and Mallinger returned to her cruiser. I waited until she was safely in her car before pulling off the shoulder and accelerating¡ªslowly¡ªto thirty-five.


    ¡°D. Mallinger,¡± I said aloud as I watched her image recede in my mirror. ¡°I wonder what the D stands for.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what I expected from Victoria. A quaint hamlet draped in sheets of pristine snow like something pictured on a postcard, I suppose. Instead, I found a tired, diminutive Twin Cities. A slaughterhouse and a lawn mower company were pumping enough money into the town to support a small hospital, a library, two elementary schools, a high school, city hall, fire station, and a law enforcement center, but none of them were new. There was a Wal-Mart, of course. A few fast-food joints, bars, convenience stores, and a tiny barn that sold Computers-Crafts-Miniature Golf lined Victoria¡¯s main drag. Christmas decorations still hung from stoplights and street lamps, but there was no joy in them. The evergreen boughs, gold garlands, and red ribbons appeared as gray and exhaust-stained as the drifts plowed along the boulevards.


    Yet there was another side to the city as well¡ªsnow-covered baseball and soccer fields, several parks, three lakes with beaches closed for the winter, and the Des Moines River. A few blocks off Main Street I discovered a charming network of tree-lined streets, large and venerable houses with sprawling porches and tire swings in the front yard, rolling hills marked with the tracks of sleds, toboggans, and skis, as well as something I hadn¡¯t prepared for. How big the sky seemed. It stretched from the white water tower way up north to the grain elevators way down south with only the dome of the courthouse and a few church steeples for competition.


    Now this is what a small town should look like.


    Much of what I knew about Victoria I had learned from a city map I bought at the gas station where I stopped to fill my Audi. I had considered lunch; it was fast approaching noon. But first things first. Using the map, I navigated the streets until I found 347 Second Avenue and rolled into the parking lot. It was a small business. The large, illuminated sign above the door and windows read: FIT TO PRINT. The smaller sign in the corner of the window listed services: Black/White & Color Copies ? Print From Disk/Color Laser Prints ? Manuals, Reports & Newsletters ? Flyers, Brochures & Transparencies ? Binding, Laminating & Custom Tabs ? Instant Posters, Banners & Exhibits ? Business Cards & Letterhead ? Invitations & Specialty Papers ? High Speed Internet Access ? PC & Mac Rental Stations.


    I knew I was screwed before I even left my car.


    The kid behind the counter looked like he was about sixteen. He smiled as if he meant it when he said, ¡°Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you?¡± He was Hispanic, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a name tag that identified him as Rufugio Tapia. His accent was faint¡ªyou had to listen hard to hear it, but it was there. To the right of him there were eight copiers of various size and function; a woman was working one of them, copying what looked like newspaper clippings. To the left was an equal number of PCs and Apples separated from each other by soft privacy walls. Behind the counter I could see several large printers and a couple of machines I couldn¡¯t identify.


    ¡°You provide Internet access,¡± I said.


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°Do you keep track of who uses your machines and when?¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°Is it possible to learn who used your computers at any given time?¡±


    The smile disappeared and his face closed down.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.


    ¡°So, if I were to log onto one of your machines . . .¡±


    ¡°Sir, may I ask your name?¡±


    ¡°McKenzie. Now if I were . . .¡±


    ¡°Why are you asking these questions?¡±


    Tapia wasn¡¯t angry, but he was getting to it.


    ¡°Perhaps you should let me speak to your supervisor,¡± I said.


    ¡°I am the supervisor.¡±


    ¡°The owner then.¡±


    ¡°I am the owner.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding?¡±


    He crossed his arms over his chest, a classic defensive posture.


    ¡°It is not possible for a Mexican American to own a business?¡± he said.


    ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°Twenty-three.¡±


    ¡°When I was twenty-three I owned a Dave Winfield autographed baseball glove, some hockey equipment, and a 1974 Chevy Impala. I was thinking of your age when I said, ¡®You¡¯re kidding.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Oh. Yes. I understand.¡±


    ¡°Listen,¡± I said. ¡°Here¡¯s my problem. An e-mail was sent from one of your machines Friday. I¡¯m trying to figure out who sent it?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t a very nice e-mail.¡±


    Tapia inhaled through his teeth and exhaled slowly.


    ¡°All of our machines are self-service,¡± he said. ¡°Each comes with a self-service card reader. You access them by using a credit card or by buying one of our cards.¡±

 Page 29

    ¡°How does that work?¡±


    Tapia led me to a kiosk next to the PCs. The front of it had simple instructions printed in large type¡ªplus illustrations¡ªexplaining how to slide ones, fives, tens, and twenties into one slot, press the appropriate buttons on a touch screen, and receive a coded self-service card from another slot good for photocopies and Internet access. You insert the card¡ªor any of a half dozen major credit cards¡ªinto the card reader, click a few icons with the mouse, and you have access, $6.39 for fifteen minutes, $25.56 for an hour.


    ¡°I never know who is on-line and I never know where they go while they¡¯re on-line,¡± Tapia said. ¡°I prefer it that way.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no log, no . . . ?¡±


    ¡°Nothing like that, Mr. McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°You have no way of knowing who uses your computers?¡±


    ¡°None. I suppose you could contact the credit card company.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    Tapia shrugged.


    ¡°Do you remember anything that was unusual Friday?¡± I asked. ¡°A customer who acted odd? I¡¯m talking early evening. Around seven.¡±


    ¡°If it was a regular day, maybe I could tell you. But Friday we celebrated our first anniversary. I had an open house all day long. Prizes. Discounts on printing and copies . . .¡±


    ¡°Internet access?¡±


    ¡°That, too.¡±


    ¡°Swell.¡±


    ¡°People were coming and going all day. At five, I shut down my presses. I had cake and drinks for all of my employees, my business clients, my regulars. At one time there might have been as many as a hundred people in here. Any one of them could have used a PC or Apple and I would not have known it. Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. And, hey, congratulations on your year.¡±


    The smile Tapia had shown me when I had first arrived had returned.


    ¡°Gracias,¡± he said.


    The Rainbow Cafe had a worn linoleum floor, Formica tables, and metal chairs. The half-dozen booths arranged against the walls were upholstered in hot pink synthetic leather that was worn at the edges. A dozen stainless metal stools with seats covered in the same material were fixed to the floor along a lunch counter that stretched nearly the entire length of the building. There was a window cut in the wall between the dining area and the kitchen. Two waitresses wearing pink-and-white uniforms pinned their orders to a metal wheel fixed to the top of the window frame, shouted out a number, and spun the wheel toward the cook. When the order was ready, the cook slapped the plates on the windowsill, rang a squat metal bell, and repeated the number. In the corner, a jukebox was spinning Conway Twitty¡¯s ¡°It¡¯s Only Make Believe.¡± I felt I had stepped into 1958.


    I found an empty slot at the counter and read the place mat while I waited to be served. The mat presented horoscopes based on the signs of the zodiac. It said the stars were aligned against me. ¡°A difficult year both professionally and romantically can be expected.¡± As if things weren¡¯t bad enough.


    The waitress saw me frown as I studied the chart.


    ¡°The Mexican across the street is supposed to be delivering the new place mats later this week,¡± she said while setting water and a menu in front of me.


    It was only then that I noticed the horoscope was for last year. I was relieved by the news although when I thought about it, things professional and romantic couldn¡¯t have been much better last year. So much for astrology.


    When the waitress asked, ¡°What¡¯ll ya have?¡± I answered, ¡°What¡¯s good?¡± She said, ¡°Try the cheeseburger. We make it with blue cheese.¡± So I did. It turned out to be one of the best burgers I had ever had¡ªplump, juicy, the cheese melted just so, the onions grilled to perfection. To be honest, I wasn¡¯t all that surprised. The small, out-of-the-way joints have always been my favorite restaurants; their food is so much tastier than the chains.


    While I ate, I plotted strategy. It didn¡¯t amount to much. I knew that the e-mail had originated in Victoria. That meant the governor¡¯s enemy was in Victoria. And, of course, Elizabeth Rogers had been killed in Victoria. The riddle was here. I decided that if I hung around long enough, asked enough questions, I might learn the answer to it¡ªto all of it. Something else, probably more likely: If I couldn¡¯t find out who sent the e-mail, maybe if I made a big enough pest of myself, the e-mailer would find me.


    It was awfully thin, I knew. But it wasn¡¯t like I had anything better to do. It¡¯s not like I actually worked for a living.

 Page 30

    I turned my attention to the discussion going on in the corner. Over a dozen people, mostly old, mostly men, occupied a couple of booths and two tables. A man approaching fifty and wearing a jacket that read A-1 Auto on the back was talking loud enough for everyone to hear.


    ¡°Ten years ago you¡¯d only see the Mexicans, the Hispanics, in the summer. Working on farms. Now¡±¡ªhe shook his head sadly¡ª¡°fifteen percent, that¡¯s what they say. Immigrants¡ªthe Hispanics and the Somalis¡ªten years ago they were one percent of the population and now it¡¯s fifteen percent. That¡¯s why we¡¯re doing the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction. That¡¯s why we¡¯re askin¡¯ you to join. We can¡¯t just let ¡¯em invade our country like this, take our jobs.


    ¡°I was talking to a guy over to the meat plant. He said that immigrants comin¡¯ in, they¡¯re now thirty-five percent of the work force. If that ain¡¯t bad enough, they¡¯re drivin¡¯ down wages. In 1980, a guy could make $17 an hour as a meat packer¡ªthat¡¯s in today¡¯s dollars, adjusted for inflation. Now, it¡¯s only $12 an hour.


    ¡°This can¡¯t go on. If we don¡¯t do something about these people¡ªWe gotta get real Americans back to work. They need jobs, too.¡±


    His audience nodded its collective head.


    ¡°As native-born Minnesotans,¡± the mechanic continued, ¡°we need to protect what we have. These people, bringin¡¯ in their culture, bringin¡¯ in their crime¡ªwe didn¡¯t have a drug problem in this city. We didn¡¯t have people dealing meth and cocaine and whatnot to our children. Where do you think that came from?¡±


    I thought of Tapia, the kid across the street at Fit to Print, who worked hard enough to own his own business at age twenty-three. Yeah, I could see how he was a threat to the community, and I laughed. It wasn¡¯t a loud laugh nor did it last very long, but there were two kids about Tapia¡¯s age and dressed in the coveralls of an auto mechanic. They noticed it and instantly took offense. They nudged the mechanic. The mechanic spun around and gave me a hard look. I went back to my burger.


    ¡°Hey, you,¡± said the mechanic. ¡°You think something is funny?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind me. I¡¯m just passing through.¡±


    ¡°You got a problem?¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Go right ahead with your meeting.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re fightin¡¯ for the future of our community. Is that all right with you?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, pal. I couldn¡¯t care less. It¡¯s not my town, it¡¯s not my problem.¡±


    ¡°No, but you¡¯re gonna sit there smirkin¡¯, thinkin¡¯ we¡¯re a bunch of dumb hicks who don¡¯t know any better. We deal in facts here and we don¡¯t like it when people, when outsiders treat us like the KKK or somethin¡¯, sayin¡¯ we¡¯re racist.¡±


    He took several steps toward me. At the police academy, I was taught that most people when they get worked up will display a series of behavior warning signals that indicate Assault Is Possible¡ªhead back, shoulders back, face is red, lips pushed forward baring teeth, breathing coming fast and shallow. The mechanic was burning through them like a highway flare.


    ¡°The things you¡¯re saying, it¡¯s been said by Americans before.¡± I was trying to sound conciliatory, trying to defuse the situation. ¡°That¡¯s why I was smiling. Not because I think you¡¯re a racist.¡±


    ¡°Then you are sayin¡¯ we¡¯re racists.¡±


    There was no arguing with him because there was no substance to his complaints, only bitterness and defeat. How do you challenge that, and why would you? I gave it a shot, anyway. Silly me.


    ¡°No,¡± I said. I could see his name stenciled in red above his left breast. I used it. ¡°I¡¯m not calling you a racist, Brian. It¡¯s just that what you¡¯re saying about the Hispanics, the Somalis, it¡¯s what people said about the Irish in 1860 and the Scandinavians in 1890. It¡¯s what they said about the Jews and the Germans and the Asians when they came here. Yet things somehow always managed to work out.¡±


    ¡°You think we¡¯re racists and idiots, then.¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯re bored. I think that not much happens in a small town; there isn¡¯t much to talk about, so you spend all your time talking about this¡ªthe Great Immigrant Invasion.¡±


    Okay, that wasn¡¯t very conciliatory, but the mechanic was starting to piss me off with his racist talk. All I wanted was something to eat, not get dragged into his small town squabbles.


    He stepped forward. His face went from red to white, his lips tightened over his teeth, his hands were closed and he began rocking back and forth as his eyes darted from my jaw to my stomach to my groin¡ªtarget glances we call them. I slipped off the stool wishing I had an OC agent, wishing I could Mace the sonuvabitch before he took another step.


    The men around him became still. Their eyes looked angry and their faces were rough and tired and disappointed. They seemed poised to take out their frustrations on someone¡ªanyone¡ªand were just waiting for a signal to strike. I was becoming very nervous.


    The door to the cafe opened. Officer Mallinger stepped through it. She seemed to understand the situation immediately.


    ¡°Brian,¡± she shouted. ¡°McKenzie.¡± Using our names, something I was also taught to do at the academy. ¡°Look at me. I said, look at me.¡±

 Page 31

    We looked.


    ¡°If you can¡¯t do what you¡¯re about to do in front of me, you better not do it.¡± The sentence seemed convoluted, but her meaning was clear.


    The mechanic said, ¡°He¡¯s an asshole.¡±


    ¡°No law against that, Brian,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°If there was, I¡¯d have to arrest half the people in town.¡±


    Just like that, the tension in the cafe gave way to words, smirks, glares, and grumbles. I decided Mallinger was very good at her job.


    ¡°Are you taking his side?¡± The mechanic spoke defiantly, but his posture had changed. His hands were in front of his body, palms out, and his head was slightly bowed¡ªsignals of submission. ¡°You protecting this shithead?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m protecting the peace,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°It¡¯s what they pay me for.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, just remember interim chief¡ªthe job ain¡¯t permanent yet.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°I¡¯m hoping I¡¯ll have your support and the support of all the rest of you, too¡±¡ªshe gestured at the mechanic¡¯s audience¡ª¡°when the city council votes next month.¡±


    Mallinger turned away from the crowd and looked at me.


    ¡°Come here,¡± she said.


    She sat me down in a booth and leaned in close.


    ¡°Chief, huh?¡± I said.


    ¡°Take that stupid grin off your face.¡±


    I stopped smiling.


    ¡°Everyone¡¯s watching. Don¡¯t look at them. Look at me. Everyone¡¯s watching. They¡¯re expecting me to tear you a new one because even though Brian¡¯s an immense jerk, he lives in this town and you don¡¯t. Nod your head.¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Things are volatile enough around here. I got some asshole selling meth to high school kids. I got punks hassling citizens over the color of their skin. Yesterday I got a call to break up a knife fight at the meat plant. Two guys going at each other with these huge boning knives. Turned out they were fighting over a woman, but one was Hispanic and the other was white, so now it¡¯s a racial issue. I don¡¯t need this on top of it. I don¡¯t need riots in the Rainbow Cafe. Nod your head.¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Do you have business in Victoria?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then why don¡¯t you get up, pay your tab, and get to it. Nod your head.¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Go.¡±


    I left the booth and I moved to the cash register. I gave the waitress a twenty and she gave me my change, along with some advice. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go someplace warm, and I don¡¯t mean California.¡± Apparently, she didn¡¯t like me. I couldn¡¯t imagine why, unless she was pals with the mechanic, or she didn¡¯t like outsiders causing trouble in her place, or she thought I should leave a bigger tip.


    I asked her, ¡°Do you have a newspaper in this town?¡±


    ¡°Victoria Herald.¡± She reached for a copy stacked next to the cash register.


    ¡°No. I meant, where is it?¡±


    ¡°Three blocks down and two blocks over,¡± she said, using her hands to indicate which directions were down and over.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Go slip on the ice.¡±


    A few minutes later, I pulled into a small parking lot next to a flat, pale, one-story building. Inside, I found a chest-high counter made of blond wood. Behind the counter was a man who was my height and who even looked a little like me except that he was ten years younger. I, of course, was better looking.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I said. ¡°I would like to look at some past issues of the Herald.¡±


    ¡°How past?¡±


    ¡°Back when the Victoria Seven won the tournament.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess. You¡¯re researching a book about the Seven, or maybe a screenplay like Hoosiers, the Gene Hackman movie.¡±


    ¡°Do you get a lot of that?¡±


    ¡°Not a lot, but enough that no one is surprised by it. I¡¯m Kevin Salisbury.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°This way.¡±


    Salisbury led me across the small, cluttered newsroom to a door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY. Inside the windowless room, I found a series of wide, black-metal shelves shoved against a wall, each shelf stacked with past issues of the Herald. Three vending machines and two plastic trash containers labeled for recycling were arranged side by side against another wall. Baseball bats, balls, bases, and catcher¡¯s equipment were dumped in one corner and a life-size cardboard cutout of Bart Simpson saying, ¡°Don¡¯t have a cow¡± was in another. In the center of the room there was a cafeteria-style table strewn with discarded newspapers and magazines and surrounded by metal folding chairs.


    Salisbury quickly located what he was looking for¡ªtwo thick files of yellowed newspapers held together by what resembled a giant three-ring binder. ¡°February-March¡± and the year was written on the cover of the first in faded marker and ¡°April-May¡± was written on the other.


    ¡°You¡¯ll probably want to start with these,¡± Salisbury said. He set the files on the cafeteria table. ¡°I¡¯ve been telling the boss we should have put all these on microfiche years ago, but he doesn¡¯t listen to me.¡±

 Page 32

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I said. I slipped off my bomber¡¯s jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and sat down.


    I opened the first thick book and tried to find March 15, the day Elizabeth Rogers was killed. Only the Herald didn¡¯t publish on Saturday¡ªonly Sunday and Tuesday through Friday. I scanned the front page of the Sunday, March 16, edition. The cover story was all about how the Victoria Seven had upset Minneapolis North High School for the right to advance to the state basketball tournament the following week. There was no mention of the murder of Elizabeth until Tuesday, March 18. The headline read: Murder of Cheerleader Casts Shadow on State Basketball Tournament. The subhead claimed Victoria Seven Will Fight On Despite Loss. Both stories were wrapped around a shot of the basketball players, which included an impossibly young John Allen Barrett.


    A shot of Elizabeth, obviously her school photo, was tucked inside. The pose was typical, shoulders rotated slightly to the left, head turned to the right, chin up, eyes staring above and past the camera. Yet Elizabeth¡¯s youthful beauty seemed to transcend the mediocrity of the photographer and the ancient newsprint. She had straight, light-colored hair falling to her shoulders, a self-confident, almost smug smile, and large eyes. The cutline beneath the photograph said her funeral had been scheduled for early Wednesday morning so the basketball team could attend before boarding the bus to St. Paul.


    I jumped ahead to the March 20 edition. There was extensive coverage of the funeral, yet again it was all about the boys, with plenty of photographs of them standing at the graveside looking uncomfortable and bored. It annoyed me that none of them appeared to be grieving. Included was a midrange shot of Barrett and a man the cutline identified as Coach Mark Testen. I was pleased to see what I thought were tears on Testen¡¯s face, but closer examination revealed that it was merely two narrow bandages running from his left eye to the middle of his cheek.


    I returned to the Tuesday edition and began taking notes. Over twenty minutes passed before Salisbury spoke, startling me. I had forgotten that he was there.


    ¡°The case was never solved,¡± he said.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°They never found her killer. That¡¯s what you¡¯re interested in, isn¡¯t it? Not the Seven, the murder.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡±


    Salisbury pointed at my notepad.


    ¡°Like all good journalists, I can read upside down.¡±


    I glanced at the notepad. I had scribbled notes about Elizabeth, where her body was found, when, by whom, where she lived, and more. There was nothing about the basketball team.


    ¡°It¡¯s part of the story, isn¡¯t it? The story of the Victoria Seven?¡±


    ¡°I suppose it is,¡± Salisbury agreed. ¡°I wrote a piece about it myself a few years ago during the Seven¡¯s anniversary reunion.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to read it.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing there that you can¡¯t read here,¡± he said, indicating the binder. ¡°Except my contention that the chief of police screwed up, and didn¡¯t I catch hell for that.¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡± I glanced at my notes.


    ¡°Leo Bohlig. He had been chief since the beginning of time. He retired last year and Danny Mallinger took over.¡±


    ¡°Danny Mallinger?¡±


    ¡°Danielle. Know her?¡±


    So that¡¯s what the D stands for.


    ¡°We met on the road,¡± I said.


    ¡°Anyway, Bohlig was still chief when I wrote the story. He wouldn¡¯t answer any of my questions, wouldn¡¯t even let me read the files. Since the case was still active¡±¡ªSalisbury quoted the air with both hands¡ª¡°he said the public had no right to see the files. Personally, I don¡¯t know about that.¡± Salisbury shrugged. ¡°He screwed up and I wrote that he screwed up and that almost got me fired.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a small town newspaper and I wrote a story that gave the small town a black eye and the owner didn¡¯t like it. Simple as that. This paper¡ªmy boss doesn¡¯t want negative stories about Victoria in it. Last week a couple of kids got busted doing crystal meth. Should have been on the front page. We had three paragraphs on page five.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about Bohlig¡¯s investigation.¡±


    ¡°Elizabeth¡¯s body was found in a ditch along County Road 13. Next to Milepost Three, they found her, not far from the Des Moines River. It was within the Victoria city limits so Chief Bohlig claimed jurisdiction. Normally, a crime like that would automatically go to the Nicholas County Sheriff¡¯s Department regardless of where it was committed. Bohlig wouldn¡¯t give it up. He was pretty adamant about it. Why the county didn¡¯t just shove him out of the way, I can¡¯t say. I figured Bohlig must have pulled some pretty stout strings, collected a lot of favors. Anyway, he ran the investigation and came up with nothing. No one was arrested. No leads were developed. No one was even questioned hard as far as I could tell. Eventually, he announced that the murder was committed by transients who were just passing through.¡±

 Page 33

    ¡°You disagree?¡±


    ¡°Hell, I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m only saying that the investigation should have been handled by people who knew what they were doing, not some hick-town cop in a six-man department whose idea of a major crime was someone stealing fishing equipment out of a boathouse. There¡¯s been only one murder committed in Victoria in its entire history. One. It remains unsolved. Bohlig blew it. That¡¯s what I wrote. I was fresh out of JO school and just loaded with idealism, and I wrote that the city of Victoria¡¯s police chief was less than he should be and they damn near fired me for it. ¡®That¡¯s not the way we practice journalism,¡¯ they told me. I came down here hoping I could use the Herald as a stepping-stone in a long and storied journalism career. Now, I¡¯m not so sure.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what you can about the case.¡±


    Salisbury sat in the chair across the table from me. ¡°Why do you want to know?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, it¡¯s part of the story of the Victoria Seven.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. You¡¯re on to something else.¡±


    I considered his hypothesis, couldn¡¯t concoct a lie that would refute it in such short notice, so I told him the truth. ¡°I¡¯m trying to find out what happened to Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t tell you.¡±


    ¡°Then why should I help?¡±


    ¡°There might be a story in it. Something big enough you might get a call from the Cities.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make you a deal.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I love deals.¡±


    ¡°If I can solve the crime, or at least come up with a better explanation of what happened to Elizabeth than the one Chief Bohlig supplied, I¡¯ll make sure you get the exclusive.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here? To solve the crime?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not. But I might have to solve it to get what I came to Victoria for.¡±


    ¡°What is that?¡±


    ¡°See, now we¡¯re back to square one again.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t tell me,¡± Salisbury said.


    ¡°No, but you weren¡¯t that far wrong earlier when you said book or screenplay.¡± I hoped the lie would give him something to think about.


    Salisbury reached a hand across the table.


    ¡°Done.¡±


    I shook his hand, then retrieved my pen and notebook.


    ¡°What do you have?¡± I asked him.


    ¡°Saturday, March 15¡ªThis is all in the newspaper, by the way; you can look it up yourself. Anyway, the day after the Victoria Seven upset Minneapolis North for a berth in the state basketball tournament there was a party at the house of the mayor. Everyone was there, including the coach and all seven of his players. Jack Barrett, captain of the basketball team, was dancing with Elizabeth Rogers, captain of the cheerleading squad, his longtime girlfriend. In the middle of the dance, they start arguing¡ªnow that¡¯s something I developed on my own, it never was printed in the paper. Barrett and Rogers had an argument, and Barrett left the party early, leaving Elizabeth.¡±


    ¡°Did Barrett leave alone?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Where did he go?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Where did he live?¡±


    ¡°Outside town about four, five miles. His old man had a farm off of County Road 13.¡±


    ¡°Did he have a car?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then how did he get home?¡±


    ¡°Walked.¡±


    ¡°Four, five miles? At night? In the winter?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the Cities, McKenzie. There¡¯s no bus service. People walk a lot, sometimes because they have to. Especially kids if that¡¯s the only way they can get around. Distance doesn¡¯t mean as much.¡±


    ¡°What was the argument about?¡±


    ¡°Argument?¡±


    ¡°Barrett and Elizabeth.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah, the argument. No one seems to know.¡±


    ¡°What did Barrett say?¡±


    ¡°Nothing as far as I know. If Bohlig interviewed him, he¡¯s kept the conversation to himself. Anyway, Jack leaves, Elizabeth stays. This is around eight thirty, nine. The party goes on. Around eleven o¡¯clock, which is late in Victoria even if you did just win a historic basketball game, Elizabeth leaves. Alone. Witnesses are pretty adamant about that.¡±


    ¡°Where was she going?¡±


    ¡°The assumption is that she was going home, but like most assumptions . . .¡±


    ¡°Did Elizabeth live near the mayor¡¯s house?¡±


    ¡°A few blocks away. She never made it. Her parents were worried, but they didn¡¯t contact the police until after two.¡±


    ¡°Did anyone leave the party just before or after Elizabeth?¡±


    ¡°No one remembers after all these years, and like I said, I can¡¯t get access to the police reports. All I know is what was reported in the newspaper at the time. They found Elizabeth¡¯s body at Milepost Three early the next morning. There was no sign of a struggle. Apparently, she had been dumped there. That¡¯s what Bohlig said¡ªone of the few things he said for the record.¡±


    ¡°How was she killed?¡±


    ¡°Manual strangulation.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡±

 Page 34

    ¡°What does ¡®hmm¡¯ mean?¡±


    ¡°Strangling someone with your bare hands is considered an intimate way to commit murder. Profilers will tell you that it usually indicates the killer had a personal relationship with the victim¡ªusually, but not always.¡±


    Salisbury stared at me for a moment.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°What was the condition of the body?¡± I asked.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Was she dressed, was she . . . ?¡±


    ¡°Fully clothed. Boots, coat, purse nearby.¡±


    ¡°Not raped. Was she robbed?¡±


    ¡°She only had a few dollars in her wallet, but it was still there. A locket was missing. Apparently she wore it around her neck on a silver chain, wore it everywhere, but that could have come off when she was strangled.¡±


    ¡°Not robbed or raped.¡±


    ¡°So where¡¯s the motive?¡± Salisbury asked as if the question had just occurred to him.


    ¡°What did the ME¡¯s report say?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. I never saw it. No one did. Bohlig said that releasing it would compromise the investigation. That¡¯s what he said during the investigation. Later, he wouldn¡¯t even tell me that much. I tried to get a copy from the county¡ªthe Nicholas County ME did the autopsy¡ªbut I was stonewalled.¡±


    ¡°Was there any other evidence gathered at the scene?¡±


    Salisbury shook his head.


    ¡°There¡¯s always something,¡± I insisted, before reminding myself that the crime was committed over thirty years ago. That was practically the Dark Ages compared to today¡¯s forensic achievements.


    ¡°Who covered the original story?¡± I turned my attention to the ancient newspapers, found the byline William Gargaro. ¡°Can we talk to him?¡±


    ¡°Conversation might be a little one-sided.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean I wanted to talk to him, too, only Billy¡¯s been dead for like twenty years. Most likely, though, everything he knew he put in the paper. That¡¯s what my editor said.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± I packed up my notes.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Salisbury asked.


    ¡°Make a nuisance of myself. Oh, one thing. I want to add a codicil to our agreement.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know me and you don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true enough.¡±


    6


    Victoria Area High School overlooked the Des Moines River. It was a comparatively new building¡ªthe date 1988 was carved into a cornerstone¡ªwith a football stadium on one side and a baseball stadium on the other. There was an empty field between the school and the river, and by the way the snow was trampled, I guessed that it was a popular place with the kids.


    I parked my Audi in the lot behind the school. I had a difficult time finding a space because of all the cars there. I guessed that most of them belonged to the students¡ªso much for Salisbury¡¯s theory of kids in Victoria hoofing it when they needed to get around.


    The doors to the school were unlocked. I walked in and began wandering the halls, looking for the main office. No one stopped me; no one challenged my right to be there. I had to wonder if the school board had made a considered decision to operate its school like a school instead of the armed camp found in so many other schools in so many other towns, or if they were just being careless over security. Then I met the three women in the office and realized it was carelessness.


    I asked for the names and whereabouts of any teachers who might have taught at Victoria when the Seven won the tournament, and they were happy to tell me¡ªwithout checking my ID or, for that matter, even asking my name.


    ¡°Oh, you want to see Suzi Shimek,¡± one woman told me.


    ¡°Where is Suzi?¡± the second asked.


    ¡°She has a free period, Room 238,¡± answered the third after consulting a schedule pinned to the office wall.


    I was given directions, yet no escort, and none of the women asked why I wanted to see Suzi.


    Small towns seem never to believe they have a problem until the problem hits them square between the eyes, my inner voice concluded.


    I eventually found Suzi Shimek hunched over a desk grading papers. Auburn hair fell along the side of her face and she pulled it back with her free hand and tucked it behind her ear. A pair of glasses sat on her head like a tiara. She was a well-made woman and my first thought was that when she was younger she must have had a difficult time keeping the minds of the teenage boys in her class on their work. Even now I could believe half of them would be in serious lust over her.

 Page 35

    I introduced myself gently and Suzi assured me that she welcomed my interruption. She said she would love to chat about ¡°those heady days when the Victoria Seven ruled the earth. Besides,¡± she added, ¡°after grading the same essay question on sixty-two tests, any break in the routine is a blessing.¡±


    Suzi offered coffee in a way that made it impossible for me to refuse and led me to a teacher¡¯s lounge near the second-floor stairway. I had never been in a teacher¡¯s lounge before and was disappointed to discover that it was little more than a small lunchroom. There was a large round table, chairs, vending machines, coffeemaker, refrigerator, a CD/AM/FM stereo cassette recorder on top of the refrigerator, microwave, a bulletin board loaded with flyers, calendars, and memos, and two battered, but comfortable, sofas placed at a forty-five-degree angle to each other. Next to the sofas was a bookcase containing yearbooks as well as textbooks and other volumes. After pouring coffee, Suzi took one of the yearbooks from the shelf and began paging through it. Her spectacles were still perched on top of her head and I wondered if she wore them to see or strictly for show.


    Suzi sat next to me on the sofa. Her eyes were soft blue and candid. I didn¡¯t think she¡¯d be good at keeping secrets.


    ¡°They told me when I was going for my teaching certificate that I would always remember my first class, and they were right,¡± Suzi told me. ¡°I remember my students quite vividly. The Seven, of course, the ones I actually taught at least. Beth Rogers. I had a kid named Paulie who could juggle five balls simultaneously, and a girl named Rachel who threw up during midterms and eventually dropped out because she was pregnant¡ªah!¡±


    Suzi turned the yearbook so I could see the page she found. There was a black-and-white photo of a young woman with dark hair that fell to her waist leaning against a classroom door with her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing bell-bottom jeans and a loose-fitting peasant blouse adorned with flowers.


    ¡°Now be honest, don¡¯t I look like I¡¯m sixteen?¡±


    ¡°This was you?¡± I blurted.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to keep order in the classroom when you look younger than your students.¡±


    Suzi turned the book so she could look at herself some more.


    ¡°How did you manage it?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t,¡± Suzi replied. ¡°I was an awful teacher my first couple of years. Just terrible. I didn¡¯t realize that at the time, though. I thought I was better than Mr. Chips. I thought I was hipper than Sidney Poitier in To Sir, With Love.¡±


    I decided I liked Suzi. Anyone who described herself in relation to movies nearly always got my vote.


    ¡°Here¡¯s another one.¡± It was a photograph of her and a second woman just as young. ¡°That¡¯s me and Monte, Grace Monteleone, but everyone called her Monte. We were both first-year teachers and we kind of gravitated toward each other out of self-defense. We became quite good friends. Now be honest, weren¡¯t we just the cutest things?¡±


    I had to agree. She and Monte had looked like they were manufactured in the same factory¡ªlong hair, long legs, short skirts, and thin waists¡ªalthough, while Suzi¡¯s face was open and exuberant, Monte¡¯s was guarded and had a sad kind of smile that reminded me of the painting of the ballerina hanging in Mr. Muehlenhaus¡¯s lobby.


    ¡°What became of her?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Monte didn¡¯t care too much for Victoria. She did at first. She seemed to love the town, seemed to welcome living here after growing up on the north side of Minneapolis. That changed around the beginning of February at just about the time people were getting excited about the Seven and started making heroes out of the kids. Jack Barrett had been one of her pet projects. He was ungodly smart. He would have been an honor student in any school in the country and Monte was determined that he go to college. Except, suddenly, it was all basketball, basketball, basketball and forget about school. Coach Testen lectured her for giving the boys homework and when she brought it to the principal, he sided with Coach. I think that took a lot out of her.


    ¡°Besides, look around. It¡¯s Victoria, Minnesota, for God¡¯s sake. Back in those days it wasn¡¯t even half as big as it is now. The school was this broken-down barn on the other side of town. Enrollment¡ªwe had ninety-two students, total. That¡¯s why the basketball team was so small. Seven kids played basketball and eleven played hockey. There was talk of closing the school and sending the kids to Windom. That ended after the Seven won the championship. Nobody wanted to be the one to say let¡¯s shut it down after that. Plus, we started getting industry. The lawn equipment people moved here. That generated 350 jobs. The meatpacking plant came two years later. That was another 475 jobs. The town was saved, the school was saved. We now have an enrollment of nearly six hundred. The Seven had a lot to do with that. They brought a lot of positive attention to Victoria at a time when the town badly needed it.¡±

 Page 36

    Suzi smiled broadly.


    ¡°Still, we were both twenty-two, Monte and I, single and pretty and living away from home for the first time, and we couldn¡¯t get a date with anyone who used vowels when they spoke besides eh! There was a sexual revolution going on out there and we were missing out. It didn¡¯t bother me so much. I was excited to be a part of it all, the Seven, the resurgence of the town. Monte¡ªat the end of the school year, she moved to Mankato.¡±


    ¡°Did you keep in touch?¡±


    ¡°Not at first,¡± Suzi said. ¡°I heard she got married, had a child¡ªheard that her husband was killed in Vietnam. We didn¡¯t talk again until a few years later and I saw her name. Monte was conducting a seminar at a teacher¡¯s conference. She had kept her maiden name, which was a radical thing for a married woman to do in those days, but she was always a bit of a feminist. I saw her name and looked her up and we¡¯ve been fairly close ever since.¡±


    ¡°What about the other teachers that were here back then?¡±


    ¡°Gone. Some died. Some moved away. There weren¡¯t that many of us. As far as I know I¡¯m the only one from back then who¡¯s still teaching.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you can answer some questions for me.¡±


    ¡°About the Seven?¡± Suzi asked.


    ¡°Yes, but mostly about Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    Suzi thumbed through the yearbook, found a page and turned the book for me to see. The photograph covered nearly the entire page. It was the same shot that appeared in the newspaper, only in color. There was a black border around the photograph and beneath it Elizabeth¡¯s name was printed along with an epitaph.


    God gives us all love. But someone to love he only lends us.


    ¡°Beth,¡± Suzi said. ¡°She was what they used to call ¡®a dish.¡¯ ¡±


    I hadn¡¯t thought much about her when I first saw Elizabeth¡¯s faded black-and-white photograph in the newspaper. Just a pretty girl now gone. It was only her death that had held interest for me. Yet seeing the photograph in color, that changed. Elizabeth¡¯s face was smooth and gold tinted, her hair was a lustrous shade of gold that only nature could create, and her eyes¡ªhad they really been that brown, or was it merely a publisher¡¯s trick, a mixing of ink?


    Elizabeth had been seventeen at the time of her murder. It must have seemed to her that all the good things in life were hers for the taking. She had only to reach out her hand.


    Did she date much? I wondered, suddenly. Date boys besides Jack? My mother didn¡¯t have many dates when she was in high school. She told me most boys were afraid of her, afraid she would reject them. Or they had simply assumed she already had a boyfriend: someone who looked like her, of course she did. My mother had to wait for a man who was nearly a decade older than she, a man who had been with the First Marines at Chosin Reservoir in Korea, who wasn¡¯t afraid of anything, including a beautiful woman. Did Elizabeth have that problem, too? What about the other girls? Did they resent her because she had such pretty eyes, like they did my mom? Did she ever have the chance to be anything but a girl with pretty eyes?


    Suzi turned the book around and stared at the photo for a few moments.


    ¡°Poor Beth. I sometimes wonder what she was thinking when¡ªwhen it happened. Did she know she was going to die? Did she think she would be saved at the last moment? She must have been afraid. Alone and afraid. Did she beg for her life? Did she pray? Did she . . . ?¡±


    Suzi closed the book and set it on the sofa next to her.


    ¡°Life should be a pleasure for those people lucky enough to be born pretty. That¡¯s what the poets tell us, and I believe it,¡± Suzi said. ¡°Only it isn¡¯t always so, is it? What did Shakespeare write? Alas, what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.¡±


    ¡°I hadn¡¯t thought that much about it,¡± I confessed.


    ¡°I have. Far too much. For months after Beth¡¯s death, I took every compliment as a threat, every invitation as¡ªIt was years before I felt comfortable enough to walk the streets alone, even here in crime-free Victoria. Truth is, I don¡¯t think I have really gotten over it. It was just too close to me.


    ¡°The sad thing, one of the truly sad things, is that we never really had the chance to mourn her. Excitement over the Seven took care of that.¡±


    ¡°Were you at the party?¡± I asked.


    ¡°The night she was killed?¡±


    ¡°Elizabeth was dating Jack Barrett,¡± I reminded the teacher.


    ¡°Beth. Everyone called her, Beth. Yes, she was dating Jack. Of course she was. The prettiest girl dates the prettiest boy. That¡¯s the way it works.¡±

 Page 37

    ¡°At the party, she and Jack had a fight. Do you know what it was about?¡±


    ¡°Who knows? Kids fight, don¡¯t they? I was gone by the time Beth left, anyway. We discovered that a lot of the kids had been drinking. The principal didn¡¯t believe it was wise for us to have any part of that. We were supposed to educate against that sort of thing. But he didn¡¯t want to ruin the party, so he asked us to leave a few at a time. Monte was the first to go. She was happy for the excuse. Monte was not a sports person. She left about, I don¡¯t know, eight-thirty. I left around ten.¡±


    ¡°Were you close to the students?¡±


    ¡°Monte and I both were, probably because we were so close in age.¡±


    ¡°If Beth was upset, distraught over Jack, and wanted to talk, who would she turn to?¡±


    ¡°Lynn Peyer. She was Beth¡¯s best friend.¡±


    ¡°Was Peyer at the party?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°When did she leave?¡¯


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Anyone else? Anyone she might have been going to see the night she was killed?¡±


    ¡°Me, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Except she didn¡¯t come to you.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°How about Monte?¡±


    ¡°Very unlikely.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Monte didn¡¯t approve of Beth. You need to understand. Monte, like I said before, she was a bit of a feminist. At least she was a feminist by Victoria, Minnesota, standards. She believed women could be, should be, whatever they wanted. Only back in those days, living in a small town like this, a woman who graduated from high school either got married or left for college. Beth, to put it charitably, was not going to college.¡±


    ¡°Put it uncharitably.¡±


    ¡°Beth could talk for an hour and not say a thing. She did all her thinking with her body. A lot of girls in small towns did. Maybe big towns, too. They spent their senior years looking for the man they were going to marry, and then spent the rest of their lives wondering what went wrong. That¡¯s just the way it was back then. Beth, like so many of the girls in Victoria, wanted only to get a ring on her finger as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°She expected to marry Jack,¡± I said.


    ¡°Exactly. Anyway, if Beth had gone to Monte, Monte probably would given her a few college brochures and a lecture on self-esteem.¡±


    ¡°Would Beth have gone to anyone else?¡±


    ¡°No one comes to mind.¡±


    ¡°Chief Bohlig claims that she was killed by transients,¡± I said. ¡°That she was grabbed up off the street and killed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what he said.¡±


    ¡°Do you believe him?¡±


    ¡°I want to believe him. I truly do. Otherwise Beth was killed by someone living in this town, someone who probably is still living in this town.¡±


    ¡°You want to believe him, but you don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±


    There didn¡¯t seem to be much more to say after that. After a few moments of silence, I asked to borrow the yearbook. Suzi said, ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°You know who you should talk to?¡± she added. ¡°At least about the Seven? Coach Testen.¡±


    ¡°Is he still in Victoria?¡±


    ¡°Are you kidding? Mark owns this town. He has a place near Jail Park.¡±


    ¡°Jail Park?¡±


    ¡°Central Park,¡± Suzi said. ¡°Before they moved it, the county jail used to be located across the street and people called it Jail Park. Still do.¡±


    ¡°Will Coach Testen talk to me?¡±


    ¡°Try to stop him.¡±


    Jail Park wasn¡¯t what I had envisioned. Instead of a few trees, well-trimmed lawn, playground equipment, maybe a baseball diamond, I found what resembled a wilderness preserve. I knew it was bordered on all four sides by narrow city streets, but the streets were far apart and I was unable to estimate its depth. It could have been as vast as Sherwood Forest for all I knew. There was a wide boulevard between the street and the trees, but no sidewalk. What looked like a path began about a hundred yards from where I had parked in front of Coach Testen¡¯s house and bent into the park, disappearing among dozens of trees and high, thick brush. There were areas like this in the Cities, too, I reminded myself. Pockets of wilderness, hidden, isolated, yet only five minutes from the nearest pizza joint.

 Page 38

    Coach Testen lived in one of those newer homes designed to appear much older, larger, and grander than it actually was. It had a brick front, eccentric angles, high windows, pronounced gables, vaulted ceilings, and exposed staircases. It would have gone for $350,000 in my neighborhood, probably twice that in John Allen Barrett¡¯s. Even so, its dominant feature was an attached two-car garage and the wide asphalt driveway leading to it, the black of the asphalt in sharp contrast with the snow piled on either side. I walked up the driveway to a narrow concrete path that led to the front door and used a knocker that resembled brass but seemed lighter. Coach Testen opened the door as if he were expecting me and I wondered if Suzi Shimek had called him.


    Testen was closer to seventy than he was to fifty, yet he looked as well preserved as Suzi. There must be something in the water, I decided. His eyes were bright and he still had plenty of light-colored hair that seemed to suit the sunny smile and aw-shucks demeanor he presented the moment he found me standing at his front door. I suspected the smile and easy manner were part of a carefully constructed facade, but it¡¯s already been established that I¡¯m cynical.


    Testen seemed overdressed for just hanging around the house¡ªblack loafers with tassels polished to a high gloss, neatly pressed black slacks, a brown, blue, and white cashmere sweater worn over a white cotton dress shirt, tennis bracelet on one wrist and gold watch on the other. Yet what surprised me more was his size. Testen was short¡ªno more than five-five. I had expected a basketball coach to be taller.


    Like Suzi, Testen welcomed my company.


    ¡°It¡¯s always a pleasure to chat about the Seven,¡± he said.


    ¡°I, for one, enjoy meeting a local legend,¡± I replied, laying it on a little thicker than probably was necessary.


    ¡°Please,¡± Testen said, although he was obviously comfortable with the label. ¡°Most of the people living in Victoria today probably don¡¯t even know who I am.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯s not true.¡±


    ¡°Come with me.¡±


    I followed Testen down a corridor toward the back of the house.


    ¡°People in Victoria are pretty excited about the basketball team this year,¡± he said. ¡°We have a young man¡ªa Somali named Nooh Mohamud Abdille¡ªhe¡¯s the real deal. There¡¯s talk that the NBA could make him a lottery pick right out of high school. Plenty of scouts have been following his development closely even though he¡¯s still a junior. I¡¯ve encouraged him to play at least one year of D-1; spend a year in college before trying to make the transition to pro ball. But I¡¯m not his coach. I haven¡¯t been on the bench for a couple of years. Instead, I¡¯m the old coach now, emphasis on old. The kids don¡¯t listen to me.¡±


    Testen paused outside a closed door.


    ¡°Still, Mr. Abdille and his teammates will have to go a long way to achieve what we did.¡±


    With a flourish, Testen opened the door and waved me into the room. Two large windows all looked out on the backyard. The rest of the walls were covered with a banner that screamed ¡°Go Wildcats!¡± several pennants, two basketball jerseys¡ªone white with red numbers, the other red with white numbers¡ªa Victoria High School letter jacket, framed pages from the Victoria, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Mankato, Rochester, and Duluth newspapers proclaiming the Seven¡¯s championship, and dozens of photographs, most in black and white, some in color, of Testen and his team in action. There were also shelves crowded with other memorabilia¡ªtwo autographed basketballs, a half dozen trophies in assorted shapes and sizes, medals, and even more framed photographs. In the center of it all was a huge trophy mounted on a round platform.


    I felt as if I were visiting a shrine.


    ¡°I collected most of what you see, but a lot of it was sent to me,¡± Testen said. ¡°People send me things. A few years ago during the thirtieth anniversary celebration, we put it all on display for the public. People seemed to get a kick out of it.¡±


    ¡°All this for a basketball game?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t just a basketball game.¡±


    Testen moved slowly to the huge trophy and set his hand on top of it.


    ¡°This is a replica,¡± he said. ¡°The real trophy is locked away in the school.¡± Yet the way he caressed the golden basketball made me think it was real enough.


    ¡°You have to understand something about the times we lived in to fully appreciate what the championship meant.¡± Testen spoke as if he was reciting a speech he had given many times, yet never tired of. ¡°We had just lost the war in Vietnam. Because of the growing Watergate scandal, Congress was preparing to impeach the president of the United States. OPEC triggered the first energy crisis in America¡ªpeople who had never wanted for anything were suddenly waiting in long lines to pay soaring prices for gasoline if it was available at all, and our government¡¯s response was to encourage us to lower our thermostats and wear sweaters. The post¨CWorld War II boom was finally ending, inflation was rampant, and the nation began spiraling down into what seemed like an endless recession. The first Earth Day brought millions into the streets to demonstrate over the environment, there were riots in Boston over desegregation and busing, and feminists and anti-feminists protested just about everywhere over Roe. v. Wade.

 Page 39

    ¡°After all that, after the pain and confusion and frustration and anger and rebellion, what did we get? We got Jerry Ford. A good man. An honorable man. A lousy president. Believe me, people needed heroes, and at just that moment we found a few in the form of a ragtag team of smalltown American kids, ultimate underdogs who made it to the top . . .¡±


    I drifted through the room as Testen gave his speech, examining the memorabilia, studying the framed newspaper pages, each dominated by large photographs of jubilant teenagers hugging and dancing and raising their fingers in the air. We¡¯re number one!


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t noticed that much by the rest of the nation,¡± Testen said. ¡°Yet in Minnesota, I think the Victoria Seven was as huge as the Olympic hockey team that beat the Soviets and won the gold medal in 1980.¡±


    ¡°I remember,¡± I said.


    ¡°The funny thing is, we weren¡¯t that good. Jack Barrett was the only one on the team who was given a Division I scholarship. Dave Peterson played Division III at Gustavus Adolphus, but he was a walk-on. Gene Hugoson played JuCo for two years. The rest never played again. It shows in our record, too. We finished the season one game above .500. We never won a game by more than six points. We lost once by thirty-six.¡±


    ¡°How did you manage to win the state championship?¡±


    ¡°People have asked me that question for over thirty years and I always tell them the same things¡ªsuperior coaching.¡± Testen chuckled in a practiced manner. ¡°The truth is, I don¡¯t know. I only know that we won our last six regular season games, cruised into the sections, and kept right on going. It didn¡¯t matter who we played. It didn¡¯t matter how much size we gave up. It didn¡¯t matter if we trailed at the half or by how many points. We couldn¡¯t lose.¡±


    I halted in front of a photograph of the Victoria cheerleaders taken in the school gym. Elizabeth Rogers was in the forefront.


    ¡°I think it was psychological,¡± Testen said. ¡°Somewhere along the line the kids got it into their heads that they couldn¡¯t be beaten and so they didn¡¯t allow it to happen. Anyone who plays or knows sports will tell you that that¡¯s a goofy theory. What¡¯s the line? The race isn¡¯t always to the swift or the battle to the strong, but that¡¯s the way to bet? Still, after all these years, it¡¯s the only explanation I have. That and divine intervention. One sports writer compared us to the Amazing Mets of ¡¯69 that won the World Series.¡±


    ¡°Still, it¡¯s getting to be a long time ago,¡± I said. ¡°Over thirty years.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a long time only when you¡¯re looking forward. You look back and you wonder how the years passed so quickly.¡±


    ¡°What about Elizabeth Rogers?¡± I asked abruptly to see how he would react. Testen continued without pause.


    ¡°Nothing is ever perfect, is it? The boys were very upset by Beth¡¯s death as you can imagine . . .¡± I flashed on the photographs I had seen in the Herald and decided they had done an awfully good job of hiding it. ¡°It was such a small school back then; everyone lived in everyone¡¯s pocket. But what were we going to do? Forfeit? People died the day the Eagle landed on the moon, yet that didn¡¯t stop Neil Armstrong from taking his giant leap for mankind. Do you think it should have?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No, no, of course not. Life goes on, just like it did after 9/11. Anyway, it¡¯s like you said, it was a long time ago.¡±


    So why does Elizabeth¡¯s murder trouble you so, my inner voice asked.


    Because her killer is still out there.


    What do you care?


    It could be Jack Barrett.


    What do you care?


    I care.


    Why?


    I just do.


    ¡°You were at the party the night Elizabeth was killed,¡± I said.


    ¡°I was the guest of honor. Me and the Seven.¡±


    ¡°When did you leave?¡±


    ¡°It was late. Monte¡ªGrace Monteleone¡ªshe was this hippy chick should have been running a flower store somewhere instead of teaching¡ªshe complained to the principal that the kids were drinking beer. Not my kids, I wouldn¡¯t have allowed that, but some of the other kids. She wanted the principal to put a stop to it. He refused. It was a celebration, after all. Instead, he suggested the teachers leave a few at a time, you know, pretend it didn¡¯t happen: out of sight, out of mind. Monte¡ªshe was the first one out the door, probably went home to burn incense or something. I stayed late because, well . . .¡±


    ¡°You were the guest of honor.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Did you see Elizabeth at the party?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure I did, but honestly, I don¡¯t remember what I had for dinner last Monday much less who I saw at a party over three decades ago. Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to learn who killed Elizabeth.¡±


    ¡°After all these years?¡± Testen began to massage his temples and I knew he was regretting that he had opened his door to me. ¡°I don¡¯t think I can help you with that. Why don¡¯t you talk to Chief Bohlig? Ask him about it. He¡¯ll tell you.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what?¡±


    ¡°Tell you what happened. I have no idea. At the time, I was trying to win three consecutive basketball games.¡±


    ¡°Did Elizabeth¡¯s murder help or hurt you in the tournament?¡±


    ¡°Help or hurt? That¡¯s actually a good question. Most people would be appalled to ask it, but¡ªYou look like you used to play some ball.¡±

 Page 40

    ¡°Hockey and baseball,¡± I told him.


    Testen frowned, like I had failed an easy test.


    ¡°Not basketball?¡±


    ¡°Just pickup,¡± I told him.


    ¡°Well, you play sports you learn about motivation. Sometimes the worst thing that can happen is the best. Josie Bloom, not our best player by any means, he¡¯s the one that carried us in the final. Seventeen points, eleven rebounds, four steals, including a big one at the end. He said before the opening tip he was dedicating the game to Elizabeth. Jack¡ªI think Beth¡¯s death hit him the hardest¡ªhe was our best player, and he said the same thing. Yet in the championship game he didn¡¯t play well at all. ¡¯Course, being double-and triple-teamed all night didn¡¯t help. So, to answer your question, I don¡¯t know. I just don¡¯t know.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you one thing, though,¡± Testen said. ¡°Linking what those kids achieved, linking their great triumph to something as sordid and tragic as Beth¡¯s murder annoys me. It¡¯s unfair to them.¡±


    Now was a good time to change the subject, I decided.


    ¡°Tell me about the players,¡± I said. ¡°Where are they now?¡±


    Testen seemed relieved. He found a team photograph.


    ¡°Like I said earlier, they weren¡¯t that special.¡± He was giving his practiced speech again. ¡°It was only what they did that made them special. In many ways they were just typical kids who went on to lead typical lives.¡±


    He pointed to the boy in the middle of the photograph holding a basketball.


    ¡°Jack Barrett went on to become governor¡ªyou know that. Before politics he was a millionaire entrepreneur, owning companies, making deals.¡±


    His finger moved to another boy at the far end of the photo with long hair that must have been pulled into a ponytail in order for him to play.


    ¡°Gene Hugoson went to prison for robbing a convenience store, assaulting the cashier, and stealing her car. He¡¯s now working on his family¡¯s farm.¡±


    Testen moved his finger along the line of basketball players, referring to each of them in turn.


    ¡°Dave Peterson, or I should say, Doctor David Peterson, is an optometrist working out of Mankato. Nick Axelrod owns and operates Nick¡¯s, a family restaurant here in Victoria. Brian Reif works as an auto mechanic . . .¡±


    Ah, my friend Brian, my inner voice said.


    Testen sighed again and I wondered if he always sighed at this part of the presentation.


    ¡°We lost Tony Porter just a while ago,¡± he said. ¡°He was there for the thirtieth reunion of the team, but we all knew then that he was very sick.¡±


    Testen sighed some more, and pointed at the last of the Seven.


    ¡°Josiah Bloom. Well, I guess he¡¯s sick, too. He¡¯s an alcoholic, although the last I heard he was clean and sober.¡±


    Testen set the photograph carefully where he found it.


    ¡°Very much a microcosm of America.¡±


    ¡°Just one big happy family,¡± I said.


    Testen laughed in reply.


    ¡°Lord, no. I said they were a microcosm of America. Sometimes they couldn¡¯t stand to be around each other.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°People can always find a reason to irritate other people, can¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°What about Governor Barrett? How did he get along with the rest of the Seven?¡±


    ¡°Jack¡ªhe was the exception. Everyone loved Jack.¡±


    Everyone loved Jack. Well, not everyone, I reminded myself when I returned to my Audi and headed south. I was fumbling with my map, debating whom to annoy next when I encountered County Road 13. I hung a left and followed it to Milepost Three. I don¡¯t know why, certainly there was nothing to see after all these years. Curiosity, I guess.


    When I reached the milepost, I stopped the Audi along the shoulder, put it in neutral, and set the brake. I sat and listened to the radio. After a few bars of country anguish, I switched it off. There were no structures that I could see and no traffic. It was as good a spot to dump a body as any.


    I slipped out of the car. Only the wind whistling through the power and telephone wires that lined the blacktop and the gentle hum of the car engine disrupted the silence. Gray, snow-covered farm land stretched into the distance, merging with the gray sky¡ªthe horizon could have been a mile away, or it could have been a thousand. There was no color, except . . .


    I moved to the edge of the ditch. I gazed at a spot of red just below the milepost.


    What is that?


    I stepped into the ditch and immediately descended into knee-deep snow. I could feel it lodge between my boots and jeans as I plowed my way to the red.


    It was a flower. A red rose partially drifted over by blowing snow. When I pulled at it, a second bud appeared, and a third. I kept digging until I had recovered a bouquet of fifteen long-stemmed roses, frozen but still bright with color. Whoever had thrown them there had done it recently¡ªI say ¡°thrown¡± because there were no footprints in the ditch save my own.

 Page 41

    I carried the roses back to my car. Once on the blacktop, I stamped my boots, shaking the snow free. I brought the flowers to my nose, but, of course, there was no scent.


    ¡°What in the hell are fifteen roses doing here?¡± I asked the deserted road. ¡°Is it a tribute to Elizabeth?¡±


    Maybe, my inner voice replied. Either that or a message.


    7


    T. S. Eliot called April ¡°the cruelest month.¡± T. S. Eliot never spent a January in Minnesota. If he had, he would have known that to us April is the light at the end of the tunnel. It is the promise of warmth; it is the bright and shiny future (not to mention the beginning of the baseball season). It is also a long way off. Which is why I took great pleasure from stepping into Fleur de Lis on Main, the only florist shop in Victoria. It smelled warm and damp and made me think of spring.


    The woman behind the counter had enormous eyes that seemed to be in mourning. She spoke softly and for a moment I wondered if she was conducting a wake in the back room.


    ¡°May I help you?¡±


    ¡°Do you sell long-stemmed red roses?¡±


    ¡°We certainly do.¡±


    ¡°How many in a bouquet?¡±


    ¡°Usually a dozen, but we can make up a bouquet of any size.¡±


    ¡°Have you recently sold a bouquet of fifteen roses? Long-stemmed roses?¡±


    ¡°Fifteen?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so¡ªNo, I¡¯m sure I haven¡¯t. Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°I recently came across a bouquet of fifteen red roses, and I wondered if they came from here.¡±


    ¡°No. No, I¡¯m sure they haven¡¯t. I would have remembered an order of fifteen. It¡¯s an odd number.¡±


    ¡°In what way is it odd?¡±


    ¡°There is a traditional meaning attached to the number of roses you give someone. For example, a single rose means ¡®Love at first sight,¡¯ or ¡®I still love you.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Still love you? I thought it meant simply, ¡®I love you.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s three roses. Nine roses means ¡®We¡¯ll be together forever.¡¯ A dozen means ¡®Please be mine?¡¯ Two dozen means ¡®I¡¯m forever yours.¡¯ Fifty roses professes ¡®Unconditional love.¡¯ Nine dozen means ¡®Will you marry me?¡¯ and nine hundred ninety-nine roses means ¡®I will love you till the end of time.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°What does fifteen mean?


    ¡° ¡®Please forgive me.¡¯ ¡±


    A short time later I was again parked on the shoulder of County Road 13 opposite Milepost Three. I left the Audi, went to the edge of the road, and tossed the bouquet of fifteen red roses back where I found it.


    ¡°Who is it, Elizabeth?¡± I asked. ¡°Who¡¯s apologizing to you? Or are the roses meant for me?¡±


    If the flowers hadn¡¯t been purchased in Victoria, then they must have come from outside. As I had.


    ¡°I¡¯m being played, sweetie,¡± I said aloud. ¡°I can feel it. I don¡¯t suppose you could tell me who¡¯s plucking the strings?¡±


    Elizabeth didn¡¯t answer.


    I stood alongside the ditch, not moving, not really thinking much, either. Someone driving by could have mistaken me for a cow in a pasture. After a few minutes I dropped a single white chrysanthemum next to the roses. The woman at the flower shop told me it meant ¡°truth.¡±


    ¡°It would be nice, Elizabeth,¡± I said, ¡°if we could find some.¡±


    The huge, overstuffed chair had been upholstered in blue mohair and the large sofa against the wall was covered in the same material. Both had ornately carved woodwork on the arms and along the backs. The large rug was a faded Persian. A coffee table made of ancient wood stood on the rug in front of the sofa and a matching end table had been placed at the elbow of the chair. There was a lace doily in the center of the end table and a crystal lamp in the center of that. Mounted on the wall in front of the sofa was a series of photographs. Mrs. Rogers identified the subjects¡ªElizabeth, her daughter, murdered by assailant or assailants unknown, Michael, her son, killed in a car accident, Thomas, her husband, dead of a heart attack.


    ¡°It has been very difficult,¡± Mrs. Rogers said.


    Her eyes had known anguish, yet suffering had not made them hard. Instead, they somehow had remained soft, even kindly and I wondered how Mrs. Rogers had managed it.


    ¡°After Beth was killed, my anger was powerful,¡± she explained. ¡°I hated. Since the Lord didn¡¯t show me whom to hate, I hated the world, I hated Him. I hid that anger, that hate, buried it deep inside because there were so many others who were hurting as I was, so many others who needed help. My husband, I needed to help him deal with our loss. My son¡ªmy son was so young at the time, only ten years old when his beloved sister was taken from him, and like the rest of us, he did not know why. So many others. Relatives. Friends. Neighbors who did not know Beth except as a cheerleader at the high school. They were all suffering, all desperate for comfort. I needed to be strong for them. When they no longer needed my strength, I tried to regain my anger, my hate; I went searching for it in the lowest part of my heart and discovered that it was gone.¡±

 Page 42

    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine getting over something like that,¡± I said.


    ¡°You do not get over it, you do not forget. It is not a photograph you paste in an album and put on the shelf to examine only on occasion. It is with you always, like the air you breathe. You must learn to accept it and move on in order to live life according to God¡¯s will.¡±


    ¡°God¡¯s will?¡±


    Mrs. Rogers smiled slightly and I realized that I wasn¡¯t the first person to question God¡¯s will in her presence.


    ¡°God does not murder young women, Mr. McKenzie. He does not tell children to drink and drive. He does not cause inactive, overweight men to die of heart attacks. We¡±¡ªshe tapped her breast¡ª¡°are the cause of the world¡¯s ills. Not God. I do not hold him responsible.¡±


    I do! I didn¡¯t speak the words, yet Mrs. Rogers seemed to hear them just the same.


    ¡°Did you lose someone close, Mr. McKenzie? Someone you loved.¡±


    ¡°My mother. My father.¡±


    ¡°How did they die?¡±


    ¡°She died slowly of cancer when I was very young. He died quickly of a brain tumor a few years ago. They say the tumor could have been growing for years.¡±


    ¡°For years,¡± Mrs. Rogers repeated. ¡°I wonder how many extra years he was given.¡±


    Not damn near enough, my inner voice answered.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t come here to talk about that,¡± I said.


    ¡°What did you come here to talk about?¡±


    ¡°Elizabeth. I¡¯d like to find out what happened to her.¡±


    ¡°Chief Bohlig said¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe him.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Pretty young women are not kidnapped off the street and just killed, Mrs. Rogers. They are sometimes robbed and killed. They are more often abused and killed. Sometimes other things happen. But they are not just killed. Not by transients. Not by strangers. I think she was killed by someone she knew.¡±


    Mrs. Rogers shook her head.


    ¡°I have thought long about that, about the possibility that Beth was murdered by someone she trusted.¡±


    ¡°What have you decided?¡±


    ¡°I do not believe that anyone who knew Beth could have hurt her.¡±


    ¡°So, you think someone killed her at random for no particular reason?¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie, do you believe in evil?¡±


    I¡¯ve heard the question before. It had often been bandied about in the squad room and in the corridors of the Ramsey County Court House. For most people, evil is abstract, a theoretical means of describing human behavior that is otherwise incomprehensible to them. To others it is very real, in the way drugs and guns and anthrax letters and airplanes crashing into skyscrapers are real. Only I had been a cop a long time and I knew better.


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am,¡± I said. ¡°I do not believe in evil. I believe in motive.¡±


    Mrs. Rogers thought about that for a moment.


    ¡°Whom do you suspect?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Your daughter was seeing Jack Barrett.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Mrs. Rogers said abruptly. ¡°I do not believe that. I know Jack¡¯s heart. He could never have done such a thing.¡±


    I was surprised by how glad I was to hear Mrs. Rogers¡¯s defense of Barrett, yet just the same I said, ¡°Witnesses said Elizabeth and Jack had an argument the night Elizabeth was killed.¡±


    Mrs. Rogers shook her head, refused to consider the possibility. I let it slide.


    ¡°Were there any other boys who were interested in your daughter?¡± I asked. ¡°Boys who were jealous, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°I believe that most of the boys were interested in Beth and that many of them were jealous because she would date only Jack.¡±


    ¡°Did any of them bother her?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Did any call, send letters, follow her?¡±


    Again Mrs. Rogers shook her head.


    ¡°What about girls? Did Elizabeth have any enemies?¡±


    ¡°All high school girls have enemies. It is the politics of their age.¡±


    ¡°Anyone in particular?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Afterward, did anyone act strangely? At the funeral perhaps.¡± I noticed something move behind the woman¡¯s eyes. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The day after the Seven won the championship, just after the town threw them a parade, Josie Bloom came to see me.¡±


    ¡°What did he do?¡±


    ¡°He hugged me. I opened the front door and found him there. He said, ¡®Mrs. Rogers, I am so sorry,¡¯ and he hugged me and he cried for a very long time. The entire town was celebrating the basketball team. It did not wish to be reminded of Beth. So, for Josie to do that¡ªI was very touched.¡±


    Josiah Bloom the alcoholic, who dedicated his game to Beth.


    ¡°Mrs. Rogers, I found a bouquet of red roses at the site where your daughter¡¯s body was found.¡±


    ¡°You did?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°About a half hour ago.¡±


    ¡°How odd. Who could have left them?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I was going to ask you.¡±


    ¡°I have no idea.¡±


    ¡°Has anyone left flowers at the site . . . ?¡±


    ¡°Since Beth was killed?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Like a shrine?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°No. This is the first I¡¯ve heard of anyone¡ªWho would do such a thing? Why now, why after all these years?¡±

 Page 43

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Mrs. Rogers stared at me for a few beats as if she were seeing me for the first time.


    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± she asked suddenly. ¡°Why do you need to learn who killed my daughter?¡±


    ¡°Until this morning, I didn¡¯t. Yet somehow it¡¯s become very important to me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you were sent by God to finally put the matter to rest.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it.¡± The very suggestion made me nervous.


    ¡°Why do you doubt it?¡±


    ¡°If God needed help, I¡¯m sure he could find someone more competent than I. Besides, I haven¡¯t prayed, really prayed in many years.¡±


    ¡°Since your mother died.¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°The Lord works in mysterious ways, wondrous to behold.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°I should tell you before you pursue this any farther, Mr. McKenzie, that while I wish you well, I have already forgiven the person who killed my daughter.¡±


    I thought that was the most amazing statement I had ever heard.


    I paused before turning into the parking lot of Fit to Print to allow a young woman wearing a ponytail and a Victoria High School letterman¡¯s jacket to cross the street in front of me. There were six patches sewn to her left sleeve representing basketball, speech, debate, band, scholarship, and track and field. When I was a kid she would have been labeled an overachiever. These days kids are expected to be Renaissance men, they¡¯re supposed to compete in sports, learn a language, play an instrument, write poetry, study physics and algebra. That¡¯s a lot of pressure. More than I grew up with. Still, I suppose it beats wasting their time in front of the television or playing video games.


    ¡°Pretty,¡± I thought as she passed my car, even with the anxious expression etched across her face. I didn¡¯t look to see what made her anxious. Instead I waited for an oncoming vehicle to pass before wheeling into the lot. I silenced the Audi and opened the door.


    The word was so loud and expressive that I was sure it was meant for me.


    ¡°Bitch.¡±


    I spun toward it.


    Two young men, both dressed in jackets with A-1 Auto printed on the back, were blocking the woman¡¯s path. She tried to move past, but they kept sliding in front of her, forming a wall, nudging her backward along the sidewalk.


    I recognized them immediately. They were the white guys whispering encouragement to Brian Reif in the Rainbow Cafe. The names stenciled over their breasts told me they were Mitch and Steve.


    ¡°You like those bean burritos, don¡¯t you,¡± Mitch said. ¡°You like those chili-shitters.¡±


    Steve lifted the woman¡¯s ponytail. She slapped at his dirty hand like it was a mosquito. He pulled it out of range and laughed.


    ¡°Does he wear Hispandex to bed?¡± Steve said, laughing at his own weak joke. ¡°Does he go to the Latrino?¡±


    They¡¯re hassling her because she¡¯s seeing a Hispanic, my inner voice said. Well . . .


    I called to them in my best high school Spanish as I approached. ¡°?Oyen, chicos! Por favor. ?Dejen de molestar la chica!¡± Hey, guys. Please. Stop bothering the girl.


    They looked at me like I had come from Mars.


    ¡°What the fuck do you want?¡± Mitch asked.


    I asked him if that was a nice way to talk. ¡°?Eso es una manera agradable de hablar?¡± My tone was deliberately mocking.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Mitch asked.


    ¡°Ain¡¯t that the guy from before?¡± his friend answered.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± I asked the girl.


    She told me she was fine. As for the other two, I told them to go away.


    ¡°V¨¢yanse.¡±


    ¡°I knew you weren¡¯t no American,¡± Mitch said.


    That¡¯s when I backhanded him across the mouth. The force of the blow spun him on his heels and propelled him across the narrow boulevard against the side of a parked car. Steve spit ¡°Bastard¡± at me, curled his fingers into a fist, and cocked his right arm. He took way too much time doing it. I grabbed Mitch by his collar and yanked him back, putting him directly between Steve¡¯s fist and me. Steve connected with the side of Mitch¡¯s face with a lot more force than I had. Mitch would have fallen if I hadn¡¯t been holding tight to his collar.


    ¡°Oh God, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry . . . ,¡± Steve repeated.


    ¡°Shit,¡± said Mitch, cradling his face with both hands.


    I shoved him hard. Steve had to grab him to keep him from falling.


    ¡°?V¨¢yanse!,¡± I said to them. ¡°?Ahora!¡±


    They took three steps backward before Mitch tore himself from Steve¡¯s grasp.


    ¡°This ain¡¯t over,¡± he said. ¡°You got a fight coming. It¡¯s coming soon.¡±


    I told them to stop it, they were frightening me. ¡°Dejen de hacer est. Me est¨¢n dando miedo.¡± I smiled while I watched them scurry across the street toward the Rainbow Cafe. Only the young lady didn¡¯t share my joy. The name stitched to her letterman¡¯s jacket read JACE.


    ¡°What did that prove?¡± she wanted to know.


    ¡°That a young woman can walk the streets of Victoria unmolested?¡±

 Page 44

    Her expression reminded me of Mount Saint Helens right before it exploded.


    ¡°Okay, it didn¡¯t prove a damn thing.¡± I raised my hand to eye level, squinting through the space between my thumb and index finger. ¡°But didn¡¯t seeing those bigots get theirs make you feel that much better?¡±


    ¡°Violence isn¡¯t going to change their minds,¡± Jace said. ¡°It isn¡¯t going to make the problem go away. It only makes it worse.¡±


    She had me there.


    Jace looked both ways when she entered Fit to Print and smiled coyly at Rufugio Tapia. I followed her inside, but she wasn¡¯t paying any attention to me.


    ¡°Hi,¡± she said as she moved toward him. It was a small word, yet she filled it with promise.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Tapia replied.


    They stared into each other¡¯s face, their eyes waltzing together in four-four time. She reached the counter and leaned halfway across it. Only he didn¡¯t bend to meet her.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to kiss me, R.T.?¡± she asked.


    Tapia gestured in my direction with his head.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind me,¡± I said. ¡°Kiss the girl.¡±


    Tapia found something on the counter to interest him. The young woman looked down and away. They weren¡¯t going to kiss and the only explanation that I could think of was that she was white and he was Hispanic and there was a witness.


    ¡°Mind if I use this?¡± I asked, gesturing at the nearest Apple.


    ¡°Help yourself.¡±


    I had stopped at Fit to Print to gain access to the Internet, using my credit card just the way my mysterious e-mailer must have. While I surfed, Tapia and the young woman bowed their heads toward each other and spoke softly. I tried to give them as much privacy as possible.


    I had found all the names I wanted in the yearbook Suzi had lent me and was now looking for addresses. Dr. Dave Peterson was easy. He had his own Web site. I called his number in Mankato on my cell and arranged for an appointment the following morning. Grace Monteleone was now principal of West Mankato High School. I found her number easily enough, too, but I had to climb over three tiers of bureaucracy before I could arrange a meeting about an hour after I was set to speak with Dr. Peterson. Gene Hugoson, Brian Reif, and Nick Axelrod were all in Victoria. I recorded their addresses in my notebook and decided to visit them in person without calling first. It took a while to find Josiah Bloom. He was also in Victoria, but apparently he moved around quite a bit. I nearly gave up on Lynn Peyer before I found records of her numerous marriages and divorces. Unlike Monte, Lynn had changed her name three times and now went under the name Lynn Matousek. She also lived in Victoria.


    I logged off the Apple. Tapia was standing next to me as I put on my jacket. The young woman was standing at the counter. She might have been waiting for a bus for all the attention she paid me. Tapia extended his hand and I shook it.


    ¡°I want to thank you for helping my girl.¡±


    I grinned.


    He said, ¡°What?¡±


    ¡° ¡®My girl.¡¯ I like the sound of it. I bet she does, too.¡±


    Tapia suddenly found something on the floor that needed looking at. Jace began to blush. Her cheeks were the color of a winter sunset.


    ¡°Have you two ever read Romeo and Juliet?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You mean the story about the two lovers who die because their families hate each other so much they can¡¯t be together?¡± Jace said. ¡°That Romeo and Juliet?¡±


    ¡°Bad example,¡± I told her.


    ¡°You think?¡±


    ¡°There has been trouble in town recently between Latinos and Somalis and the white residents,¡± Tapia said.


    ¡°What kind of trouble?¡±


    ¡°Usual thing. Whites complain that immigrants are taking all the jobs, which is nonsense. The jobs they are taking¡ªit¡¯s in the slaughterhouse. People coming up here are taking the dangerous, low-paying jobs¡ªthe hard work, low-prestige work¡ªthat the white, U.S. born residents just won¡¯t do. I don¡¯t blame them. My father, he worked hard, so very hard, worked two jobs when I was young so I could go to school, so I wouldn¡¯t need the slaughterhouse.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he added. ¡°I didn¡¯t see much discrimination in college, but down here . . . Sometimes it is bad and sometimes it is not so bad. Right now it¡¯s bad because kids¡ªchildren of immigrants¡ªthey were arrested for using drugs, using methamphetamine. Now people are saying that along with ruining the economy we¡¯re bringing in drugs. Yet people are also excited because Victoria might win another state basketball title after all these years because of the kid who plays center¡ªa young man from Somalia. I just don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Did you ever think of leaving? The both of you going somewhere else?¡±


    ¡°Do you know a place where there is no discrimination?¡± Jace asked.


    ¡°The Cities,¡± I said.

 Page 45

    Tapia and the young woman looked at each other like they had simultaneously discovered I was a raving lunatic.


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying you won¡¯t find any bigotry up there,¡± I said. ¡°You will. Of course you will. You¡¯ll find it everywhere you go. Only you¡¯ll find less of it. In a big city, a white woman dating a Hispanic, a Hispanic married to an African American, an African American dating an Asian, an Asian spending time with a Jew, a Jew with a Muslim, a Muslim shacking up with a conservative Republican¡ªwe see it all the time, and most people don¡¯t even notice, much less care.¡±


    ¡°This is my home,¡± Tapia said.


    ¡°Mine, too,¡± said Jace.


    Good for them.


    I changed the subject. Pointing at the front of her letterman¡¯s jacket, I said, ¡°Interesting name.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s short for J.C.,¡± she said. ¡°People called me J.C. when I was a kid but now everyone just calls me Jace. Sometimes they say Jacey with a long e. But I like Jace.¡±


    When she was a kid? my inner voice asked.


    ¡°J.C. and R.T.,¡± I said. ¡°Sounds like a match.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re just friends,¡± said Tapia.


    Who was he kidding? I wondered. Not the punks out on the sidewalk.


    The young woman¡¯s eyes widened at the lie, but she said nothing.


    ¡°Listen, kids, there¡¯s something you should know. The earth spins on its axis at about a thousand miles an hour. You can¡¯t slow it down and you sure as hell can¡¯t stop it.¡±


    ¡°What is that supposed to mean?¡± Tapia asked.


    ¡°It means, kiss the girl while you have the chance.¡±


    A few moments later I was standing outside. I zipped my jacket to my throat and looked up at the dirty gray sky. The weather geek on the radio had predicted snow and I figured that sooner or later he¡¯d be right.


    I walked to my Audi without once looking over my shoulder through the large windows of Fit to Print. It would have cheered me to see the kids making out like bandits on the counter, but I didn¡¯t think there was much chance of that happening.


    What a shitty town.


    Whatever was in the water that Suzi Shimek and Coach Testen were drinking, Lynn Matousek was having none of it. Her hair was thin and black with plenty of gray at the roots; she had a heavy, square body and a shiny face. She was only pushing fifty years old, yet could easily pass for sixty.


    I introduced myself at the door and said, ¡°May I ask you a few questions?¡±


    ¡°Are you a cop?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Are you a private investigator?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡± It¡¯s illegal to pass yourself off as a law enforcement officer, but hell, anyone can be a PI.


    ¡°Which one of the assholes hired you?¡±


    I was confused and probably looked it.


    ¡°My ex-husbands,¡± she said. ¡°Which one hired you?¡±


    ¡°How many are there?¡±


    ¡°Three. I got three ex-husbands.¡±


    ¡°None of them hired me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to believe that?¡±


    ¡°Lady¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you doin¡¯ here? Lookin¡¯ for more shit t¡¯ use against me in court?¡±


    ¡°I want to ask some questions.¡±


    ¡°You said that. ¡¯Bout what?¡±


    ¡°Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    That slowed her down. ¡°Beth? Why? After all these years why would you ask about Beth?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to find out what happened to her.¡±


    ¡°Why? Why now? Is this for one of those TV documentaries or something? Is this for¡ªAre you working for the governor? Is this for that shithead Barrett? If it is, you can just get your ass outta here.¡±


    I saw the opening and took it.


    ¡°It¡¯s time the people of Minnesota learned just what kind of man they elected to office,¡± I told her. ¡°I don¡¯t know what party you¡¯re affiliated with¡ª¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t affiliated with no party.¡±


    ¡°But I work for people who want to bring honor and integrity back to the governor¡¯s office.¡±


    ¡°What people?¡±


    ¡°Real Minnesotans who want to take back their state.¡±


    Lynn¡¯s eyes grew wide. ¡°Are you going to stick it to Barrett, that bastard?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about Governor Barrett. This is about the truth.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon in.¡±


    I followed Lynn into her home, dodging debris as I went. Apparently she kept house the way some college kids kept house.


    ¡°Want a drink?¡± she called over her shoulder.


    ¡°If it¡¯s not too much trouble.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s not too much trouble,¡± she mumbled. ¡°Have a seat.¡±


    I found one behind a coffee table stacked with newspapers and the remains of Chinese takeout¡ªbeef lo mein, I guessed. A moment later, Lynn returned carrying a bottle of Phillips and two glasses. She set them on the table in front of me, poured a generous amount of vodka into one glass and took it across the room, leaving me to serve myself.


    ¡°You wanna know who killed Elizabeth Rogers?¡± she asked.

 Page 46

    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s ¡¯bout time somebody did something about Beth. That bastard ain¡¯t never paid. You wanna know who killed Beth? I¡¯ll tell you. Jack fucking Barrett killed Beth. Jack Barrett killed Beth and everyone in town knows it. Only no one in the fucking town cares. They didn¡¯t care at the time cuz he was a fucking sports hero and they don¡¯t care now cuz he¡¯s the governor and they didn¡¯t care in between cuz . . . who the fuck knows? Cuz they let him get away with murder which makes ¡¯em what? Accomplices? Ah, it don¡¯t matter. No one cares.¡±


    ¡°I care,¡± I said.


    ¡°Are you gonna get him? Are you gonna get him cuz of what he did to Beth?¡±


    I smiled my most conspiratorial smile and said, ¡°Tell me what you know.¡±


    Lynn brushed the debris from a chair next to mine, sat down, and leaned forward, holding her vodka between her hands.


    ¡°People say there¡¯s no proof that Jack killed Beth. But there is proof. What you call irrefutable proof.¡±


    ¡°Tell me.¡±


    ¡°The locket. The locket Beth always wore. What was missing when they found her body.¡±


    ¡°What locket?¡±


    ¡°The one he gave her. Beth wore a little silver locket in the shape of a heart. You open it up and there¡¯s this tiny picture of Jack on one side and a tiny picture of Beth on the other side. Jack gave it to Beth when they were juniors and Beth never, ever took it off. Even when she took a shower she wore it. She was wearing it at the party. I saw it. Only it was gone when they found her.¡±


    ¡°There could be a lot of reasons for that.¡±


    Lynn shook her head vigorously.


    ¡°Jack took it,¡± she said. ¡°He killed her and took the locket. The fucking governor of the state of Minnesota. He did it.¡±


    ¡°Why? What motive did he have?¡±


    ¡°Because, because . . . Just because. Look, the night of the party Beth had a fight with Jack Barrett.¡±


    ¡°Do you know what it was about?¡±


    ¡°Jack was cheating on her.¡±


    ¡°He was?¡±


    ¡°Yeppers.¡±


    ¡°With who?¡±


    ¡°Beth didn¡¯t know. That¡¯s what the fight was about.¡±


    ¡°If she didn¡¯t know who he was cheating with, how could she be sure?¡±


    ¡°You think we¡¯re stupid? I always knew when my husbands were cheating on me. They always knew when I was cheating on them. You don¡¯t need to be no rocket scientist.¡±


    ¡°Did you ever learn who it was?¡±


    ¡°Nah. No one said nothing afterward. I wouldn¡¯t have said nothing, either.¡±


    ¡°Someone at the party?¡±


    ¡°Fuck if I know.¡±


    ¡°When Elizabeth left the party, she left alone,¡± I said.


    ¡°She left alone,¡± Lynn repeated and drained her glass of vodka. ¡°Whew,¡± she exhaled. ¡°That was good.¡± Good enough that she poured herself another hefty drink. She drank some more vodka and said, ¡°Look. Jack did it. Everyone knows that. The whole fuckin¡¯ town knows that. So what are you gonna do ¡¯bout it?¡±


    Good question.


    ¡°When Beth left the party, where was she going? Do you know?¡±


    Lynn shook her head.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t confide in you?¡±


    ¡°We were¡ªWe came together and we should have left together, but . . .¡±


    ¡°But what?¡±


    Lynn drained her glass a second time.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t told but a half dozen people this, but if it¡¯ll help you get the governor . . .¡±


    ¡°What haven¡¯t you told?¡±


    ¡°The reason Beth left the party alone. We were going to leave together. I should have been with her. I wasn¡¯t. Know why? You wanna know why? I¡¯ll tell you why? Because I was on my fucking knees in the upstairs bathroom giving the mayor a blow job when Beth decided to go home, that¡¯s why. Seventeen years old and this man married with two kids in my school and he, and he tells me¡ªFuck. I believed every word he said. Fuck. That¡¯s why Beth left the party alone. Men can be such bastards.¡±


    I watched as Lynn poured herself another straight vodka.


    ¡°That¡¯s why I drink,¡± she said. ¡°That¡¯s the secret to my success. One of the secrets, anyway.¡±


    She drank some more.


    ¡°Worst thing that ever happened in this town was that fucking basketball tournament.¡±

 Page 47

    Nothing Lynn Peyer Whatever Whatever Matousek had told me proved that Jack Barrett had murdered Elizabeth. I could see why she believed it, why she wanted to believe it. Others in Victoria probably believed it, too. Yet the question remained: Who sent the e-mail? I didn¡¯t think it was Lynn. She didn¡¯t strike me as the e-mail type. If she had decided to threaten Governor Barrett, she would have done so far less subtly and at a much greater volume. Besides, how could she have possibly learned Lindsey Bauer¡¯s private e-mail address? I crossed her name off my list of likely suspects, but lightly, and in pencil.


    I was idling at the intersection waiting on the light, debating which way to turn next. The traffic had an anxious feel to it, like all the drivers were afraid they were missing appointments. A black Mercedes pulled next to me, the engine revved impatiently. It was a new SLK 320 convertible with the top up, costing about the same as my car. I had taken a look at one a few months back before buying the Audi.


    I recognized the driver immediately. Coach Testen. We glanced at each other and I nodded my head in greeting. He looked away. Was the snub intentional or did he simply not notice me?


    The light changed and he was off in a hurry. I watched the Mercedes disappear around a corner.


    A few minutes later I was on a county road heading out of town toward the South Dakota border. Both Lynn Matousek and Mrs. Rogers had asked why I cared about what had happened to Elizabeth. I wasn¡¯t sure myself. She wasn¡¯t the reason I had come to Victoria, although I was beginning to think she was the reason I was sent here. At the same time, it felt as if her eyes were watching me from on high as I drove Victoria¡¯s back roads. Perhaps she had been searching for someone to speak for her after all these years and finally found a man who might manage it. It was an incredibly arrogant thing for me to think, I know. Yet the idea pleased me just the same. It made me feel important.


    At the same time, I recalled what Mrs. Rogers had said earlier. ¡°Perhaps you were sent by God.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, right. Me and God.¡± I crossed my fingers. ¡°We¡¯re like this.¡±


    I still had the map of the greater Victoria area that I had purchased at the convenience store and was now following it to the Hugoson farm. It was only 4:30 P.M., but dusk was already gathering. By five the sun would set. I had hoped to arrive at my destination before then. As it turned out, I drove past the farm and was nearly two miles down the road before I realized my mistake and doubled back.


    I couldn¡¯t estimate the size of the Hugoson farm. It seemed huge, its snow-covered fields stretching toward the setting sun. The farm¡¯s driveway, however, was about two hundred yards long and plowed to the dirt. It started at the county blacktop and rose up a slight incline to a white two-story house with blue shutters that were badly in need of paint. There were two large pole barns flanking the house, both made of sheet metal. The driveway ended in a kind of courtyard framed by the three structures. I parked in the center, turned off the engine, and slid out of the Audi. The huge door to the nearest pull barn was open and I moved toward it. A hard crust had formed on the snow. It made each step sound like I had dropped my car keys.


    Just inside the door, I could see the back end of a dark blue pickup. I called out and a man dressed for a tedious day¡¯s work in the hard cold stepped around the truck and into the courtyard.


    I recognized him instantly. I had been trained by experience to recognize him by the way he restricted his movements, not turning his head or gesturing with his hands, relying on peripheral vision instead of normal eye movement. I recognized the way he controlled the muscles that gave his face expression and spoke in a restrained conversational range, neither low nor loud, excited nor dull. He was an ex-con, someone who had done the kind of time measured by many wall calendars.


    ¡°Mr. Hugoson?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Whatever you¡¯re sellin¡¯ I ain¡¯t interested in buyin¡¯ and by the looks of that car of yours, I doubt I could afford it, anyway.¡±


    ¡°My name¡¯s McKenzie. I¡¯d like to talk to you about¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know what you want to talk about and I ain¡¯t havin¡¯ none of it. Get off my property.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Hugoson¡ª¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t hear real good, do you, boy?¡±


    He stepped nearer. Somehow he seemed to expand, becoming larger, straighter, harder, with eyes that held all the warmth of an ice pick. He stared at me without blinking so I would know that he was a dangerous man and certainly not squeamish about assaulting a trespasser. It was unnecessary. I already knew he was a dangerous man. I took a step backward as my right hand moved slowly to the spot on my hip where I would have holstered my gun if I hadn¡¯t been so careless as to leave it in my glove compartment.


    ¡°News travels fast in a small town,¡± I said.


    ¡°Bad news does.¡±


    I turned to my right, but he was quicker, moving so that the setting sun was at his back and shining directly into my eyes.


    ¡°Why are you afraid to talk to me?¡±


    Hugoson strung together a half dozen altogether filthy obscenities that suggested he wasn¡¯t afraid of anything, much less a big city punk of dubious sexual orientation.

 Page 48

    ¡°Does your mother know you talk like that?¡± I asked. It was a horribly lame retort, I know; it was the best I could come up with at the moment.


    In response, Hugoson turned his back on me and stepped inside the barn. A moment later an unseen motor hummed and the huge door shuddered, shook, and rolled shut. I cursed out loud. I wasn¡¯t used to having doors slammed in my face, especially such big ones.


    Brian Reif had a worn, weary expression that reminded me of a retired civil servant, someone who had been beaten down by ignorance and indifference and ingratitude. I found him inside A-1 Auto across the street from Nick¡¯s Family Restaurant and recognized immediately that he wouldn¡¯t talk to me. At least not civilly.


    He was alone, wearing the same dungarees he had on at the Rainbow Cafe, and was working on a nearly new SUV. He came into the office when I arrived, looked at me for about two seconds, turned around, and walked back into the garage. Without an audience, he had no use for a confrontation.


    I followed him.


    ¡°How did the meeting go after I left?¡± I asked him. ¡°Sign up any new members?¡±


    He answered by taking an air wrench to the lug nuts of the SUV. The car didn¡¯t need tires, but then he wasn¡¯t changing them, just loosening and tightening the nuts with the air wrench, making noise.


    ¡°Mr. Reif . . .¡±


    The noise was so loud I heard it in the soles of my feet.


    ¡°Mr. Reif . . .¡±


    I decided I might as well be talking to a microwave oven. I was angry enough to consider whacking Reif on the side of his knee with the heel of my boot, except there was nothing to gain by it. Still, I might have done it anyway if I hadn¡¯t been distracted by the opening bars of ¡°Don¡¯t Fence Me In¡± played on my cell in between blasts of the air wrench. I recognized the phone number on my display. I returned to the office and answered it.


    ¡°Hi, Nina,¡± I said.


    ¡°McKenzie. Tell me you¡¯re not still angry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not angry. I never was.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you were.¡±


    ¡°Was not.¡±


    ¡°Was too.¡±


    ¡°Nuh-uh.¡±


    ¡°Then why don¡¯t you come over. I¡¯ll buy you dinner.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love to . . .¡±


    ¡°Prudence Johnson is singing tonight, one of your favorites.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°You are still angry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Then why . . . ?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not in the Cities.¡±


    ¡°Where are you?¡±


    ¡°A couple hundred miles southwest, in Victoria, Minnesota,¡± I explained.


    ¡°You rich jet-setters. The world¡¯s your playground.¡±


    ¡°I really appreciate the invitation, though.¡±


    ¡°What are you doing in Victoria and what is that god-awful noise?¡±


    Reif was still working the air wrench while he watched me, obviously wishing I¡¯d go away.


    ¡°Nina, I can¡¯t talk right now.¡±


    ¡°Okay, well . . .¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call you later tonight.¡±


    ¡°Promise?¡±


    ¡°I promise.¡±


    ¡°I love you,¡± she said.


    I deactivated the cell without replying. I closed the phone and slipped it into my jacket pocket. I gave an enthusiastic wave that Reif pretended not to see and stepped out of the office into the auto shop¡¯s parking lot. It was only about 5:30 but night was already a dark reality. Across the street the bright red neon sign of Nick¡¯s Family Restaurant beckoned to me.


    8


    I opened the door to Nick¡¯s, stepped inside, and let the door close itself. It was a big, heavy wooden door that could easily withstand a battering ram. It seemed to fit perfectly with the rest of the restaurant¡¯s decor¡ªscarlet carpet, white stucco walls, false timber beams across the ceiling, and small, high windows built to discourage patrons from throwing one another through them. The bar was shaped like a horseshoe and surrounded by stools with black cushions. There were square tables with four chairs each arranged in the center of the room and a dozen high-back booths along the walls. The lights were dim except for the neon signs behind the bar and mounted on the walls that advertised various brands of beer and tequila, and the air reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume sold for seven bucks a bottle. In the corner, a young woman stood in front of the jukebox, biting her nails as she studied the selections. Her companion at the nearest table watched her intently, as if he were afraid that the next button she pushed would end all life as he knew it.


    Family restaurant? Not my family, I told myself.


    Still, most of the booths were filled¡ªmost with families¡ªand so were half the tables. Three waitresses moved between them, serving food and beverages. Two men worked the bar, one old, one not so old. I drifted toward the bar. Before I was halfway there the older bartender called to me.


    ¡°McKenzie. What¡¯ll ya have?¡±


    That stopped me. There were joints where they actually knew my name. Just not this one.


    While I thought about it, the bartender waved me over. He was bald, round, soft, and as milky white as mashed potatoes. Yet his eyes were bright and he smiled like a man who took it as a personal triumph whenever he could make someone laugh.

 Page 49

    ¡°I¡¯m guessing you would be Nick Axelrod,¡± I told him.


    ¡°At your service,¡± he said loudly. It seemed everything he said was loud. He extended his hand and I shook it. His grip was firm but he didn¡¯t try to impress me with it.


    ¡°Since this is your maiden voyage aboard the Good Ship Nick, the first drink is on the house.¡±


    ¡°In that case, make it a single malt Scotch.¡±


    Axelrod laughed boisterously.


    ¡°Good one,¡± he said. ¡°Glenlivet?¡±


    ¡°Perfect.¡± I removed my jacket and draped it over the back of the stool.


    ¡°Water, ice?¡± Axelrod asked.


    ¡°On the side.¡±


    For some reason Axelrod thought that was funny, too.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing Coach Testen told you I¡¯d be by,¡± I said.


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Tried to be cool, but you could tell he was all hot and bothered. Said a little prick in an expensive leather jacket was besmirchin¡¯ the good name of the Victoria Seven and I should throw your ass out.¡±


    ¡°Why would he say that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. You don¡¯t look so little to me.¡±


    ¡°I meant about throwing me out.¡±


    ¡°Coach is probably tryin¡¯ to protect his image. Thinks he¡¯s John Wooden, for cryin¡¯ out loud.¡±


    ¡°He thinks he¡¯s in the same league as the Wizard of Westwood, a man that¡¯s won ten NCAA basketball championships?¡±


    ¡°What can I tell ya? Hey, you know what you need? Roast beef served open-faced on sourdough bread with garlic roasted mashed potatoes and gravy. Yum. Your mother couldn¡¯t make it better.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s no endorsement. My mother could barely make dinner reservations.¡±


    Axelrod thought that was hysterical.


    ¡°The woman could mess up Pop-Tarts,¡± I added.


    If he had been able to reach across the bar, Axelrod probably would have slapped me on the back. Instead, he rapped the bartop with his knuckles and proclaimed, ¡°You¡¯re okay, kid.¡±


    I felt as if I had just passed some important initiation, which was what I was going for: Why else would I insult my mother¡¯s culinary skills?


    ¡°Seriously,¡± Axelrod said, ¡°You¡¯re not leaving here until you eat something.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a salad bar?¡±


    ¡°No, we don¡¯t have a salad bar. This is Nick¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Someone has to make a stand against healthy food.¡±


    ¡°Damn straight. Hey, Jacey.¡±


    A waitress seemed to appear out of thin air.


    ¡°This is my daughter, Jace,¡± Axelrod said.


    Of course I recognized her. The girl from Fit to Print.


    ¡°Hi,¡± she said. Her smile was bright, but brittle. You could smash it with a word. Her eyes had the look of a small animal suddenly confronted by something much, much larger.


    ¡°Good evening, Jace,¡± I told her. ¡°My name is McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°Jace. That¡¯s an interesting name.¡±


    ¡°My real name is Judith Catherine, but since I was a kid everyone called me J.C. Somehow that was abbreviated to Jace.¡±


    ¡°I like it very much. It¡¯s pretty.¡±


    Jace¡¯s smile became relaxed and warm, her eyes less frightened.


    She was a good height for her age, about five foot seven. Her features were small and well turned, not yet beautiful, but beauty was there, like the buds on a rose bush. She smiled as though she had a lot to smile about.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell anyone,¡± Axelrod said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial timbre. ¡°Jacey¡¯s too young to be working in a place that serves alcohol. Shh . . .¡±


    ¡°Daddy, what¡¯s alcohol?¡± Jace asked.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk about that when you¡¯re twenty-six. Just remember, what do you do if the police arrive?¡±


    ¡°Buy ¡¯em a drink and take them in the back room?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my little girl.¡±


    Jace rolled her eyes. ¡°As if . . .¡± She turned to me, her pencil poised over the order pad. ¡°What would you like for dinner?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s called supper,¡± Axelrod said. ¡°He¡¯ll have the special.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s supper when you eat at home,¡± Jace insisted. ¡°When you eat out it¡¯s called dinner.¡±


    This time it was Axelrod¡¯s turn to roll his eyes.


    Jace promised to return in a few minutes with my order. Axelrod watched her depart.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to miss her,¡± he said. ¡°She¡¯s at that age now where she¡¯s actually pleasant company, where she has interesting things to say.¡±


    ¡°Is she going somewhere?¡±


    ¡°College. In the fall. You think I want my daughter hanging around Victoria all her life? Don¡¯t get me wrong, Victoria is a great place to grow up and a great place to grow old. In between, for someone who wants to make something of herself¡ªJace¡¯ll be graduating high school soon. It¡¯s time to move on.¡±


    ¡°You seem to have done all right,¡± I volunteered.


    ¡°Yeah, well, all I ever wanted was right here. I guess you could say I was seduced by small dreams. Jace, though, Jace has big plans, big ambitions.¡±


    ¡°What ambitions?¡±


    Axelrod laughed loudly.

 Page 50

    ¡°They seem to change from week to week, but they¡¯re big. Very big.¡± He laughed some more.


    The restaurant continued to fill up until only a few empty seats along the bar remained. Glancing at the other patrons, I discovered that they were all white. I don¡¯t know why I found that so disconcerting, but I did. Maybe Jace had a very good reason to hide her relationship with the Hispanic kid at Fit to Print.


    While Axelrod busied himself assisting the other bartender, Jace served the hot roast beef.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said when she set the plate in front of me on the bar.


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For what. For not blowing my cover.¡±


    ¡°I take it your father doesn¡¯t know about Tapia.¡±


    ¡°Nobody knows. Not really.¡±


    ¡°Is your dad a bigot? Will he not understand?¡±


    Jace looked at me like I had just slapped her.


    ¡°My father is not a bigot.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I thought . . .¡±


    ¡°My father wants me to go to college, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°And you want to stay here?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Because of Tapia?¡±


    She nodded.


    McKenzie, my inner voice told me, you¡¯re an idiot.


    Jace busied herself with other customers, while I ate. I had to admit, the roast beef was delicious, and while the mashed potatoes weren¡¯t quite as good as mine, I ate every forkful¡ªno Atkins Diet for me! Jace eyed the empty plate before she cleared it, glanced at my waistline, then back at the plate again.


    ¡°Huh,¡± she said. ¡°You must work out.¡±


    ¡°Not recently, unfortunately.¡± I retrieved my wallet. ¡°Should I pay you now?¡±


    ¡°Boss says it¡¯s on the house.¡±


    I opened my wallet, took out a fifty, and dropped it on the tray Jace was holding.


    ¡°I don¡¯t imagine that includes tips,¡± I said.


    ¡°That¡¯s way too much.¡±


    ¡°I remember what it was like to be a poor, starving college kid.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Jace said.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    She moved away, stopped abruptly, and spun toward me.


    ¡°You¡¯re on his side.¡±


    ¡°If I should have a daughter, I¡¯d want her to go to college, too.¡±


    ¡°Puhleez,¡± Jace said.


    Still, despite her outrage, she didn¡¯t return the fifty.


    In between drink orders, Axelrod came to visit. He told a lot of jokes¡ªmost could be heard by the rest of his patrons¡ªwhile I behaved like I had taken Good Cheer 101 in college. Eventually, I asked the questions I had come to ask.


    ¡°Beth was pretty,¡± Axelrod said in reply to one of them. ¡°Only she wasn¡¯t very bright and she took herself way too seriously. At least that¡¯s what I always thought. ¡¯Course I think everyone takes themselves way too seriously.¡±


    ¡°How about Coach Testen?¡±


    ¡°Him most of all. He pretends that winning the championship ranks as one of the greatest sports achievements of all time. I can understand. I mean, it¡¯s the only thing he¡¯s ever done. Only you know what? It wasn¡¯t nearly as exciting or earth-shattering as Coach and some others make it out to be. Don¡¯t get me wrong. I don¡¯t mind that he¡¯s nurtured it, made a legend outta it. Around here some people treat me like I¡¯m a celebrity cuz of it. It helped me make a go out of this place.¡± He gestured at the restaurant. ¡°So, believe me, I don¡¯t mind.


    ¡°What you gotta remember, small towns are different from big towns. The past is more important to us. We tend to live there longer. That¡¯s why Coach gets nervous when he thinks someone might tarnish the legend he¡¯s created. Have you seen his museum? Good God.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve seen it.¡±


    ¡°So you know what I mean.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about the night Elizabeth Rogers died,¡± I said.


    ¡°You¡¯re not gonna let that go, huh? Okay.¡±


    Axelrod added very little that I didn¡¯t already know except this: The Seven, all of them, had left the party an hour before Elizabeth had.


    ¡°We¡¯d been hoarding beers all night without the parents or Coach catching on. Especially Coach. The man woulda freaked. When we had enough, we left and went to drink them.¡±


    ¡°Where did you go?¡±


    ¡°Josie Bloom¡¯s basement. His parents were gone and we went down there and just got wasted.¡±


    ¡°Was Jack Barrett with you?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know where Jack was.¡± Axelrod seemed serious for a moment, or as close to it as he could manage. ¡°I never asked him where he was.¡±


    An instant later, he was back to his jovial self.


    ¡°I heard Jack was angry with Beth,¡± I said.


    ¡°Nah, it was the other way round. Beth was getting all paranoid on him, accusing him of things, saying how he was sleeping with another girl, stuff like that.¡±


    ¡°Was he?¡±


    ¡°If he was, none of us ever found out about it, and being as how Victoria was such a small town back then, we probably would have. I figure Beth saw the writing on the wall. She knew Jack was going to leave her for the U and this was a way of saving face. You know, dump him before he dumped her.¡±


    ¡°They broke up?¡±


    ¡°Well, sure. It was inevitable. I mean, God, they were kids. If Jamie got involved with someone at that age, I¡¯d whack her upside the head.¡±

 Page 51

    I flashed on Tapia, but said nothing.


    Axelrod was laughing loudly again, or at least he increased the volume on the laugh that seemed never to end. I glanced about. No one was looking at us. I guessed that Axelrod¡¯s patrons were used to his outbursts.


    ¡°Jack left the party,¡± I said.


    ¡°Yep.


    ¡°Then you and the others left.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°Sometime after that, Beth left.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all you know?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°Were you ever questioned by the Chief?¡±


    ¡°Chief Bohlig? No, why would I be?¡±


    Before I could answer, a man appeared just inside Nick¡¯s heavy wooden door. His hair was parted crookedly and in need of shampoo. His complexion looked blotchy under a two-day growth of beard, and while he was clearly underweight, he was as doughy as unbaked bread.


    ¡°Nick,¡± he brayed, suddenly the loudest man in the restaurant. ¡°You no-good sonuvabitch.¡±


    ¡°Hey, Josie, how are ya, man?¡± Axelrod called out. His voice was still loud and cheerful, but something had changed. There was an edge to it that hadn¡¯t been there before.


    ¡°I need a drink,¡± Bloom announced, scratching first his hands and then his cheeks.


    ¡°You look like you¡¯ve already had plenty, partner,¡± Axelrod said. I agreed. Bloom seemed like a man who had been to hell and back and remembered every step of the journey.


    ¡°What¡¯re you, my mother?¡± Bloom said. ¡°A drink. Rye.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout something to eat first. We¡¯ve got a great special tonight. Jace,¡± Axelrod called.


    A moment later the young woman was standing there with her pencil and pad.


    ¡°Good evening, Mr. Bloom,¡± she said. ¡°What can I get you? The special?¡±


    ¡°Hey, hey, hey,¡± Bloom chanted. He stopping scratching long enough to wrap an arm around Jace and hug her shoulder. I don¡¯t know why I was annoyed by the gesture, but I was.


    ¡°Judith Catherine,¡± Bloom said. ¡°How¡¯s my sweetheart?¡±


    ¡°Just great,¡± Jace replied.


    ¡°Atta girl.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout that special?¡± Jace asked.


    ¡°If¡¯n that¡¯s the only way I¡¯m gonna get a drink in this dump, yeah, why not?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing, Mr. Bloom. Good to see you again.¡±


    She patted Bloom¡¯s arm and smiled before turning toward the kitchen.


    ¡°Hi, Mr. Bloom.¡± I extended my hand. ¡°I¡¯m McKenzie.¡±


    He looked at my hand as though I had offered him the dirty end of the stick.


    ¡°Who the hell is he?¡± he wanted Axelrod to tell him.


    ¡°McKenzie¡¯s been asking about the Seven,¡± Axelrod explained.


    Bloom grinned, but there was nothing friendly about it. Maybe it was the teeth, I told myself. They were a ghastly shade of gray and his gums were bright red.


    ¡°Fuck the Seven,¡± he said. ¡°Where¡¯s the restroom? Hell, I know where the restroom is.¡±


    Bloom spun in the direction of the kitchen and staggered away.


    ¡°Charming,¡± I said.


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s just Josie,¡± Axelrod said. ¡°He¡¯s all right. It¡¯s just¡ªI told you about Coach and the tournament? Same with Josie. Winning the championship was the highlight of his life. Ever since God¡¯s dealt him nothing but slop.¡±


    ¡°Why would God do that?¡±


    ¡°Who knows why God does half the things He does? I¡¯ll tell ya, He¡¯s sure been good to Jack though, huh?¡±


    I remembered something my Dad used to tell me¡ª¡°God helps those who help themselves¡±¡ªbut didn¡¯t mention it.


    ¡°It¡¯s this place, this town,¡± Axelrod said. ¡°Josie should live in the Cities, Mankato; live where people don¡¯t know or care that he stole the ball with eight seconds left on the clock and passed it to Jack so Jack could win the game at the buzzer. Only he can¡¯t seem to get away.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been told he suffers from what psychologists call dual diagnosis depression, meaning he¡¯s not only clinically depressed, he self-medicates himself with alcohol, which makes it worse. Another guy, he told me Josie suffers from biological unhappiness, whatever that means. I think it¡¯s just that he¡¯s been unable to deal with the terrible fact that his life, his entire existence has been defined by something he did when he was only seventeen years old.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s he do for a living?¡± I asked.

 Page 52

    ¡°These days? These days he¡¯s¡ªI¡¯m not sure what you¡¯d call him. Not a gambler, anyway. What Josie does, he goes around to all the bars in the county, every place that sells pull tabs. In Minnesota, the winning tabs must be posted¡ªit¡¯s the law¡ªso a guy can look at a box and determine how many winning tabs are still left to be pulled. Sometimes you can get a box that¡¯s maybe a quarter full or less, except the big winners, they haven¡¯t been pulled yet. What Josie does, he looks for these boxes. When he finds one, he determines if the total amount of the winners still left in the box is worth more than the cost of all the remaining tabs. If it is, well then he just buys the entire box, guaranteeing himself a nice payday.


    ¡°Problem is, it¡¯s expensive. A box, even a quarter box, might cost a couple of thousand dollars and it¡¯s illegal to buy pull tabs with a check or credit card, so Josie has to carry a lot of cash with him. Two, three, four thousand.¡±


    ¡°Flashing that kind of money is dangerous,¡± I said.


    ¡°Tell me about it. And Josie, he¡¯s not what you¡¯d call retiring.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed.¡±


    ¡°People know him. They know what he does, and most people, the people buying the pull tabs, they don¡¯t like it much when he just swoops in and grabs all the winners. This one time these guys jump him in his driveway¡ªhe¡¯s got a place out on the county road, kinda isolated. One night these guys jump him, steal about a thousand dollars. Josie, though, he hid most of his money¡ªas much as five grand he said¡ªin his boots. Problem was, next day he goes around bragging about it, telling how he outfoxed the muggers. So, what happens . . .¡±


    ¡°Let me guess.¡±


    ¡°Same guys jump him again a couple nights later. Only this time they take all of his money and his boots.¡±


    ¡°Surprise, surprise, surprise,¡± I said.


    ¡°Ah, Josie. What a guy.¡±


    ¡°Where does he get his seed money?¡±


    ¡°Who knows? Hey, Josie.¡±


    Bloom had returned. If anything, he appeared even worse off than when he left. His face was paler, his eyes flat and expressionless, and he continued to scratch his hands and face. He looked as though he had as much future as a lighted match.


    ¡°Whaddaya say?¡± Axelrod said.


    ¡°It¡¯s a dog-eat-dog world out there Nick, ¡¯cept when it¡¯s the other way round.¡±


    ¡°I hear that.¡±


    ¡° ¡¯Bout that drink.¡±


    ¡°Dinner should be ready in a jiff.¡± Axelrod came around the bar and took Bloom by the arm. ¡°I have a nice booth for you. Sit here and Jace will be with you in a minute.¡±


    Bloom pulled his arm away. Axelrod nudged him hard and Bloom half sat, half fell into the booth. He leaned both elbows on the table and held his head.


    ¡°Christ, Nick.¡±


    Axelrod excused himself so he could tend bar. At the same time, someone had pumped a fistful of quarters into the jukebox. The music¡ªsome country hokum about the appeal of women who drove pickup trucks¡ªfilled the room, causing everyone to raise their voices. Bloom sat unmoving in the booth, supporting his head with both hands. I glanced at Axelrod. As soon as his back was turned I motioned to the other bartender and asked him to pour a shot of rye whiskey and a beer chaser. I took both to Bloom, set them on the table in front of him. He looked at me, focusing his eyes like I was someone he¡¯d met before but couldn¡¯t place.


    ¡°May I join you, Mr. Bloom?¡±


    His little eyes blinked at me a couple of times without seeing me. Maybe he hadn¡¯t heard me. Maybe I wasn¡¯t there.


    I sat across from him, setting my own drink on the table¡¯s edge. He didn¡¯t seem to notice. Instead he took down the shot in one long swallow and sighed like a tire with a slow leak. I had pounded them myself from time to time, only not like that. Never like that. I wondered what kind of pain would make a man drink the way Josiah Bloom drank? Or was it pain? Maybe it was just habit.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to ask you about Elizabeth Rogers,¡± I said.


    Bloom cupped both hands around the glass of beer, inhaled deeply, and drank. He drank half the beer and when he set the glass down again, he exhaled and coughed, as if the few seconds he had held his breath had nearly suffocated him.


    ¡°This can¡¯t go on,¡± he said.


    ¡°What can¡¯t go on?¡± I asked.


    In reply, Bloom drained the beer and motioned for more. I caught the younger bartender¡¯s eye and another rye and beer were served. Bloom guzzled the rye. I drank half my Scotch.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t drink like that,¡± Bloom told me suddenly. ¡°It¡¯s not good for you.¡±


    Like you should talk, I almost said, but didn¡¯t.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to end up like me, do ya?¡± Bloom asked.


    ¡°You could quit, get treatment.¡±


    ¡°I have. Many times. I once did 184 weeks and two days without a drink. I was younger then.¡±


    I did the math¡ªthree and a half years of sobriety out of how many? Over fifty? I nudged the remainder of the Scotch away.


    ¡°You drink and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, maybe once outta ten tries it all becomes perfectly clear, you understand everything and then¡±¡ªhe snapped his fingers¡ª¡°it¡¯s gone. It just¡ªIt lasts a moment, then it¡¯s gone. But that moment, what a moment. Do you know what I mean?¡±


    I didn¡¯t but said I did.


    ¡°It can break your heart,¡± Bloom said. He drank half the beer in one gulp and set the glass carefully in front of him.


    ¡°Beth Rogers,¡± he said.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What do you know about Beth Rogers?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I wanted to ask you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Tell me about Elizabeth. Tell me about that night.¡±


    ¡°The night when she¡ªOh, what did we do?¡±


    ¡°Tell me.¡±

 Page 53

    ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    At that moment, Jace appeared. She set the platter of roast beef and garlic roasted mashed potatoes in front of him.


    ¡°Here ya go, Mr. Bloom.¡±


    Bloom stared at the food for a moment, then at the girl. Jace patted his arm and Bloom recoiled in fear.


    ¡°No, no, you¡¯re not Beth. You can¡¯t be Beth. Oh, Jesus.¡±


    Bloom hid his face in his hands. Jace set her hand gently on his shoulder.


    ¡°Mr. Bloom? Mr. Bloom? It¡¯s all right, Mr. Bloom. You have friends here.¡±


    Bloom dropped his hands from his eyes and looked hard at her.


    He said, ¡°You ain¡¯t her. Little girl all shiny and new, ain¡¯t got no scratches on you yet. Like you was, like you was¡ªYou ain¡¯t pretty like her, you know. You think you are, but you ain¡¯t. She was made of pure gold.¡±


    ¡°Are you talking about Elizabeth?¡± I asked.


    ¡°She was¡ªperfect. I woulda done anything for her. Anything.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Bloom?¡± I said.


    Bloom drowned a sob with the rest of his beer. When he finished, Jace took the glass from his hand. She looked at me then like she wanted to slap me. Jace gathered the shot and beer glasses onto her tray and took them away.


    I leaned halfway across the table.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a long time, Mr. Bloom.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What happened that night?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember,¡± he answered.


    The glaze in his eyes seemed to extend over Bloom¡¯s entire body. He slumped down and buried his head in his arms. I slid the roast beef clear.


    ¡°Mr. Bloom?¡± I nudged him. ¡°Mr. Bloom?¡± I gave him a hard push.


    A moment later, Jace returned.


    ¡°He¡¯s asleep,¡± I told her.


    She looked at the drunk with compassionate disapproval.


    ¡°Poor Mr. Bloom,¡± Jace said. ¡°He drinks like this because¡ªbecause he¡¯s sad, I guess. The world isn¡¯t what he wants it to be. But he¡¯ll be all right. He¡¯ll find what he needs.¡±


    What a wonderful young woman, my inner voice told me. She possessed such faith in human nature. I hoped she¡¯d never lose it. But given her clandestine relationship with a Hispanic boyfriend in a racist town, I figured she probably would. You should have given her a bigger tip.


    Jace fetched her father.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of him,¡± he announced. It was the first time I had heard him speak quietly. ¡°I wish you wouldn¡¯t have bought him drinks.¡±


    ¡°So do I,¡± I said.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take him home.¡±


    ¡°Where does he live? I could drive.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s got a place near the fairgrounds. But I¡¯ll take care of him. You¡¯ve done enough.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Hell, McKenzie. We¡¯re all sorry.¡±


    9


    Snow was settling gently over Victoria by the time I left Nick¡¯s Family Restaurant. Over two inches of it had gathered on the ground, hiding all that was unpleasant and ugly and vile, painting the city in gleaming white.


    I raised my eyes to the sky, closed them, and let the large flakes settle on my face; I opened my mouth and tried to catch them on my tongue. One of the things about fresh snow is its flavor. There is a goodness in it that you simply can¡¯t taste in any other season. It called to mind memories of long ago tobogganing on the steep hills at the Town and Country Golf Course, watching the Winter Carnival parade, ice fishing on Lake Mille Lacs.


    Another thing I like about falling snow is how completely it absorbs sound, how silent it renders even the most intense traffic. It was because of the snow that I didn¡¯t hear them approach.


    ¡°You still here, shithead?¡±


    He sounded so close that I thought he had shouted in my ear. Yet when I opened my eyes, I saw that Gene Hugoson stood several feet away. Brian Reif was on his left.


    ¡°It¡¯s the Victoria nightlife,¡± I said. ¡°I can¡¯t get enough of it.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just leave?¡± Hugoson wanted to know.


    ¡°Sounds like a plan.¡± I tried to retreat down the sidewalk. Hugoson cut me off. I slowly pivoted until the men stood at about forty-five-degree angles to my left and right. I tried to keep my eyes on both of them at the same time as they moved closer.


    ¡°Why are you guys so angry?¡± I asked. ¡°What¡¯d I do?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t like you, bitch,¡± Reif said.


    The slur was a definitely a notch above the insult Hugoson had hurled at me, but I didn¡¯t like it any better.


    ¡°You say that like it¡¯s a bad thing,¡± I said.


    All the warning signs were there: Attack Is Imminent. They didn¡¯t even bother with the first stages. My muscles tensed.


    ¡°C¡¯mon fellas,¡± I said. ¡°Can¡¯t we all just get along?¡±


    ¡°We ain¡¯t a couple of kids on the sidewalk,¡± Reif hissed at me.


    Hugoson was the closest, so I cheated to my left, waited for him to make a move.

 Page 54

    ¡°Sic ¡¯im,¡± Reif said. Or maybe he said, ¡°Get ¡¯im.¡± I wasn¡¯t listening that close. As soon as Hugoson shifted his weight a fraction of an inch I kicked him just as hard as I could in the groin; disable the attacker in front of you as quickly as possible before turning to face the second, that¡¯s what I was taught.


    Only there was a thin veneer of ice under the snow. When I kicked Hugoson, my back foot slid out from under me. I went down as violently as he had, my hip making solid contact with the frozen concrete sidewalk. Pain surged through me like an electric shock, and for a moment I forgot Reif. Only he didn¡¯t forget me. I heard him curse, felt his shadow move across my face. He raised his foot, tried to kick my head. I rolled away. Reif cursed again. I flailed at him with my leg. The heel of my boot struck his knee. That hurt him, but he didn¡¯t fall. Reif cursed some more. If words were sticks and stones I¡¯d be dead.


    I heard something else.


    A voice calling loudly from behind me.


    ¡°Gun!¡±


    I did a stupid thing. I turned toward the voice. Greg Schroeder was standing next to my car about a half block up the street. He was smiling. Fortunately, Reif was just as foolish as I was. He looked at Schroeder, too, the pistol that appeared in his hand pointed more or less at the ground.


    I recovered more quickly than Reif and swung my legs, sweeping his feet out from under him. He fell backward, his arms outstretched. He landed first on his tailbone, then his back. I heard a dull thud as his head bounced off the concrete.


    I lunged over his body, clutched the gun in both of my hands. I twisted it out of his grasp. He cried out. Maybe I had broken one of his fingers. I couldn¡¯t tell. I rolled to my knees, gained control of the gun, and pointed it in his face.


    ¡°Did you point a gun at me? Did you? Did you point a gun at me? Are you suicidal?¡±


    Reif didn¡¯t look suicidal. He looked frightened as he gripped the fingers of his gun hand with his other hand and rocked back and forth.


    I glanced over my shoulder. Hugoson was still holding himself, moaning quietly.


    I turned my attention back to Reif.


    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot, don¡¯t shoot,¡± he chanted.


    I pressed the muzzle of the gun against his cheek.


    ¡°Please,¡± he cried.


    ¡°Jerk,¡± I said.


    I stood up.


    ¡°What¡¯s your story? Why are you guys so pissed off?¡±


    ¡°Coach says you¡¯re spreading lies about the Seven.¡±


    ¡°Ah, bullshit. What¡¯s it really about?¡±


    Reif shook his head and it occurred to me that what it was really about was anger and disappointment and failed dreams. I was just the guy they decided to take it out on.


    I told them, ¡°I know a guy who always wears three-piece suits with an open shirt collar and plenty of gold chains. On occasion he¡¯ll float out on the middle of Lake Calhoun in a rowboat where he¡¯s sure he can commune with the spirit of Donna Summer. I assured him that as far as I know Ms. Summers is still very much alive and he told me, ¡®Disco is dead.¡¯ ¡±


    Hugoson raised his head, an expression of disbelief fighting through the pain.


    ¡°Disco¡¯s dead. Get it?¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± said Reif.


    ¡°Hell with you guys.¡±


    The expensive Scotch I had consumed was now a faint, rhythmic pulse behind my eyes and a cardboard taste in my mouth. I felt very tired. I had nothing more to say to either man. I turned and started walking toward where Schroeder was standing. I took a half dozen steps before I heard Reif say, ¡°My gun?¡±


    ¡°You want your gun back, you can come and get it any time.¡±


    Greg Schroeder had cleared snow off of the Audi and was now sitting on the hood. He gave me a smile that was more in his eyes than in his mouth and one of those short, perfunctory waves Queen Elizabeth doles out to the commoners whenever she deigns to move among them. By the time I reached him, Hugoson and Reif were helping each other inside Nick¡¯s Family Restaurant. After they told their version of what happened, I doubted I¡¯d be offered any more free dinners.


    The gun turned out to be an older Colt .32, the kind generals in the army used to carry. As I walked to Schroeder I removed the magazine, ejected the round in the chamber, and field-stripped the pistol. By the time I reached the Audi, I had the Colt in pieces. I dumped them all in a trash container that the city fathers had the foresight to place on the corner.


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to keep it?¡± Schroeder asked.


    ¡°I hate guns,¡± I told him.


    ¡°Yeah, me, too.¡±


    ¡°You know, that¡¯s a $45,000 car you¡¯re sitting on.¡±


    Schroeder slapped it with the flat of his hand.


    ¡°You paid forty-five for this piece of junk?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Just hanging out. How ¡¯bout you?¡±


    ¡°You followed me down here.¡±


    ¡°Followed you? The way you drive? Get serious.¡±


    ¡°This is intolerable.¡±


    Schroeder laughed at me.


    ¡°You know, McKenzie, watching you in action, first at the Groveland Tap and now with those two guys back there, it¡¯s a wonder to me that you¡¯ve managed to stay alive as long as you have.¡±


    ¡°I was lulling them into a state of complacency.¡±

 Page 55

    ¡°Sure you were.¡±


    I grabbed two fistfuls of Schroeder¡¯s coat and yanked him off my car. I felt my lips curl over my teeth, felt my skin grow tight over my face. I leaned in close and snarled, ¡°What are you doing here? Who sent you?¡±


    Schroeder shook his head.


    ¡°Nope. Nice try, though. Maybe with a little work. You should practice in front of a mirror. And remember, less is more.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you, Schroeder.¡±


    I pushed him away.


    Schroeder smiled and shook his head like he felt sorry for me. He turned and began sauntering away through the snow. In the distance, I saw where he had parked his Ford Escort.


    ¡°Hey, wait a minute. I want to talk to you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you around, tough guy,¡± he called over his shoulder.


    ¡°Schroeder.¡±


    He lifted his gloved hand and let it drop in a kind of backward salute.


    ¡°You sonuvabitch.¡±


    Schroeder thought that was awfully funny. He gave me another wave and continued walking to his car.


    God, I hate that guy, I told myself.


    The Victoria Inn was located on the edge of town off U.S. Highway 71 and boasted a cocktail lounge, indoor swimming pool, and $49 weekday rates. I decided to crash in Victoria overnight, meet with Dr. Peterson and Grace Monteleone in the morning, then try to speak with Josie Bloom again. That was as far as my plans took me.


    ¡°Will you be staying with us long?¡± the desk clerk asked as I completed the registration card.


    ¡°Just the night.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± The desk clerk spoke in a way that caused me to look up from the card. The clothes the woman wore were too tight, and her face was made up as if she were intent on hiding all clues to her age, which I guessed was well over forty. She was grinning as if we shared a secret.


    ¡°Check or credit card?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°Cash.¡± I removed three twenties and a ten from my wallet, enough to cover the room rate and taxes. The desk clerk took the bills and examined them like she had never seen their like before. She worked the transaction on her computer and gave me a receipt.


    ¡°Luggage?¡± she asked.


    I held up a paper bag. It contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, disposable razor, shaving cream, hairbrush, gel, cotton briefs, white socks¡ªthree pairs to a package¡ªand an XXL Minnesota Wild hockey jersey. I had come to Victoria unprepared to stay the night and bought the items at a shop near the Des Moines River after first cursing myself for my lack of foresight.


    ¡°I see,¡± the desk clerk said. Her smile came and went without touching the rest of her face as she studied the registration card.


    ¡°Is your license plate number correct?¡±


    ¡°Is there a problem?¡±


    The desk clerk could see my Audi through the glass wall facing the parking lot. She matched the plates on the car against the number I had written.


    ¡°No, no problem.¡±


    I showered, put on a pair of fresh briefs, and pulled the large hockey jersey over my head. I went to the small table and worked my notebook for a while, adding impressions to the facts that I had written down after each interview. A few minutes later I was staring out my window at the parking lot beyond. It was still snowing.


    I should have bought something to read along with my other supplies, I told myself as I flopped down on the bed with the remote control. The TV promised some distraction, about a dozen channels worth. However, I surfed through them and found nothing that interested me. Even ESPN was a washout, broadcasting a trick-shot pool competition. Curiosity caused me to linger for a moment to see what the adult pay-per-view channels had to offer. Somehow the trailers for Sinderella and Naughty Nurses III suggested that they were the same movie.


    ¡°Things will never get that bad,¡± I vowed and quickly turned to CNN.


    Still, the previews reminded me that I had promised to call Nina Truhler.


    ¡°Hey,¡± she said after I identified myself.


    ¡°How¡¯s Prudence?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Prudence is a treat¡ªas usual. How¡¯s Victoria?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s snowing.¡±


    ¡°Snowing in the Cities, too. I wish you were here to keep me warm.¡±


    ¡°And shovel your sidewalks.¡±


    ¡°That, too. When are you coming home?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. This favor I promised to do, it¡¯s turning out to be more complicated than I thought it would be.¡±


    ¡°I have a question.¡±


    ¡°Ask.¡±


    ¡°When I spoke to you earlier, I said I loved you, but you didn¡¯t say that you loved me back.¡±


    ¡°You know I do, don¡¯t you, Nina? Do I have to say it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s something a girl likes to hear every now and again.¡±


    ¡°I love you.¡±


    There, I said it.


    She exhaled like she had been holding her breath a long time.


    ¡°Nina?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m okay. It¡¯s just . . . after our last conversation . . . I guess I¡¯m a little paranoid. I blame my ex-husband. ¡¯Course, I blame my ex-husband for most of the things that are wrong with my life.¡±

 Page 56

    ¡°I don¡¯t know about your ex, Nina. I¡¯ll tell you the one thing I do know: I really miss you when you¡¯re not around.¡±


    Nina hesitated, said, ¡°I¡¯ll tell you the one thing I know for sure. You¡¯re both my lover and my best friend. Without you I¡¯d be so absolutely, totally outnumbered.¡±


    ¡°Well, then.¡±


    ¡°Well, then, what?¡±


    ¡°Well, then, I¡¯d better hurry home.¡±


    ¡°Call me. We¡¯ll have dinner or something.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Mac? I wish . . . I just wish.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Nina.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Mac.¡±


    I traded the cell phone for the remote and went back to CNN. There was unrest in Iraq. Wow, that¡¯s news, I told myself.


    A few moments later, a hard knock brought me cautiously to the door of my motel room. I peered through the spy hole. City of Victoria Interim Chief of Police Danielle Mallinger was standing on the other side of the door. My first thought was that Hugoson and Reif had ratted me out. But then why was the desk clerk cowering behind Mallinger¡¯s shoulder?


    I set the chain and opened the door, pulling the chain taut.


    ¡°May I help you?¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie?¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°If that¡¯s your real name,¡± the desk clerk added.


    ¡°What do you mean, if that¡¯s my real name?¡±


    ¡°Could you open the door, please,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°For what purpose?¡±


    ¡°Rushmore McKenzie,¡± the desk clerk said. ¡°It sounds like a phony name to me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to check your identification,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°You know who I am.¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°I told you. He¡¯s a drug dealer,¡± said the night clerk.


    ¡°Just a minute.¡±


    I closed the door, pulled my jeans back on, removed the chain, yanked the door open, and stepped into the hall.


    ¡°What did you call me?¡±


    ¡°A drug dealer.¡±


    I stepped toward the desk clerk and was immediately intercepted by Mallinger. She put a hand on my chest and nudged me backward.


    ¡°Look at the way he¡¯s dressed,¡± the night clerk insisted.


    ¡°It¡¯s a hockey jersey.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what the gang kids wear.¡±


    ¡°Are you nuts?¡±


    ¡°Stop it, both of you,¡± Mallinger ordered.


    ¡°Oh, you better have a good explanation for this,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Look at him, Chief,¡± the desk clerk told Mallinger. ¡°He fits all the criteria you said to look for. He checks in alone, late at night, driving a flashy car¡ª¡±


    ¡°Flashy car? It¡¯s an Audi.¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t have luggage, pays cash to use a room for only one night, uses an alias. What kind of name is Rushmore McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the name my father gave me!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, right.¡±


    ¡°This is intolerable,¡± I shouted, then remembered what Greg Schroeder did when I said the same thing to him: he laughed.


    ¡°Dammit!¡±


    I pushed past Mallinger into my room. A moment later I thrust my driver¡¯s license into Mallinger¡¯s hand. ¡°My ID. Do you have an MDT in your cruiser? Of course, you do. You ran my ID and license plates this morning.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Then what the hell?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not a drug dealer?¡± the desk clerk asked.


    ¡°No. He¡¯s an ex-cop.¡±


    I glared at the desk clerk.


    ¡°Go away,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Thank you for your help, Florence,¡± Mallinger told the desk clerk. ¡°I can take it from here.¡±


    ¡°I only did what you said,¡± the woman insisted.


    ¡°I appreciate it,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°Very good job.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not a danger?¡± the desk clerk said, meaning me.


    ¡°No, he¡¯s fine, thank you. You can go now. Thank you.¡±


    Mallinger and I watched her leave.


    ¡°What was that about?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Just trying to keep the riffraff out of Victoria.¡±


    ¡°Go away.¡±


    ¡°No, really. I want to talk to you.¡±


    ¡°Go away.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, McKenzie. Where¡¯s your sense of humor?¡±


    ¡°In my flashy car.¡±


    ¡°In Victoria an Audi is a flashy car. Seriously, I want to talk to you.¡±


    ¡°What about?¡±


    Mallinger gestured at the open door.


    ¡°If this is just a cheap trick to get me alone in a motel room . . .¡±


    Mallinger removed her hat and dropped it on the small table, removed her bulky coat and draped it over the back of a chair, both without asking permission. She sat down.


    ¡°Comfy?¡± I said.


    Mallinger ran long, slender fingers through her red hair. ¡°We have a meth problem in Victoria,¡± she said.


    ¡°Everyone has a meth problem.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m having Florence and the other motel managers take a hard look at strangers.¡±


    ¡°Like me.¡±


    ¡°Have you heard about those kids we busted?¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°They were virgins, never tried the stuff before. Didn¡¯t know if they should sniff, smoke, or inject it. They bought it off a guy outside a bar near the county road. Only they couldn¡¯t ID him, the man who sold it. All they knew what that he was scary-looking.¡±


    ¡°That pretty much describes every meth user I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    ¡°I want to arrest him. I want to put him away. That¡¯s what they pay me for.¡±


    ¡°A drug bust would also go a long way toward removing the interim label from your title.¡±

 Page 57

    ¡°There¡¯s that, too.¡±


    ¡°Why are you talking to me?¡±


    ¡°You used to be a cop. A good one. I checked you out, first after your problems at the Rainbow Cafe this morning and then some more after your run-in with Reif and Hugoson.¡±


    ¡°They file a complaint?¡±


    ¡°Not with me.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going with this, Chief?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been running around town talking to a lot of people, asking a lot of questions.¡±


    ¡°Not about meth.¡±


    ¡°You want to know what happened to Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s becoming less and less of a secret.¡±


    ¡°I can help.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°I can show you the original incident reports, the supplementals, photos of the victim, transcripts of the Q&As, the coroner¡¯s final summary¡ªeverything.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to see the reports.¡±


    ¡°Then give me something in return.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you find out. A smart guy like you, McKenzie, someone who keeps his eyes and ears open, he could do himself a lot of good.¡±


    ¡°If I learn anything at all about your meth problem, I¡¯ll tell you.¡±


    ¡°Then we have a deal.¡±


    ¡°Why not? But you gotta know, Chief, meth is easy. These people, they¡¯re so damn paranoid they¡¯re far more dangerous than any other people who use drugs. More guns, more violence. They love booby traps.¡±


    ¡°You call that easy?¡±


    ¡°Because they¡¯re so outrageously paranoid you can get rid of them with a simple knock-and-talk. Just knock on their doors and warn them to shut down or prepare to be arrested and they¡¯ll be on the first stage outta Dodge. The trouble is, all you¡¯re doing is moving them down the road to another jurisdiction.¡±


    ¡°The trouble is finding them, McKenzie. Help me find them and I¡¯ll help you.¡±


    Seemed fair enough.


    10


    Mankato was originally called Mahkato¡ªmeaning ¡°greenish blue earth¡±¡ªby its earliest inhabitants, the Dakota, although it didn¡¯t look any different to me. It became Mankato because of a spelling error that was never corrected, possibly made by the eighteenth-century Europeans searching for the Northwest Passage who settled there after getting lost on the Minnesota River. That¡¯s all I knew about the city except that it was where the Minnesota Vikings football team held its annual training camp.


    About four inches of snow fell overnight, but the plows had been out early and I had no trouble holding the road even at fifteen miles above the posted speed limit. The sun was bright and the sky was unclouded and deep blue.


    I easily found Dr. Dave Peterson¡¯s address, a red brick three-story building across from the River Hills Mall that he shared with several dentists, two psychiatrists, and an insurance agent. An assistant guided me to an examination room that I guessed also served as Dr. Peterson¡¯s office because of the family photographs and certificates hanging from the walls. I studied the photos while I waited. In their wedding picture, Dr. Peterson¡¯s wife was a petite brunette and he was tall with a full head of hair. She had become a plump blonde and he was bald by the time their photograph was taken at their daughter¡¯s high school graduation and I wondered if Nina¡¯s future and mine held a similar fate.


    I glanced at my watch. Ten past eight. Dr. Peterson was late, but when was a doctor ever on time? I examined his certificates¡ªBachelor of Arts, Gustavus Adolphus College; Doctor of Medicine, University of Minnesota; Medical Specialist, Department of Ophthalmology, University of Minnesota; elected to the American Academy of Ophthalmology. That killed another five minutes. At twenty past eight, I returned to the receptionist to advise her that I was still waiting.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Dr. Peterson cannot see you today. Would you like to reschedule?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand. I¡¯m not here for an examination. I came to ask¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Dr. Peterson cannot see you today.¡±


    ¡°Please. I¡¯m here¡ª¡±


    ¡°Would you care to reschedule your appointment? We have an opening in March.¡±


    I considered shouting. It¡¯s amazing how much grease a squeaky voice can get. Only the receptionist didn¡¯t look like a woman who was easily intimidated.


    ¡°May I leave a message?¡± I asked instead.


    ¡°Certainly.¡±


    On a notepad emblazoned with the doctor¡¯s name, address, and phone number, I wrote:


    Since everyone has been so cooperative, I¡¯m going to petition the Cold Case Unit of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to immediately reopen the investigation into the murder of Elizabeth Rogers.


    ¡°Make sure he gets that,¡± I said.


    ¡°Certainly,¡± said the receptionist.

 Page 58

    I found Mankato West High School on the other side of town near the Minnesota River. It was a midsize school, educating over 1,200 students grades nine through twelve, and it took its security seriously. I was intercepted first in the parking lot and then just inside the front entrance by people who were very keen to know my identity and business. After explaining, I was given both a visitor¡¯s tag that I wore around my neck on a chain and an escort to Grace Monteleone¡¯s office.


    The years had not been as kind to Monteleone as they had been to Suzi Shimek. She was forty pounds too heavy, she had changed the color of her hair from auburn to a kind of orange-blond to mask the gray, and her face was etched with the lines of responsibility. Her eyes were clear, yet held the slightly wearied expression of someone who had been lied to often and was still having trouble getting used to it.


    Monteleone¡¯s greeting was friendly, yet not warm.


    ¡°You have questions concerning the Victoria Seven?¡± she said, repeating what I told her over the phone. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I can help you.¡±


    I glanced around, trying to get a sense of the woman from the decor of her office. There was little to grab hold of. The carpet matched the drapes, which matched the chairs, which were made of the same wood as the desk, credenza, and file cabinets. Plaques testifying to Monteleone¡¯s competence were set at eye level and arranged eighteen inches apart. I could sniff the aroma of coffee, yet found no coffeemaker or mugs. Nor were there any unsightly stacks of paper or loose pads and pens lying about. The room could have been a display in an office furniture store showroom for all the personality it revealed, except for the few photographs arranged neatly on the desk.


    ¡°Your family?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes. This is my son and daughter-in-law.¡± Monteleone held up the largest of the photographs. ¡°This rapscallion¡±¡ªshe spoke the word proudly¡ª¡°is my grandson.¡±


    ¡°Good-looking kid,¡± I said.


    ¡°Yes, and he knows it, too.¡± Monteleone smiled proudly. ¡°He¡¯s only twelve and already the girls are swarming around him. He¡¯s very bright, too. But you have to keep an eye on him. He¡¯s a Sagittarius like his father, and Sagittarians are adventurous, which means he can be a lot of trouble. Fortunately¡±¡ªMonteleone set the photograph back on her desk¡ª¡°that¡¯s my daughter-in-law¡¯s problem. I¡¯ve already done my time.¡±


    I pointed at the third photograph. It was smaller, a three-by-five of a young soldier taken with a pocket camera, the color fading badly.


    ¡°Is that your husband?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Monteleone said.


    ¡°Suzi Shimek said he was killed in Vietnam.¡±


    ¡°You spoke to Suzi?¡±


    ¡°Yesterday.¡±


    Monteleone nodded.


    ¡°Suzi never knew my husband. I hardly knew him. We found each other in June after I moved here from Victoria. We married in August, right before he shipped. He was killed on Christmas Eve.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Monteleone returned the photograph. ¡°Why are we meeting?¡±


    ¡°John Allen Barrett. He was one of your students in Victoria.¡±


    ¡°Governor Barrett. Yes, he was my student, I am proud to say.¡±


    ¡°Why proud?¡±


    ¡°When a teacher sees one of her students become a success, she likes to think she played a small part in that success.¡±


    ¡°Suzi said he was your pet.¡±


    ¡°Teacher¡¯s pet?¡± Monteleone chuckled. ¡°I suppose he was. I wanted him to do well. He was capable of doing so very well.¡±


    ¡°He won the state high school basketball tournament.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember him for that.¡±


    ¡°What do you remember him for?¡±


    ¡°His kindness. His consideration. He had the gift of making the people around him feel better about themselves.¡±


    ¡°Suzi said he was very intelligent.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes. That, too.¡±


    ¡°He dated Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    ¡°She was the prettiest girl in high school. Who else was he going to date?¡±


    ¡°I heard she and Barrett had a fight the night she was killed.¡±


    ¡°I never heard that.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why he left the party early.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not.¡±


    ¡°Why do you think he left the party early?¡±


    ¡°He was tired of it. Tired of the hoopla surrounding the team. Jack liked basketball. It helped him get noticed at an early age. It earned him a scholarship at the University of Minnesota. Yet it was never as important to him as it was to everyone else. He was smart enough to appreciate that it was just a game.¡±


    ¡°Did he tell you that?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°Many times.¡±


    ¡°Were you close?¡±


    ¡°No more than any teacher and student.¡±


    ¡°The two of you spoke a great deal, I¡¯m told.¡±


    ¡°Jack had dreams beyond basketball. He was grateful to have someone he could confide in.¡±


    ¡°What were his dreams?¡±


    ¡°To get as far away from Victoria as possible.¡±


    ¡°Why do you say that?¡±

 Page 59

    Monteleone glanced at the photographs of her family for a moment before answering.


    ¡°I suppose I¡¯m being unfair. It wasn¡¯t Victoria that Jack despised. It was his father. Jack¡¯s mother died when he was a baby. When he was ten, Jack¡¯s father told him, ¡®When your mother died, they all said I should put you in an orphanage. I didn¡¯t, and it was the worst thing I ever did in my life.¡¯ Can you imagine that? A man saying something like that to his ten-year-old son?¡±


    I flashed on my own father, who did everything for me after my mother died. No, I couldn¡¯t imagine it.


    ¡°Jack remembered the words verbatim,¡± Monteleone said. ¡°They haunted him. Because of those words, Jack never asked for anything from his father. The reason he spent so much time playing basketball was so he could get away from him. His father, for his part, never went to see Jack play. Not even the title game. Jack was a hero in Victoria, but not at home. I wasn¡¯t surprised at all that he refused to attend his father¡¯s funeral. Instead, he went to Europe to play basketball. Given his background, it¡¯s a wonder Jack turned out as well as he did.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you had something to do with that,¡± I suggested.


    Monteleone gave it a moment¡¯s thought before saying, ¡°It¡¯s nice to think so.¡±


    ¡°Have you seen him, spoken to him, since he left school?¡±


    ¡°No. I shook his hand once during a campaign fund-raiser here in Mankato a couple of years ago, but he didn¡¯t recognize me.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t surprised. Monteleone no longer resembled at all the attractive young woman in the Victoria High School yearbook.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been in Victoria,¡± I said. ¡°Some people blame Governor Barrett for Elizabeth Rogers¡¯s death.¡±


    ¡°What nonsense. He couldn¡¯t possibly have known she would be killed when he left the party.¡±


    ¡°Lynn Peyer¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lynn Peyer.¡± Monteleone spoke the name like it was an obscenity.


    ¡°She, for one, thinks Jack actually killed her.¡±


    Monteleone rose quickly to her feet.


    ¡°That¡¯s a lie. An absolute lie. A damnable lie.¡±


    ¡°How can you be so sure?¡±


    Monteleone slowly sat down.


    ¡°I just am,¡± she said.


    A few minutes later¡ªafter Monteleone decided she had more important things to do than speak to a muckraker like me¡ªI was back on the road. Driving alone, I lapsed into a freeway fantasy. I had a fast car, plenty of money, and no encumbrances. I could go where I pleased, go where I¡¯ve never been before, and do things I¡¯ve never done. There was nothing holding me to the road I was traveling except a sense of duty, of responsibility, that I couldn¡¯t even define. Turn off at the next exit, I told myself. Or the next one. Or the one after that. Just turn off . . .


    A dozen exits later I was approaching Victoria. I was still way above the speed limit, but promised myself I¡¯d slow down before I reached the city limits.


    ¡°No way I¡¯m going to let that cowgirl give me a ticket,¡± I said aloud.


    What the hell, you¡¯ll probably never see her again, my inner voice reminded me. Considering your relationship with Nina, that¡¯s probably for the best.


    My plan hadn¡¯t changed. I would find Josie Bloom in the hope that I could persuade him to tell me what he knew about the night Elizabeth was killed. I didn¡¯t expect much to come of it. ¡°Oh, what did we do?¡± The line still hung in the air, demanding explanation. Only it could mean anything. From a chronic alcoholic? Absolutely anything.


    Still, I¡¯d love to get a long look at the case files. Maybe there was something there besides the unsubstantiated allegation that Elizabeth was killed by roaming transients. Something that would categorically clear Governor Barrett. Only I¡¯d have to give Mallinger something in return, and I had nothing to swap.


    The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension? That was just something to annoy Dr. Peterson and the boys. I had no intention of bringing official attention to Elizabeth¡¯s murder and subsequently to John Allen Barrett.


    Which brought me back to Lindsey¡¯s elusive e-mailer.


    ¡°We¡¯re gonna have to do something about him,¡± I said aloud.


    I had been driving with both hands on the steering wheel in the ten and two positions, just as I had been trained. I took my right hand off the wheel only long enough to switch the radio to the classic rock station.


    In that moment, the Audi lurched hard to the right.


    Blowout, I told myself.


    I gripped the wheel with both hands and twisted it to the left to compensate and removed my foot from the accelerator.


    Only it didn¡¯t feel like a blowout.


    A loud, high-pitched grinding sound added to my confusion.


    The car edged closer to the shoulder and the ditch beyond.


    I tried to pull it back.


    It was like leaning against a moving wall.


    A big blue wall.


    A truck.


    A pickup truck with a plow blade.


    The plow blade was digging into my car just below the door handle, leaning against the Audi, pushing it toward the ditch.


    I saw the truck, but not the driver. The driver was too high in the cab.

 Page 60

    Doesn¡¯t he know I¡¯m here?


    I leaned on the horn and screamed at the truck to stop.


    It didn¡¯t stop.


    I downshifted and hit the brakes hard.


    I felt the antilock braking system shuddering under my boot.


    The pickup slowed as I slowed.


    It wouldn¡¯t let me go.


    I downshifted again and punched the accelerator. The Audi pitched forward. The pickup did the same.


    I went for a matchup¡ªwheel to wheel, bumper to bumper, trading paint as my father would say¡ªmy one chance.


    Only I didn¡¯t have a chance.


    If it had been another car, I would have been able to outdrive it. It wasn¡¯t.


    The Audi was 53 inches high, 73 inches wide, and 159 inches long. The truck was at least 80 inches high, 80 inches wide, and 247 inches long. They did not match up wheel to wheel, bumper to bumper.


    The Audi weighed approximately 2,650 pounds. The truck was four times that heavy. I had four cylinders and 225 horsepower. The truck was a V-8, maybe a V-10 with over 300 horses.


    The numbers were not on my side.


    I cranked the steering wheel to the left just the same, slamming into the truck.


    The pickup rocked, but stayed its course.


    I kept leaning against it, even as my fear grew that soon the front tire would fold, sending the Audi spinning into the ditch or under the truck.


    Be afraid, be very afraid, my inner voice said.


    Dialogue from SF movies I didn¡¯t need.


    It was quickly replaced by something else, something inexplicable that I would noodle over for weeks to come¡ªadvice my father had once given me.


    Never bet on professional boxing or amateur figure skating.


    The truck had too much advantage. It was going to shove me into the ditch, probably roll me over. A bad thing, high-speed rollovers.


    I knew of only one way to escape it.


    I swung the steering wheel to the right.


    The Audi flew off the highway at sixty-three miles an hour.


    For an instant, I was airborne, the car soaring above the roadside ditch.


    There was nothing for me to do except wait for impact. It seemed to be a long time in coming, long enough anyway for my inner voice to announce, You love this car.


    The Audi splashed into the snow.


    I felt the unyielding pressure of the seat harness on my shoulder and across my stomach, keeping me from leaping through the windshield.


    The car skidded forward, losing speed rapidly as it plowed through the deep drifts. It reminded me of diving into a pool. The snow eased the Audi to a stop the way water slows a diver.


    I bounced back against the bucket seat even as I gripped the steering wheel, still anticipating the sudden, excruciating jolt of collision. When I finally realized that the Audi was no longer moving, I leaned back against the seat, marveling that my air bags hadn¡¯t deployed. The engine had stalled, but the radio was working. Leslie Gore. ¡°It¡¯s My Party and I¡¯ll Cry If I Want To.¡± I switched it off. An eerie silence enveloped the car. I sat there shaking for a full thirty seconds. I reminded myself to breathe. It took a few moments until I remembered how.


    The nose of my car was now buried in snow; the silver hood and windshield were splattered with it. I was grateful for it. Grateful that it had snowed the evening before, grateful for all the snowfalls that had come before that one, and grateful for the snowplows that had pushed the snow off the highway into the ditch.


    I glanced out my side window. I could see only the rooftops of the vehicles that passed me on the highway, oblivious to my predicament. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. All those driving lessons that my father, that my skills instructor at the academy had given me¡ª¡°We never covered this,¡± I said aloud.


    It didn¡¯t take long before my warm breath fogged the windows. I powered down the driver¡¯s-side window, letting clean, clear frozen air into the car. After a few deep breaths, I found my cell phone, dialed 911, and explained where I was.


    ¡°I need the police and a tow truck,¡± I told the operator.


    ¡°Are you the driver of the vehicle?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I said, identifying myself.


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Was anyone else hurt?¡±


    ¡°No. There¡¯s just me.¡±


    ¡°Police cars and an ambulance have already been dispatched. Are you sure you¡¯re not hurt?¡±


    ¡°Quite sure.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll recall the ambulance, then.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean police have already been dispatched?¡±


    ¡°Someone witnessed the accident and called it in a few minutes ago.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The caller refused to give his name. He said he didn¡¯t want to get involved.¡±

 Page 61

    The light bars on two police cars flashed above me. The cars halted. Doors were opened and slammed shut. Someone shouted something at someone else. Danny Mallinger appeared on the rim of the roadside ditch. During my duel with the truck I had crossed into her jurisdiction. I gave her a wave. How embarrassing. She plunged into the snow and plowed toward me. I told the 911 operator that the police had arrived and thanked her. The operator told me to have a nice day.


    I deactivated my cell phone and jammed it back into my pocket just as Mallinger arrived at my door.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡±


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t be better.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an ambulance on the way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already canceled it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re not hurt?¡±


    ¡°Help me out of the car.¡±


    I unlocked the door and tried to force it open, but it wouldn¡¯t budge. Mallinger frantically cleared the snow that was jammed against it. Finally, with her pulling and me pushing the door, we made an opening. She told me to be careful as she helped me from the car. I felt steady on my feet, but let her hold my arm just the same.


    The second officer was now at the side of the car¡ªa man even younger than Mallinger. Mallinger looked beyond him, following the long furrow the Audi had dug into the snow from where it left the highway to where it had settled.


    ¡°Going a little fast, were we?¡±


    ¡°I was under the speed limit,¡± I told her. ¡°Someone ran me off the highway. He did it deliberately. Just look at my car. Oh, my God. Look at my car.¡±


    The second officer was squatting next to the Audi, running his gloved fingers over a series of two-foot-wide grooves cut deep into the metal from the center of the car door to the rocker panels and all the way to the back bumper, the bumper nearly torn off. Most of the paint had been chipped and scraped off, replaced in a few instances with streaks of blue.


    ¡°Look at my car!¡±


    ¡°What hit him?¡± Mallinger asked the officer.


    ¡°Just look at my Audi.¡±


    ¡°What hit you?¡± Mallinger asked me.


    ¡°A truck. A pickup. My car. I just bought it.¡±


    ¡°What kind of pickup truck?¡±


    ¡°Blue. With a plow blade. I was a little too busy to get make and model.¡±


    ¡°A blue pickup truck,¡± said the young officer. ¡°By the height of the grooves, I¡¯d say it was a heavy-duty model. A lot of farmers with that kind of vehicle.¡±


    ¡°Andy,¡± Mallinger said, drawing out the name. ¡°Andy?¡±


    Andy wasn¡¯t listening. He pulled a plastic bag from the pocket of his bulky coat and a pair of tweezers. He began prying blue paint chips off my Audi and dropping them into the bag.


    ¡°Andy, what are you doing?¡±


    Andy seemed surprised that Mallinger would ask such a question.


    ¡°Collecting evidence,¡± he said.


    ¡°Evidence?¡±


    ¡°Paint samples for the PDQ.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t waste time.¡±


    ¡°Whoa, whoa,¡± I interrupted. ¡°PDQ?¡±


    ¡°Paint Data Query,¡± Andy said, obviously pleased to demonstrate his knowledge. ¡°It¡¯s a database of paint samples. The FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police set it up about ten years ago. We send in an unknown paint chip and the lab will determine make, model, and year of the vehicle. We¡¯ll run that information through the DMV.¡±


    ¡°Andy, the odds of getting a hit¡ªit¡¯s a waste of time,¡± Mallinger insisted.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not. I have a girlfriend who works for one of the labs that collects paint samples for PDQ and she says¡ª¡±


    ¡°Andy.¡± Mallinger sighed impatiently and turned to me. ¡°He¡¯s new.¡±


    ¡°Hell with that.¡± I looked directly into Andy¡¯s green eyes. ¡°You collect all the paint samples you want. You get the sonuvabitch that wrecked my car and I¡¯ll make it worth your while.¡±


    Mallinger looked skyward and frowned.


    ¡°I need this,¡± she muttered. ¡°I really need this.¡±


    It took over an hour for a wrecker to get my Audi back on the highway. I warned the operator not to damage the car. He told me they could always wait until the spring thaw before trying to get it out of the ditch. I reminded him that it was a $45,000 car. He said, not anymore. I told him he wasn¡¯t very funny. Mallinger suggested I wait in her cruiser while they worked. I insisted on watching from the shoulder of the highway where I could get a better look. I cringed, closed my eyes, and more than once held my breath as the Audi was yanked, dragged, and generally muscled onto the pavement. I realized it was just a car, but still . . .

 Page 62

    I thanked Mallinger for her help and arranged to get a copy of the accident report for my insurance company. Man, were they going to love this. Afterward, I accompanied the tow truck driver to the garage. They put the Audi on a hoist and determined that there had been no damage to the undercarriage. After reattaching the bumper and engineering a temporary fix of the rear lights and filters¡ªthere was a lot of duct tape involved¡ªthey pronounced the car drivable as long as I didn¡¯t drive it too hard. They told me they¡¯d be happy to fix the Audi ¡°as good as new,¡± but I would have to wait a good long time for parts. That didn¡¯t seem like an option to me. I paid with a credit card, thanked everyone, and drove off.


    I still held to my plan, although it had been pushed back over four hours. Using my map and the address I had gleaned from the Internet, I found Josiah Bloom¡¯s place across from the Nicholas County Fairgrounds. There were no other houses in the vicinity and I wondered why it had been built there. Nor was there a garage, only a strip of asphalt next to the house. The strip was empty.


    I knocked on the door and waited. After a few moments I knocked again. I tried the latch. The door was unlocked. I gave it a gentle shove and it swung open. I called Bloom¡¯s name several times. No answer. I stepped inside and was immediately seized by a sense of dread so deep inside me that it felt I had been born with it.


    ¡°Mr. Bloom?¡±


    All the shades were drawn, turning the bright winter sunlight into gray shadows. I moved through a tiny living room filled with furniture that didn¡¯t match. There was a TV and a VCR. A long screwdriver had been jammed into the mouth of the tape machine¡ªthe sight made me consider returning to the Audi for my gun. Instead, I crossed into the dining room beyond. Through an open door on my right I saw a bathroom. To my left was a small arch and what looked like a kitchen.


    ¡°Mr. Bloom?¡±


    I smelled something I couldn¡¯t place. It reminded me of cat urine, but what was that sweet smell mixed with it? It seemed to come from the kitchen, and smelling it did something to my body. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising, felt my lungs fight for air. Perspiration welled up under my arms and on my forehead and I swore I could hear¡ªactually hear¡ªthe beating of my heart as I drifted toward the kitchen. I found a switch and flicked the light on.


    Half of Josiah Bloom¡¯s body was in a chair, the rest slumped over a small wooden table. A puddle of rich, red blood nearly covered the table and dripped into another, much larger puddle on the pale yellow linoleum floor. I gagged when I first saw the small entry hole surrounded by burned and unburned gunpowder in his right temple. I gagged again when I discovered that the bottom left side of Bloom¡¯s head was gone, that his blood, bone, teeth, and brain were splattered on the kitchen wall, cabinets, and floor.


    My gag reflex kicked in and I ran to the bathroom. I found the toilet, hovered above it, my body shuddering, until the gagging finally subsided. I took pride in not vomiting¡ªthe first time I came across a dead body I had. I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face. Contaminating a crime scene, oh this is so smart, my inner voice told me. Wouldn¡¯t they be proud of you back at the St. Paul Police Department? Oh, wouldn¡¯t they, though?


    ¡°Suicide,¡± I told my reflection in the mirror. ¡°I drove him to suicide.¡±


    Get over yourself, my private voice replied.


    ¡°Why then?¡±


    The smell of cat urine was far greater in the bathroom and I began to look for the source. Did Josie keep cats? I found two large plastic buckets, one filled with empty cough medicine bottles and the other with batteries. The bathtub was hideously stained.


    ¡°Well, that might be a reason,¡± I said aloud.


    I forced myself back into the kitchen and examined Bloom¡¯s wound. Next I searched for the gun. I found it in an unlikely location¡ªBloom¡¯s hand. I looked at it for a long time. Then back at the entry wound.


    ¡°Danny isn¡¯t going to like this,¡± I said aloud before I called 911.


    11


    I gave my statement twice, first to Mallinger, then to the medical examiner, a local doctor who moonlighted for the county. Mallinger had made sure that no one entered the kitchen before the ME arrived, including herself.


    ¡°An apparent suicide,¡± the ME announced. ¡°However, there are some inconsistencies. For one, we have a footprint and some smearing in the blood on the floor.¡± He held up his camera for us to see. ¡°I have several shots of it.¡±


    ¡°That was me,¡± said I. To prove it, I showed them the tip of my boot, now stained red. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    The ME took a photograph of my boot. Apparently he was a oneman forensics department.


    ¡°What else did you do?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I used the bathroom.¡±


    The ME had a disgusted look on his face. Mallinger nodded her head in understanding. She looked like she wanted to vomit herself.


    We were outside, standing next to Mallinger¡¯s cruiser. She was pale and I noticed her breath was coming hard. Other officers hung about waiting for instructions, but Mallinger waved them back. I suspected that she had never seen as messy a crime scene before. Unfortunately, I was about to make it worse.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t suicide,¡± I told the ME.


    ¡°Yeah, it was,¡± the ME said.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Since CSI everyone¡¯s a criminologist,¡± the ME told Mallinger.

 Page 63

    ¡°Bag his hand, the hand holding the gun,¡± I insisted. ¡°Bag Bloom¡¯s hand so it won¡¯t rub against anything when you transport the body and test it for gunshot residue.¡±


    The ME glared at Mallinger like he expected the Chief to do something. Only the Chief was still too shaken to appreciate what I was telling her.


    ¡°Listen to me,¡± I said. ¡°The wound¡ªit¡¯s a downward path.¡± I pressed a finger against my own temple, pointing the finger at my jaw. ¡°It¡¯s an awkward way to hold a gun. Usually, the path of the bullet is upward.¡± I adjusted my finger accordingly. ¡°There¡¯s tattooing around the wound, but no abrasion collar, which means the barrel wasn¡¯t pressed against the temple when it was fired. Something else. The gun.¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    ¡°It was large caliber.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°He shouldn¡¯t be holding it. The gun should have fallen from his hand.¡±


    ¡°Ever hear of cadaveric spasm?¡± the ME said. ¡°I¡¯ve seen suicides who go into spontaneous rigor mortis, who grip the gun so tight you have to pry it from their fingers.¡±


    ¡°Only he¡¯s not gripping the gun. It¡¯s just resting in his hand like someone set it there.¡±


    The ME was looking at me now like he was amazed to hear that we spoke the same language. I¡¯ve met a lot of half-smart people like him before. It was always difficult for them to believe that there were other people in the world just as half-smart.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet if you try to lift fingerprints, you¡¯ll discover the gun has been wiped clean,¡± I told him.


    ¡°Who¡¯s the professional here?¡± The ME was addressing Mallinger. ¡°He¡¯s getting in the way.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m wrong,¡± I said. ¡°Maybe I am. Will it kill you to find out for sure? If this were Ramsey County you¡¯d have a GSR¡ªa gunshot residue kit. Swab his hand and test it for gunpowder. What would it hurt?¡±


    ¡°What would it hurt?¡± Mallinger asked weakly.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have the facilities,¡± the ME said. ¡°I¡¯d have to send it to a private lab and that¡¯s gonna cost the county a thousand dollars.¡±


    ¡°Is that what we¡¯re talking about?¡± Mallinger asked. ¡°A thousand dollars?¡±


    ¡°Chief¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bag the hand.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Bag the hand,¡± Mallinger shouted.


    The ME threw up his own hands in disgust.


    ¡°Something else,¡± I said.


    ¡°What?¡± the ME asked.


    ¡°This is going to be even more expensive.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    I looked directly into Mallinger¡¯s eyes so she would better understand what I was telling her.


    ¡°There are signs of methamphetamine cooking all over the place. The odor of cat urine? That¡¯s what it smells like. Ephedrine from the cold medicine, lithium from the batteries¡ªthat¡¯s part of the recipe.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying Josie Bloom was cooking meth?¡± the ME asked.


    ¡°Yes. In his bathroom. You can see the stains on his bathtub.¡±


    ¡°No way. Josie wasn¡¯t smart enough.¡±


    ¡°If you can make chocolate chip cookies, you can make meth.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± The strength was returning to Mallinger¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Then where is the lab paraphernalia?¡± the ME wanted to know.


    ¡°Good question,¡± I told him. ¡°I couldn¡¯t find any of the meth Josie cooked, either.¡±


    ¡°How hard did you search?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°Not as hard as you will, I bet.¡±


    ¡°What should I do?¡±


    ¡°Call the Nicholas County Sheriff¡¯s Department.¡±


    ¡°No, this is my case.¡±


    ¡°This is murder, Danny. Don¡¯t make the same mistake your predecessor did.¡±


    ¡°If the GSR test comes back negative, then I¡¯ll call the sheriff.¡±


    ¡°Look, you¡¯re going to have to call him anyway. After you finish with Josie, you¡¯re going to need someone trained in dealing safely with meth to go over the scene. Then there¡¯s cleanup. For every pound of meth, there¡¯s six, seven pounds of hazardous waste. Josie could have poured it down the drain. He could have tossed it into his backyard.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of it. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Danny,¡± I said.


    She glared at me like I had just committed a cardinal sin using her first name.


    ¡°Chief Mallinger,¡± I said. ¡°Be smart.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re so smart, maybe there¡¯s something you can explain to me,¡± the ME said.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°The screwdriver protruding from Josie¡¯s VCR. What¡¯s that about? Was he hiding his drugs in there?¡±


    ¡°People who use meth, they become so damned paranoid, they wonder where those people on the TV are. They attack the TVs and VCRs with screwdrivers and hammers to find them.¡±


    ¡°Stay here,¡± Mallinger said. She sauntered over to her officers and gave a few orders. They dispersed in opposite directions, each happy to be finally doing something, although what they were doing I couldn¡¯t tell you. The ME went back inside the house. Mallinger retired to the inside of her police cruiser and started working the radio.

 Page 64

    I stood outside and shivered.


    There was no traffic on the county road, and I was surprised when a battered SUV arrived, shuddering to a stop behind the ME¡¯s van. Kevin Salisbury stepped out of the SUV in a hurry, afraid he was missing something. Like the ME, he carried his own camera.


    ¡°Whaddaya got?¡±


    ¡°Are you talking to me?¡±


    Salisbury glanced about, looking for someone to talk to. Finding no one, he returned to me.


    ¡°The police scanner said there¡¯s been a shooting.¡±


    ¡°The ME¡¯s inside. You should talk to him.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Salisbury made for the house. Mallinger stopped him.


    ¡°Whoa, Kevin,¡± she called as she left her vehicle. ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    ¡°I want to go¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no, no. Come here.¡±


    Mallinger took the reporter aside and spoke to him like she had been doing it her entire life. For his part, Salisbury furiously wrote down her words in a notebook. After a few minutes Salisbury raised his camera. Mallinger shook her head. From his body language, I had the impression he was pleading with her, apparently without success. After a while, Salisbury began taking photos of the house, but he didn¡¯t attempt to enter it.


    Mallinger rejoined me at the car.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you speaking to Kevin,¡± she said. ¡°Okay?¡±


    ¡°Not a word. I promise.¡±


    ¡°I appreciate it.¡±


    We watched the reporter circling the property, looking for an angle to shoot from that would make his photos seem ominous.


    ¡°What do you think happened?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to like it.¡±


    ¡°I already don¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°I think Josie¡¯s death is connected to the murder of Elizabeth Rogers.¡±


    ¡°How could it be? That was thirty years ago.¡±


    ¡°I spoke to Josie last night. He made some reference to¡ªWhen I asked him about the night Elizabeth was killed, he said, ¡®Oh, what did we do?¡¯ When I pressed him, he said, ¡®I can¡¯t tell you.¡¯ Then he passed out. I came here today to learn what he meant.¡±


    ¡°Do you honestly think someone killed Bloom to keep him from telling a complete stranger a secret that he¡¯s managed to keep to himself for over three decades? That¡¯s kind of a reach, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°This morning I went to see Dr. Dave Peterson in Mankato. He was willing to talk to me yesterday. Now all of a sudden he¡¯s too busy to even say hello. That¡¯s when I did something foolish.¡±


    ¡°No. Foolish? You?¡±


    ¡°I left a note telling Peterson that I was going to ask the BCA to reopen the investigation. The next thing I know, someone runs my car off the highway and puts a bullet in Josie Bloom¡¯s head. If it wasn¡¯t for the deep snow in the ditch, I¡¯d be as dead as he is now.¡±


    Mallinger shook her head.


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe it.¡±


    ¡°Chief¡ª¡±


    ¡°I buy the first part. You started asking Josie a lot of questions, his partners found out about it, panicked, and kill him. I¡¯m willing to accept that. Bloom was a weak sister and he was getting weaker. I think he was killed because his accomplices were afraid he would tell you something about their operation, and that¡¯s as far as it goes. The thing on the highway this morning¡ªthere¡¯s no evidence that that was anything more than road rage. The fact that you¡¯re asking questions about Elizabeth Rogers, that doesn¡¯t mean anything.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t just eliminate the possibility.¡±


    ¡°Sure, I can. You know, the guys in the truck, that could just as easily have been the two punks you punched out in front of Fit to Print. Did you ever think of that?¡±


    ¡°You know about them?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my town.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Chief.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m lazy, McKenzie. I admit it. I don¡¯t like to work hard. That¡¯s why I want to be chief of the Victoria City Police Department instead of going to a bigger city. I was looking forward to a long, uneventful career. Now this.¡± Mallinger sighed deeply and massaged her temples. ¡°We¡¯ll test Josie¡¯s hand for gunshot residue. If it comes back positive, we¡¯re going to call it a suicide brought on by drug abuse.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s negative?¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s negative¡ªah, dammit. Wait here.¡±


    Mallinger disappeared into the house. The ME was following her when she returned ten minutes later. He smiled broadly as he approached Salisbury, as if speaking to the media was the most fun he could have. Mallinger flagged down one of her officers and spoke to him. The officer nodded his head like he was taking instructions.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± Mallinger said as she approached her cruiser.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°To our tiny, antiquated law enforcement center. I¡¯m only doing this to get it out of the way, understand? We¡¯ll take a hard look at Elizabeth Rogers¡¯s file to see if there¡¯s anything that even remotely supports this goofy theory of yours.¡±


    I bristled at the word ¡°goofy,¡± but decided to let it slide. After all, it was nice of her to let me tag along.

 Page 65

    Mallinger was a quick, assertive driver with even less regard for traffic regulations than I had.


    ¡°Have you ever been given a ticket?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°Of course not. I¡¯m a cop.¡±


    Five minutes later we were walking under bright fluorescent lights through the bowels of the Victoria City Center, arms and legs moving in perfect synchronization, to a door labeled RECORDS. Along the way we passed Officer Andy.


    ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± I asked him.


    ¡°I sent off the paint chips to PDQ. My girlfriend said she¡¯d try to expedite the search. We should get a hit right away.¡±


    ¡°Who the hell do you work for, Andy?¡± Mallinger wanted to know.


    Andy looked from me to her like he wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± Mallinger told me when we reached the door.


    I waited.


    And waited some more.


    Finally, Mallinger reappeared.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she said as she brushed past me.


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°To see Chief Bohlig.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°The file on Elizabeth Rogers. It¡¯s missing.¡±


    Chief Bohlig was a tall man, creased like old leather and wearing a thermal shirt that was faded from frequent washings and threadbare along the collar and cuffs. We found him chopping wood in the backyard of his lake home with a double-bladed ax. There was a pile of logs sawed into eighteen-inch lengths on his right. One by one, he split them into halves and quarters and tossed them into an even more impressive pile on his left. He chopped the logs on a thick, wide tree stump. The snow was trampled all around him and wood chips were littered everywhere.


    Mallinger asked him why he didn¡¯t hire someone younger to chop his wood.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen it before,¡± Bohlig said. ¡°Seen it many times, how the soft life takes a man around the neck and slowly strangles him.¡±


    He looked at me.


    ¡°What do you think?¡±


    ¡°I never argue with a man who¡¯s holding an ax.¡±


    ¡°Good idea,¡± he said.


    We watched him chop a few more logs. I grew impatient, yet said nothing. It was Mallinger¡¯s play. Finally, she asked, ¡°Chief, what happened to the file on Elizabeth Rogers?¡±


    Bohlig kept chopping as if he hadn¡¯t heard.


    ¡°Chief?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Bohlig asked in between swings.


    ¡°Josie Bloom is dead. Suicide or murder, we¡¯re not sure yet. We think it¡¯s connected to the Rogers killing.¡±


    ¡°The murder was over thirty years ago.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s the file?¡±


    ¡°Gone. Destroyed. When I retired I purged a lot of old case files. I figured you could use the space.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t contain myself any longer.


    ¡°The only murder committed in the history of Victoria, Minnesota, and you destroyed the file?¡±


    Bohlig ceased chopping.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you threw away the file,¡± Mallinger said.


    Bohlig continued splitting logs.


    ¡°Probably shouldn¡¯t have,¡± he said. ¡°I didn¡¯t think it was important.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I said. ¡°Some people might think you knew exactly how important it was and that¡¯s why you destroyed it.¡±


    That stopped Bohlig in midswing.


    ¡°McKenzie,¡± Mallinger called.


    ¡°McKenzie?¡± asked Bohlig. ¡°Is that your name? McKenzie, you don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°Enlighten me. What was in the file you didn¡¯t want anyone to see?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you destroy it?¡±


    Bohlig didn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°You covered it up, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°You have no right to say that to me.¡±


    ¡°Why? Why did you do it?¡±


    Bohlig continued to chop wood.


    ¡°Who killed Elizabeth?¡±


    When he refused to answer, I stepped inside the arch of Bohlig¡¯s swing, like a boxer getting close to an opponent. Bohlig could have split me in half if he had wanted to.


    ¡°Who killed Elizabeth?¡± I repeated.


    ¡°It¡¯s in my report.¡±


    ¡°What report?¡± Mallinger asked. ¡°The report you destroyed?¡±


    Bohlig didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he shoved me out of range. I nearly tripped on a log. Mallinger and I continued to watch him work. After a few moments he stopped and leaned on his ax.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know who killed Beth Rogers,¡± he said without looking at either of us. ¡°The town is better off for my not knowing. Look at it. Look at what it¡¯s become.¡±


    ¡°You sonuvabitch.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°Enough.¡±


    ¡°You were a cop for forty years,¡± I told Bohlig, ¡°and the one time you had a chance to get it right, you sold out.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know anything about it.¡±


    ¡°Then tell us.¡± I waved at Mallinger. ¡°Give us the benefit of your wisdom.¡±


    Bohlig continued to work on his woodpile.


    ¡°It¡¯s in my report,¡± he said.


    We drove back to town in silence. Not a sound emanated from the radio and for a moment I thought Mallinger might have switched it off. I had never heard a police radio so silent. But then we were in crime-free Victoria.


    ¡°I looked up to him when I was a kid,¡± Mallinger said eventually. ¡°I wanted to be a cop partly because of him.¡±

 Page 66

    I was too busy watching the trees whizzing past the window to reply. The sun was nearly down and the trees were like shadows.


    ¡°Did you have to accuse him like that?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Some days I just can¡¯t remember if I¡¯m the good twin or the bad twin.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the county attorney has a copy of the file,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s a moot point, anyway. Maybe Josie Bloom really did commit suicide.¡±


    ¡°Take me to my car,¡± I said.


    Fifteen minutes later we stopped behind my Audi, parked across the street from Bloom¡¯s house. There was yellow tape all around the house, but no officers keeping watch. I asked her if that was a good idea. Mallinger was more interested in my future plans.


    ¡°What are you going to do now?¡± she asked.


    ¡°What makes you think I¡¯m going to do anything?¡±


    ¡°Are you going home?¡±


    ¡°Do you want me to go home?¡±


    ¡°Chaos, panic, murder¡ªI¡¯d say your work here was done.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere until I get the answers I came for.¡±


    ¡°I was afraid you¡¯d say that.¡±


    Mallinger waited until I started my car before driving off. I watched her taillights disappear around a corner while the Audi warmed. A second car, a smaller one moving slow, turned the same corner and approached from the opposite direction. I paid little attention until it abruptly veered out of its lane and accelerated toward where I was parked.


    I brought my hand up to shield my eyes from the bright glare of the headlights.


    The car came closer.


    It¡¯s going to hit you, my inner voice shouted.


    I lunged across the stick shift, half my body settling in the bucket seat next to me, the other half still curled beneath the steering column.


    Only the car didn¡¯t hit me.


    At the last moment it straightened and came to an abrupt halt next to the Audi.


    ¡°Hey, McKenzie,¡± a muffled voice shouted.


    I straightened in my seat and powered down the window. There were less than twenty inches between the two cars.


    ¡°How you doin¡¯, pal?¡± the voice asked.


    ¡°Schroeder.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± he said, ¡°are you scared yet?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m getting there.¡±


    ¡°Goin¡¯ into that ditch this morning, I thought I lost you.¡±


    ¡°You saw it?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. I called it in.¡± He gestured in the general direction of Josie Bloom¡¯s house. ¡°Now this. My, my, my, my, my.¡±


    I studied him for a moment. The hard, cold wind set my teeth to chattering despite the warm air that the car heater spilled over my legs and torso.


    ¡°Did you kill Bloom, Greg? Did you try to kill me?¡±


    ¡°What kind of question is that?¡±


    A gun appeared in his right hand that I recognized only as an automatic. He pointed it at me, letting it rest casually against the crook of his left elbow.


    ¡°If I wanted you dead, you¡¯d be dead. Bam, bam, bam, and I drive away. No muss, no fuss. As for Bloom, who the hell is Bloom and why should I care?¡±


    I stared at the gun barrel. It seemed enormous.


    After a moment it disappeared into the darkness of Schroeder¡¯s car.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it,¡± he said. ¡°See you around, McKenzie. Oh, hey. Nice car.¡±


    A moment later, he sped off, driving at least one hundred yards on the wrong side of the street before returning to the proper lane. I watched his reflection recede in my rearview mirror. I closed the window and set the heat at full. It took a few minutes before my teeth stopped chattering.


    Maybe I should go home, I told myself.


    The job¡¯s not done, my inner voice replied.


    What job?


    You came here to protect Jack Barrett.


    No, I didn¡¯t. I came here to find out who sent an e-mail.


    Have you?


    Dammit.


    I opened the glove compartment, slipped out my Beretta, chambered a round, engaged the safety, and set it on the bucket seat next to me. Next, I retrieved my cell phone and punched in a number I¡¯ve known nearly my entire life.


    A young girl answered.


    ¡°Hi, Katie. It¡¯s McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, McKenzie, for the sno-cone machine.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    ¡°And the donut machine.¡±


    ¡°Kate?¡±


    ¡°And the popcorn machine. I¡¯m supposed to say that.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Katie. Is your dad around?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s watching basketball.¡±


    ¡°Let me talk to him, please.¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯s watching basketball.¡±


    ¡°Katie.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Dad.¡±


    There was a lot of fumbling before Bobby Dunston took the receiver from his daughter.


    ¡°I¡¯m watching basketball,¡± he said.


    ¡°Why? It¡¯s not the playoffs yet.¡±


    ¡°What do you want, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°I need you to do something for me.¡±


    ¡°Why is it that whenever you agree to do these little favors for people, I end up doing all the work?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the way I plan it.¡±


    ¡°What do you need?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have called if it wasn¡¯t important.¡±

 Page 67

    ¡°Tell me what I can do.¡±


    ¡°Thirty some years ago a young woman named Elizabeth Rogers was murdered here in Victoria. The autopsy was performed by the Nicholas County coroner. I need to know what¡¯s in the report and I need to know right away. Can you help me out? Call the sheriff¡¯s department? Take advantage of a little professional courtesy?¡±


    ¡°I can make a call, but thirty years? I don¡¯t know, Mac.¡±


    ¡°Any help you can give me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s getting late. If I can¡¯t get hold of anyone tonight, I¡¯ll try tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Where can you be reached?¡±


    ¡°You have my cell number.¡±


    ¡°I do. So, what¡¯s happening, Mac?¡±


    ¡°They wrecked my car, Bobby.¡±


    ¡°No. The Audi?¡±


    ¡°They smashed it all up.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Some jerk in a pickup with a plow blade ran me off the road.¡±


    ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but Bobby, they wrecked my new car.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on down there, McKenzie? What are you up to?¡±


    ¡°My neck, Bobby. I¡¯m up to my neck.¡±


    There was a sign on the door to the Korn Krib, the tavern attached to the Victoria Inn. NO GUNS ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES. Signs like that have been cropping up at public places, even churches, all across Minnesota ever since Governor Barrett and the state legislature deemed it essential that any Clint Eastwood wannabe over the age of twenty-one who completes seven hours of training be allowed to carry a concealed weapon. I ignored the sign, carrying my Beretta in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket. Once I saw the karaoke machine next to the door, I was glad I did. Granted, no one was using it, but the night was young.


    The Korn Krib was filling slowly. A pair of attractive women in high heels and dresses too thin for the weather were drinking and smoking cigarettes at the bar. They appeared to be waiting for someone. They could have been hookers. Or they could have been elementary schoolteachers from South Dakota. I didn¡¯t know and I didn¡¯t care. In the corner booth a man and woman in their early forties held hands across the table and spoke intimately to each other. They both wore wedding rings. I hoped they were married to each other but I wouldn¡¯t have given odds on it. Three guys, working stiffs who labored where a suit was the uniform of the day, shared a pitcher of beer at a nearby table. They kept glancing at the girls at the bar.


    I found an empty table, slouched in a chair, and propped my feet on another. I waved at the waitress, ordered a Sam Adams from across the room. She stared at my feet on the chair cushion and frowned when she served the beer. Since she didn¡¯t actually say anything, I left them where they were.


    I felt gloomy. Not Charlie Parker gloomy. Or even Billie Holiday gloomy. I was way down there at the bottom of the well with Tom Waits. I glanced back at the couple in the booth. They were still holding hands. I adjusted my chair so I wouldn¡¯t have to look at them.


    I could have stayed in my room, but I wanted a drink, and drinking alone in a bar seemed less emotionally unsettling than drinking alone in front of a TV set, less like Josie Bloom. Besides, there was nothing on and I had run out of things to do. After I had checked back in¡ªthe desk clerk refused to speak a word to me that wasn¡¯t business related¡ªI had taken up my notebook and started playing with what little facts I had gleaned during my time in Victoria. I played with them the way a child works with a Lego set, putting pieces together, taking them apart, rearranging them. I kept at it until the process had begun to repeat itself, yielding the same combinations and conclusions. Afterward, I had showered, dressed in the same jeans and shirt I had worn for the past two days, and jogged down to the Korn Krib.


    I rested my elbow on the table and my cheek against my hand and slowly sipped the beer. Normally, I didn¡¯t care that much about the NBA. Pro basketball was way down on my list of favorite sports, somewhere between tennis and World Cup Soccer. Yet I couldn¡¯t get enough of the game being shown on the big screen mounted above the bar. I had no idea which teams were playing. Hell, the only reason I was sure it was pro ball instead of college was because instead of the girl next door, the cheerleaders looked like women I had once arrested for solicitation.


    ¡°You seem tense,¡± a voice said.


    I looked up without adjusting my posture. Danny Mallinger hovered above the table. Instead of her uniform, she was wearing a green turtleneck sweater under a worn leather jacket that wasn¡¯t too different from my own. Her hands were thrust into the front pockets of her jeans, her jeans tucked inside long leather boots. I liked her. Liked her face. Her eyes. Liked her hair and the way she pulled it back behind her ears. I liked the way she spoke, too, and some of the things she said that were close to witty. I liked the way she seemed to swagger even when standing still¡ªa rare gift in a woman.


    ¡°I¡¯m not tense,¡± I told her. ¡°I¡¯m just terribly, terribly alert.¡±

 Page 68

    ¡°I can tell.¡±


    ¡°Sit.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Mallinger pulled out a chair opposite mine.


    ¡°There¡¯re a couple of girls at the bar you could roust if you¡¯re working,¡± I told her.


    ¡°I came looking for you.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°To make sure you¡¯re all right.¡±


    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I be all right?¡±


    ¡°Getting run off the highway, seeing a guy¡¯s head half blown off¡ªit shook me up. ¡®Course, I¡¯m small town. Might be you see a lot of that sort of thing in the big city.¡±


    I raised my beer.


    ¡°All the time.¡±


    And drank.


    ¡°Drowning your sorrows, are you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Did you come here to give me a lecture on sobriety, facing my demons, that sort of thing?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    To prove it, she waved at the bartender. The bartender must have known her because he brought a vodka gimlet for Mallinger and another Sam Adams for me without being asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about Chief Bohlig,¡± she said.


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°I believe him. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a cover-up. I think he dumped the file because it was thirty years old. He dumped a lot of files.¡±


    ¡°You judge people according to your own behavior,¡± I told her. ¡°You can¡¯t imagine doing something like that, so you can¡¯t imagine why someone else would. Like most honest people, Chief, you think everyone is basically honest, too. They¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a cynical attitude.¡±


    I watched her out of the corner of my eye.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I said. ¡°You are small town.¡±


    We sat silently, watching the game and sipping our beverages. After a few minutes, Mallinger asked, ¡°What kind of music do you like?¡± I don¡¯t think she really cared. It was just something to say.


    ¡°Jazz mostly, but also blues, some rock ¡¯n¡¯ roll. You?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re probably going to laugh.¡±


    ¡°Not even if I thought it was funny.¡±


    ¡°I listen to Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Mozart . . .¡±


    ¡°Ah, the big bands. What¡¯s funny about that?¡±


    Mallinger didn¡¯t say. Instead, she took another sip of her gimlet. Thus fortified, she said, ¡°What happened today, do you want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°Not particularly.¡±


    ¡°No?¡±


    ¡°Talk, society tells us these days. Something upsets you, talk about it. Talk to family. Talk to friends. To qualified therapists. Whatever. Talk your problems away. Only the guys who fought World War II, the guys like my father who fought in Korea, who saw hell up close and personal, they didn¡¯t talk about it. Yet they built a nation of astonishing strength and vitality. Talk is overrated.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Mallinger said.


    I watched her while she took a sip of vodka.


    ¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°Me? No. It¡¯s just . . .¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just that I don¡¯t know how to behave. No one ever taught me what I should do when I see¡ªwhen I see things like that. Chief Bohlig, he never . . . I know you¡¯ve seen things. I know you¡¯ve done things.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I have.¡±


    ¡°The suspect you killed, with the shotgun . . . I¡¯ve never killed anyone. I¡¯ve never even discharged my weapon except on the range.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good thing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never even seen a man who was shot before¡ªnot until today. I thought . . .¡±


    ¡°You thought I could tell you what to feel?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡±


    ¡°How do you feel?¡±


    ¡°I feel crappy.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Okay?¡±


    ¡°I guess it¡¯s okay as long as you feel something.¡±


    ¡°How did you feel? When you killed the suspect, what was it like?¡±


    ¡°Messy.¡±


    ¡°No. I mean, how did you feel?¡±


    ¡°I just told you.¡±


    She thought about it for a moment, then said, ¡°How do you live with it?¡±


    ¡°I remind myself that I did the right thing, that I saved lives by killing the suspect. I remind myself that that was my job, to protect and serve the public. I remind myself that the world is a better place because I did my job. I remind myself that I¡¯m doing good, that I¡¯m one of the good guys.¡±


    ¡°That works,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°It works for me, Chief. The thing is, there is no answer, no formula, no set of rules to follow. It¡¯s like being an alcoholic. You deal with it day by day, some days being better than others, and any code, any philosophy that gets you from today to tomorrow is a good one.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a hard way to live.¡±


    ¡°Yes, it is.¡±


    We finished our drinks, ordered another round.


    ¡°For what it¡¯s worth, Chief. I thought you behaved very well today. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.¡±


    ¡°You can call me Danny.¡±


    ¡°I should have known Josie was on meth, Danny,¡± I said. ¡°The way he kept scratching himself, how his teeth were rotting out. Those are pretty obvious signs, but I didn¡¯t see them.¡±


    ¡°Would it have made any difference?¡±

 Page 69

    ¡°Probably not.¡±


    We watched the game some more. At the same time, I was aware that something was happening between us. Something cellular. I felt my body vibrating like the strings of a harp. Suddenly, Danny seemed very sexy to me. It could be the alcohol, I knew. Or the incredible darkness that had seeped into my soul. I didn¡¯t analyze it. I didn¡¯t want to.


    On the TV, a ref blew a whistle, signaling time-out. The game was replaced by a commercial.


    ¡°I¡¯m not gay,¡± I said.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not gay. I¡¯m not married or engaged. Just in case you were thinking that.¡±


    ¡°Why would I think that?¡±


    ¡°Because I haven¡¯t hit on you yet.¡±


    ¡°I noticed.¡±


    ¡°I thought you might be wondering why.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I figure everyone tells you that you¡¯re lovely, that you¡¯re beautiful. I figure everyone tells you that you could start a parade just by crossing the street and that you must get pretty bored hearing it all the time.¡±


    ¡°Exhausting,¡± she said, having fun with it.


    ¡°So I decided I would try to impress you with my maturity and intellectual depth. Only there¡¯s a problem.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any.¡±


    Mallinger laughed. She couldn¡¯t help herself.


    I lifted my legs off the chair and swung them under the table, brushing her knee with my knee.


    ¡°Do that again,¡± she said.


    ¡°Do what?¡±


    ¡°Make me laugh.¡±


    I did.


    Yet it wasn¡¯t enough. Almost, but not quite. Not the laughter or the drinks. The gloomy feeling remained, fed by tiny reminders of Bloom and high-speed duels and fights outside restaurants and Greg Schroeder lurking in the shadows. It was still there when I announced that I was going back to my room and Danny volunteered to walk with me and I welcomed her.


    Outside my room, I kissed her on the right cheek. I didn¡¯t say anything. I just reached my arm a little around her waist, not quite a hug, and I kissed her cheek.


    She turned her mouth and kissed me back¡ªon the lips. The kiss lasted longer than it had any right to, and near the end of it Danny moaned, not with passion or pain, but with relief. I broke off the kiss and examined her face¡ªDanny¡¯s face. Not Bloom¡¯s. Not Elizabeth¡¯s. Danny¡¯s. It was a nice face. Without trickery, without guile or deceit. I kissed her again.


    In my imagination, Mallinger¡¯s body was mostly muscle. In reality, there was a fleshiness about her that could easily turn to fat if she didn¡¯t exercise, and for a moment I actually considered telling her so before purging the thought from my head in horror. What was I thinking? You¡¯re not thinking, that¡¯s the whole thing, my inner voice told me. I felt giddy with excitement and at the same time felt that my excitement was somehow lewd, as if I was taking pleasure in a perversion¡ªa thought probably caused by the knowledge that I was betraying Nina. I pushed that aside, too. Instead, I lost myself in the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings my heightened senses brought to me, the softness of Danny¡¯s skin and the scent of her and the surprising strength of her and the heat of her body when I entered her. I felt sensations¡ªsensations gamblers must feel, sensations I found immensely pleasurable¡ªand they kept coming and coming¡ªuntil tenderness turned to sleep and night became morning.


    Danny was standing at the window, looking out on the parking lot beyond. Early dawn circled her naked body.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked, just to be saying something.


    ¡°I should leave now.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to.¡±


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t do for the chief of police to be seen leaving a strange man¡¯s motel room.¡±


    I objected to ¡°strange man,¡± but said nothing. I slid out of bed and came up behind her. I rested my hands on her shoulders.


    ¡°Don¡¯t do that,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t stay. I have to go home. I have to put on makeup.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you wore makeup.¡±


    ¡°I do. I do wear makeup. It comes with the job.¡±


    She turned and kissed me just as she had outside the motel room door several hours earlier. When she finished, she said, ¡°Go back to bed.¡± I did, but she didn¡¯t join me.


    12


    I woke up feeling guilty as hell. Slants of sunlight fell across my face like the beams of interrogation lamps. I turned my head away. A song played in my brain, a song I knew as a child¡ªthe same song that was there just before I fell asleep after making love to Danny Mallinger. ¡°The Teddy Bears¡¯ Picnic.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re one sick puppy, McKenzie,¡± I told myself.


    I went naked to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. That wasn¡¯t going to do it, so I took a shower, first cold and then as hot as I could stand it. Afterward, I swiped the steam from the mirror and stared at myself.


    ¡°Who do you think you are?¡± I asked aloud.


    I thought of Nina Truhler. She deserved better than someone like me.


    My cell phone played its tinny melody and for a moment I was seized with panic.

 Page 70

    It¡¯s her. What should I say?


    Only a glance at the numerical display told me I was wrong.


    ¡°Hi, Bobby,¡± I said.


    A fist of cold air gripped me as I stepped out of the bathroom. Goose bumps formed on my naked flesh and my body shivered.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Dunston said.


    ¡°What time is it?¡±


    ¡°Almost nine. Rough night, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°Long night, anyway.¡±


    ¡°I have the information you need.¡±


    ¡°Hang on a sec.¡± I went to the small table in the corner of the room where I found my notebook. ¡°What do you have?¡±


    ¡°Want me to read it all to you or just give you the pertinent details?¡±


    ¡°Details.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s see . . . Office of Nicholas County Coroner. Want the file number?¡±


    ¡°Not now.¡±


    ¡°Decedent¡ªElizabeth Mary Rogers. Age¡ªseventeen. Sex¡ªfemale. Place of death¡ªVictoria, Minnesota. Time of death¡ªthe coroner estimates death occurred between 2200 hours Saturday, March 15 and 0200 Sunday, March 16. Cause of death¡ªshe had a crushed larynx, resulting in acute asphyxiation. She died hard, Mac. The reports says, let¡¯s see¡ª¡®indicates that the victim lived four to six minutes after the wound was received.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Damn.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. The coroner believes the larynx was crushed by hand¡ªwith the thumbs pressing inward¡ªfrom the front¡ªthe killer was facing the victim¡ªwhere is it?¡ªskin and blood were found under the fingernails of the index and middle fingers of the victim¡¯s right hand classified as type O positive. She fought back, scratched him good.¡±


    ¡°Just a second.¡±


    I wrote swiftly, trying not to see Elizabeth¡¯s face as I did. A hard rap on my door distracted me.


    ¡°Hang on, someone¡¯s knocking.¡±


    I carried the phone, pressed against my ear, to the door. I looked through the spy hole. I dropped the phone on the bed, grabbed my jeans, and slipped into them.


    ¡°Hey, babe,¡± Danny Mallinger said when I opened the door. She was dressed in her police uniform and holding a cardboard cup holder containing two large coffees.


    ¡°I¡¯m on the phone,¡± I told her. I retrieved the cell from the bed, and retreated to the table.


    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± I said.


    ¡° ¡®Hey, babe?¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not what you think, Bobby.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is. You are such a slut, McKenzie.¡± In Bobby¡¯s book, that was a good thing.


    ¡°Cut it out,¡± I told him.


    ¡°Where was I?¡± He took a deep breath. ¡°Indications are that the victim engaged in sexual intercourse with multiple partners shortly before she was killed. Less than an hour.¡±


    ¡°Multiple partners?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s see. Presence of sperm¡ªmicroscopic examination¡ªshe had intercourse with a type A negative and a type B positive secreter. They found male pubic hair, consistent with a type O positive, so that¡¯s three at least.¡±


    ¡°At least?¡±


    ¡°There could have been more than three. Back in those days the best they could do was ABO blood typing. They couldn¡¯t identify nonsecreters and they couldn¡¯t separate, say, one O pos from a second O pos.¡±


    ¡°She was gang-raped.¡±


    The words tasted bitter in my mouth.


    ¡°Not necessarily. The report¡ªthe coroner said he couldn¡¯t determine whether the sex was consensual or nonconsensual. There was no physical trauma, Mac. No bruising, no contusions, or lacerations. Except for her throat, there wasn¡¯t a mark on her. There¡¯s one other thing to consider. An alcohol analysis was performed on spleen tissue and was 0.144 grams over 100 grams.¡±


    ¡°She was drunk?¡±


    ¡°One hundred and twenty pound teenage girl? Oh, yeah, she was drunk. Does that help?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Did they keep the samples?¡±


    ¡°No. My guy told me that samples in unknown suspect cases were not routinely held for any length of time in those days unless it was a high-profile case. There was no DNA testing, so there was no point.¡±


    I pivoted toward Mallinger. I looked her directly in the eye as I said, ¡°Thanks, Bobby. I owe you one.¡±


    ¡°You owe me a helluva lot more than one, but we¡¯ll talk about that later.¡±


    ¡°Love to the family.¡±


    ¡°Back at ya.¡±


    I deactivated the phone and set it next to the notebook.


    Mallinger handed a cup of coffee to me and drank from the other.


    ¡°I thought you could use this,¡± she told me.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Danny,¡± I said while removing the plastic lid.


    ¡°That phone call¡ªis there something I should know?¡± she asked.


    ¡°This is good coffee.¡±


    ¡°Are you holding out on me, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°Very good coffee.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. I was going to ask you if you slept well.¡±


    ¡°I did. How about you?¡±


    ¡°You were too much of a distraction. I had to go home, remember? It was lucky I did. The ME called at the crack of dawn. He was up all night trying to prove that you were wrong about Josie Bloom.¡±


    ¡°Did he?¡±

 Page 71

    Mallinger shook her head slowly.


    ¡°There was no gunshot residue on his hand, no fingerprints on the gun. The ME has classified it as a homicide. Once I heard that, I reinterviewed the kids we busted the other day. Did a photo array. They all picked Josie as the man who sold them the meth.¡±


    ¡°What are you going to do now?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already done it. I called the Nicholas County Sheriff¡¯s Department. It¡¯s their case.¡±


    ¡°How would you like to solve it?¡±


    ¡°What do you know that I don¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Answer the question. How would¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like it a lot. Of course I would.¡±


    ¡°Could you get the rest of the Victoria Seven together, all of them together in the same room?¡±


    ¡°You think they killed Josie?¡±


    ¡°Get them together and we¡¯ll ask them.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s done.¡±


    ¡°Done?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re all over at Nick¡¯s even as we speak, planning Josie Bloom¡¯s funeral. That¡¯s where I got the coffee.¡±


    ¡°Including Dr. Peterson.¡±


    ¡°Everyone except Jack Barrett.¡±


    ¡°Let me get dressed, we¡¯ll go over there.¡±


    ¡°Before we do . . . About last night.¡±


    I didn¡¯t want to talk about last night and my reaction was probably more brusque than it needed to be.


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re going to tell me that you¡¯ve never done anything like that before and you¡¯re not that kind of girl.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t done anything like that before,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°But apparently I am exactly that kind of girl. The thing is, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m not the kind of girl who does it a lot. McKenzie, I¡¯m grateful to you. I needed comfort. I needed understanding and tenderness. I needed someone to care about me. You gave me all that. That¡¯s a lot to give, but . . .¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s not going any farther than last night.¡±


    ¡°If it does, it won¡¯t be because I need comfort.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t be offended.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not offended, Danny. Honestly, I¡¯m not. I suppose last night we were both using each other for the same reasons.¡±


    Mallinger nodded her head, but I don¡¯t think that was the answer she wanted to hear. Which was ironic, because that wasn¡¯t the answer I wanted to give. Hell yes, I¡¯m offended. That¡¯s what I really wanted to say, but what was the point? At the first opportunity, I was leaving Victoria and I didn¡¯t plan on coming back.


    ¡°We should be on our way if we¡¯re going to catch the Seven,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°Yeah, we should.¡±


    ¡°I think from now on, you should call me Chief again.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you wait outside while I get dressed, Chief.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take me long. Jeans, boots, the shirt and sweater I had worn the two previous days that now made me feel slightly soiled. I put most of my time into my hair.


    I met Mallinger in the lobby. We left for Nick¡¯s in separate cars. Ten minutes later we walked through the heavy door of the restaurant. Axelrod, Hugoson, Reif, and Dr. Peterson were sitting alone in a room reserved for private functions just off the kitchen. I was pleased to see the splint on the middle finger of Reif¡¯s gun hand.


    ¡°McKenzie.¡±


    Axelrod seemed pleased to see me. The others said nothing. They were sitting at a long table, bottles of beer arrayed in front of them. I recognized Dr. Peterson from the photos in his office. He wore sunglasses¡ªeven indoors¡ªthat reminded me of the windshield of an expensive sports car. He was tanned, but it was man-made and didn¡¯t have the healthy glow you get from sun and fresh air.


    ¡°Have you guys met McKenzie?¡± Axelrod asked.


    No one replied. The other men seemed more interested in Mallinger than they did in me.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, Chief?¡± Hugoson asked.


    ¡°Good question,¡± she replied. ¡°What is going on?¡±


    ¡°Gentlemen, and I use the word loosely,¡± I said. They all turned to look at me. ¡°Which one of you has A negative blood?¡±


    Dr. Peterson carelessly raised his hand.


    Hugoson shot him a glance that could have frozen running water.


    ¡°Which one of you is B positive?¡±


    ¡°Shut up, you guys!¡± Hugoson told the room. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± he asked me.


    ¡°How about you, convict? Are you B positive?¡±


    ¡°Who do you think you¡¯re talking to?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s easy enough to find out. We¡¯ll just check your prison records.¡±


    Hugoson rose so quickly to his feet that his chair fell over.


    ¡°Going somewhere?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to listen to this crap.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you curious?¡± Mallinger asked him. ¡°Me? I¡¯m curious. How ¡¯bout the rest of you guys? Are you curious?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± Axelrod said and laughed. ¡°Very curious.¡± Only his laughter didn¡¯t have the same lilt as it had when I first met him.


    ¡°What¡¯s your blood type, Nick?¡± I asked.


    ¡°O positive. Universal donor.¡± He answered like he was proud of it.

 Page 72

    ¡°What the hell are you talking about?¡± Hugoson wanted to know.


    ¡°You guys have been all hot and bothered ever since I began asking questions about Elizabeth Rogers. No one would talk to me except Josie Bloom, and you killed him for it.¡±


    ¡°He committed suicide,¡± Dr. Peterson said.


    ¡°No, he didn¡¯t,¡± Mallinger told them.


    They all seemed genuinely surprised by the news.


    ¡°I announce that I¡¯m going to the BCA¡±¡ªI was staring at Dr. Peterson, it annoyed me that I couldn¡¯t see his eyes¡ª¡°and less than an hour later someone tried to kill me. Then someone killed Josie. Now we know why.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± asked Hugoson.


    ¡°Elizabeth Rogers was raped before she was murdered¡ªraped by at least three men with type A negative, B positive, and O positive blood.¡±


    ¡°Who are you, Kojak?¡± Hugoson wanted to know. ¡°You expect us to jump up now and say, ¡®Yes, we did it, ha, ha, ha, and we¡¯re glad?¡¯ Get lost.¡±


    Here it comes, my inner voice announced. The big bluff.


    ¡°As soon as I leave here I¡¯m going to visit the Nicholas County attorney and then we¡¯re going to visit a judge. We¡¯re going to get a search warrant and then we¡¯re coming back here and take blood samples from each of you. Back when you killed Elizabeth, they didn¡¯t have the technology. All they could identify was blood type and that couldn¡¯t be used to differentiate between suspects with the same blood type. But a miracle has occurred since then, gentlemen. DNA testing. We¡¯re going to take your blood and match it to the semen you left in Elizabeth Rogers and then the mighty Victoria Seven, the do-or-die kids¡ªyou¡¯re all going to prison for the rest of your lives.¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t goin¡¯ back to prison,¡± Hugoson announced.


    ¡°If not for Elizabeth, then for Josie,¡± I said.


    ¡°I had nothin¡¯ to do with that.¡±


    ¡°Were you his partner, convict? Were you and Josie dealing meth?¡±


    ¡°Fuck no.¡±


    ¡°How ¡¯bout you?¡± I was staring at Reif. ¡°Were you trying to pick up some extra cash to support your KKK club, or whatever it is?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he insisted.


    ¡°But you knew he was dealing.¡±


    ¡°I knew,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°I seen enough crankheads in stir to know one when I see one, only I had nothing to do with it. That¡¯s bad shit and I had nothing to do with it.¡±


    ¡°Who was helping him?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t me.¡±


    ¡°Someone was helping him.¡±


    Neither Hugoson nor the rest had anything to say to that.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I said. ¡°When we get the search warrants for Elizabeth, all the rest will fall into place, too.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t kill Beth,¡± Dr. Peterson said. He had a high, almost squeaky voice. It was the first time I had heard it.


    ¡°Shut up.¡± Hugoson was snarling. ¡°They don¡¯t have squat or they wouldn¡¯t be here. You think I don¡¯t know how things work?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t rape her, either,¡± Dr. Peterson said.


    ¡°Shut up, I tell you.¡±


    Hugoson went toward Dr. Peterson, but Mallinger stepped between them.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t like that.¡± Reif was doing the talking, now. ¡°It wasn¡¯t like that at all.¡±


    ¡°What was it like?¡±


    ¡°Beth, she found us. We weren¡¯t looking for her. She found us. We were in Josie¡¯s basement drinking beer, and we had a lot of it, and then she was there. She came over because she was looking for Jack. Jack Barrett. Only he wasn¡¯t there. We didn¡¯t know where he was and then¡ª¡±


    ¡°She said she¡¯d take us all on.¡±


    That from Hugoson. I spun toward him.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What do you think I mean? She said she wanted to fuck us all.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t lie to me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a lie,¡± Reif insisted. ¡°That¡¯s what she said. She said Jack was sleeping with another girl and that she wanted to teach him a lesson. So she, we . . .¡±


    ¡°So we let her,¡± said Hugoson. ¡°All of us. Together. We took her every way we could think of. A regular orgy.¡±


    I was forced backward by his words until my back was against the wall. My mind reeled at the information I suddenly didn¡¯t want to hear.


    ¡°All of you?¡± I asked.


    I looked at Axelrod. He nodded.


    ¡°It was no big deal,¡± Hugoson said.


    I wasn¡¯t surprised that he thought so.


    ¡°She was seventeen,¡± I said.


    ¡°So were we,¡± Hugoson said.


    ¡°She was drunk.¡±


    ¡°So were we.¡±


    ¡°Beth came down to the basement and took off her clothes,¡± Dr. Peterson said. ¡°Just like that. She was standing there wearing nothing but her locket. A beautiful girl like her. What would you have done?¡±


    Not that, my inner voice said. I wouldn¡¯t have done that. Not even at seventeen and drunk with my friends urging me on.


    ¡°You took advantage of her,¡± I said.


    ¡°She took advantage of us.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe you.¡±


    But I did.


    ¡°That¡¯s what happened,¡± said Reif. ¡°That¡¯s all that happened. We all did it and then she left.¡±


    ¡°Just left?¡±


    Reif glanced at Hugoson and looked away quickly.

 Page 73

    ¡°Yeah. She just left.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°You can¡¯t touch us. The rape thing has expired, the statute of limitations.¡±


    ¡°But not murder.¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t kill nobody.¡±


    ¡°Tell us about the convenience store clerk you beat up,¡± I said.


    ¡°Fuck you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true, though,¡± Reif said. ¡°We didn¡¯t kill her. We didn¡¯t touch her. We liked her. We really did.¡±


    ¡°Then why was Josie Bloom so upset?¡±


    ¡°Because he loved her,¡± Axelrod answered. There was fear in the voices of the other men. His was seasoned with regret. ¡°He had loved her his entire life. That night in the basement, it wasn¡¯t fun and games for Josie. It was love. When she turned up dead the next morning, I guess he started to die, too.¡±


    ¡°Oh, give me a break,¡± Hugoson said.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t kill her, McKenzie,¡± Axelrod said. ¡°As God is my judge.¡±


    ¡°She said, before she left . . .¡± Reif hesitated as if he knew he was saying something foolish and decided to say it anyway. ¡°She said she was going to ruin everything.¡±


    ¡°Shut the hell up!¡± shouted Hugoson.


    ¡°What do you mean, ruin everything?¡±


    ¡°She said¡ª¡±


    ¡°Brian!¡± Hugoson shouted.


    ¡°She said she was going to tell Jack what we did. She said she was going to get her revenge on Jack and then see how well we all played basketball together.¡±


    Hugoson slumped in his chair. He knew a motive when he heard one.


    ¡°What happened next?¡± I asked.


    ¡°She left,¡± said Reif. ¡°We never saw her again.¡±


    ¡°We were all together,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°We didn¡¯t leave each other until it was way early in the morning. If you want us to take a polygraph, we will.¡±


    Dr. Peterson nodded his head in agreement.


    I knew it was unnecessary. The fact that Hugoson and others would even volunteer . . . I felt the need to sit down. I found a chair at the far end of the table. We sat staring at each other for a few minutes while Mallinger circled the room, not looking at anything in particular. The expression on her face¡ªit seemed as if she had given up on civilization once and for all.


    ¡°You got nothing on us,¡± Hugoson said.


    ¡°We didn¡¯t kill Beth,¡± Reif said. ¡°We didn¡¯t kill Josie.¡±


    ¡°Who did?¡± I asked.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about Josie, but . . .¡±


    Reif didn¡¯t speak the words, but they hung in the air just the same.


    Jack Barrett killed Beth.


    ¡°McKenzie?¡± Axelrod reached out his hand as if he wanted to touch me, then pulled it back again. ¡°You¡¯ll never know how sorry I am. I could tell you and tell you and tell you and still you¡¯d never know.¡±


    I was in the Audi, driving way too fast for the narrow county roads. I had ignored Mallinger¡¯s calls to wait when I left Nick¡¯s and sped to Chief Bohlig¡¯s lake home as quickly as I could. I found his driveway and turned in. The Audi slid on his slick asphalt and nearly rammed his trash bins before halting.


    Mallinger arrived moments later. She ran to catch up as I approached Bohlig¡¯s door. He opened it before I had a chance to knock.


    ¡°I know what happened,¡± I announced.


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°I read the coroner¡¯s report. I talked to the Seven.¡±


    ¡°What did they have to say?¡±


    ¡°They said the sex was consensual.¡±


    ¡°No way to prove it wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°They said they didn¡¯t kill her.¡±


    ¡°They told me the same thing. Stuck together, they did.¡±


    ¡°Did you interview Jack Barrett?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°What was his story?¡±


    ¡°Same thing. He didn¡¯t do it. Said he hadn¡¯t seen Beth since he left the party.¡±


    ¡°Did he know about the sex?¡±


    ¡°No, and I didn¡¯t tell him.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°If I could¡¯ve baited him into admitting he knew about the gang bang, that would prove he had seen her after the party. He never tumbled.¡±


    ¡°Did he have an alibi?¡±


    ¡°He said he went home, but . . .¡±


    ¡°But what?¡±


    ¡°I had the sense he was hiding something.¡±


    ¡°You think?¡±


    I stood on the front stoop, bareheaded, bare hands at my side, my bomber jacket hanging open, the lapels curling open in the breeze. Yet I did not feel the cold.


    ¡°What was his blood type?¡± I asked. ¡°Did you at least learn that?¡±


    ¡°O positive.¡±


    ¡°The same as the tissue found under Elizabeth¡¯s fingernails.¡±


    ¡°Mighta been.¡±


    ¡°Did you examine him for scratches?¡±


    ¡°He had some on his arms, but that coulda happened while playing basketball.¡±


    ¡°He had motive, opportunity, scratches on his arms matching the blood samples, no alibi . . .¡±


    ¡°No way he gets convicted.¡±


    ¡°Did you even try to build a case?¡±


    ¡°Chief?¡± Mallinger was at my elbow. There was fear in her voice, as if she were afraid of the questions she was asking. ¡°Did Governor Barrett kill Elizabeth Rogers?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

 Page 74

    ¡°Did you try to find out?¡±


    ¡°To serve and protect,¡± Bohlig told her. ¡°That¡¯s what it says on the sides of our police cars; that was my job. I did my job. The town is a better place because I did my job. I protected and served this town and I don¡¯t lose any sleep over it. I picked you to replace me. Now we¡¯ll see how well you do.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not a cop,¡± I said. ¡°You¡¯re a co-conspirator.¡±


    I sat at the small table in my motel room. I had a bucket of ice, a bottle of vodka, and a six-pack of tonic water¡ªthe Victoria municipal liquor store had opened at 10:00 A.M. and I was its first customer. Only I hadn¡¯t opened the bottle. When I bought the vodka it was with the intention of getting impossibly drunk. Now I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to.


    ¡°What am I going to do?¡±


    I had been asking myself that question since leaving Chief Bohlig. He was probably right. There was no way to convict Jack Barrett of murder. With the destruction of the samples, there was no longer evidence enough even to charge him. What bothered me the most, however, was that I had liked Barrett, genuinely liked him. I hadn¡¯t felt so utterly betrayed since my father died.


    Outside the weather had turned nasty. The wind had whipped up and a hard snow was falling. Traffic moved cautiously on the county road beyond the motel parking lot. A couple of cars swung in, looking for refuge from the storm. I opened the vodka and a bottle of mix, built a stiff drink, and toasted the weather. Nature was cruel, but not vindictive, and never personal. ¡°You might be a mother, but never a bitch,¡± I said and downed half the drink. ¡°You just don¡¯t give a damn.¡± I told myself I didn¡¯t give a damn, either. I was lying.


    I finished the drink in a hurry and built a second.


    I hoped someone would tell me that everything was going to work out, that it would be all right. Someone radiant and entirely trustworthy, like Jessica Lange or Cate Blanchett. No such luck. Instead, I got Lindsey Bauer Barrett.


    I had just finished the second vodka tonic when she called. At first I thought it might be Danny Mallinger and ignored her. After five rings my cell cycled over to my voice mail. Then it rang another five times. Then another.


    ¡°What?¡± I finally shouted into the receiver.


    ¡°Mac? It¡¯s Lindsey Barrett.¡±


    ¡°Zee.¡±


    ¡°Am I interrupting something? I can call back.¡±


    ¡°No. I was just¡ªActually, I was thinking about getting drunk, if you must know.¡±


    ¡°Why? What happened? Did you learn who sent the e-mail?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, no.¡±


    ¡°What then?¡±


    How do you tell your friend that you believe her husband is a murderer? Quickly, I decided.


    ¡°Jack could be guilty after all.¡±


    ¡°What makes you say that?¡±


    ¡°I uncovered some evidence, talked to some witnesses. Zee, I¡¯m sorry, it doesn¡¯t look good.¡±


    ¡°Dammit, McKenzie. What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I asked you to learn who sent the e-mail, not investigate a murder.¡±


    ¡°Zee?¡±


    ¡°Who sent the e-mail? That¡¯s all I want to know.¡±


    Once again my internal security system was on full alert. The alarm bells in my head were loud enough to blow out my eardrums.


    ¡°A lot of people could have sent the e-mail,¡± I said. ¡°A lot of people think Jack killed Elizabeth. The entire town has been pretty much covering up for him for the past thirty years. Even the former police chief thinks Jack did it and all but told me that he let Jack off to protect the community¡¯s reputation.¡±


    ¡°What about evidence?¡±


    ¡°Evidence?¡±


    ¡°Could they arrest Jack?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. All the physical evidence has been destroyed, and the witnesses¡ªI doubt a county attorney would even consider the possibility. But, Mrs. Barrett, when am I going to hear some tearful denials? When is the loving wife going to come to the defense of her husband? When is she going to shout to high heaven that her man couldn¡¯t possibly be a killer?¡±


    ¡°My husband did not murder that girl,¡± she said, but her voice was flat and without emotional. She could have been a checkout girl asking, ¡°Paper or plastic?¡±


    ¡°Who knows what you know?¡± Zee asked.


    The alarm bells became louder.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°The details. Who besides you could really hurt Jack if he came forward?¡±


    ¡°There are maybe a half dozen people who could do more than just speculate. But they all have good reasons for keeping quiet, personal reasons. They don¡¯t want this to come out, either. Besides, most of them like Jack.¡±


    ¡°Most, but not all. Have you forgotten the man who sent the e-mail?¡±


    I had.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming down there,¡± she said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t, Zee. That¡¯ll only make matters worse.¡±


    ¡°How could it make matters worse?¡±


    ¡°People will ask why you¡¯re here. What are you going to tell them?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll think of something.¡±


    ¡°Zee, if you want my advice . . .¡±

 Page 75

    ¡°I do not want your advice, McKenzie. I want you to find the bastard who sent the e-mail. If you can¡¯t do that, go home.¡±


    She hung up on you.


    I sat there, staring dumbly at the cell phone in my hand for a solid ten seconds as the realization sunk in.


    She hung up on you, after everything you¡¯ve done for her.


    I set the phone on the table and watched it some more.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be damned.¡±


    I made a third drink.


    The cell played its tune again. I was sure it was Lindsey calling to apologize. I was wrong.


    ¡°Hi, McKenzie. It¡¯s me. Danny.¡±


    ¡°Hello, Chief.¡±


    ¡°You can call me Danny again.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    She paused for a moment, said, ¡°About what happened this morning. Do you want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I forgot. You don¡¯t like to talk.¡±


    ¡°Talking won¡¯t change anything.¡±


    ¡°It might help me decide what to do next.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing you can do.¡±


    ¡°I can go to the county attorney.¡±


    ¡°With what, Danny? What evidence do you have? None. Your witnesses, they can¡¯t be relied on. There won¡¯t be any charges.¡±


    ¡°We can at least get the allegation out there.¡±


    ¡°What good will that do, besides getting you fired? Besides getting you trashed by every newspaper columnist, every TV pundit, and every radio talk show rabble-rouser from one end of the state to the other? This isn¡¯t some schmo off the street, Danny. This is the governor of the state of Minnesota. A popular sitting governor. You go after him, you had better have it wired seven ways to hell and back. We don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°We have to do something.¡±


    ¡°Well, I for one am going to take a long nap. Care to join me?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    This time I hung up.


    13


    The world had been transformed by the time I woke up. The storm had given way to bright sunshine, the wind had abated, and snow was melting along the edge of the asphalt where the plows had done their work. There was plenty of foot traffic, people walking about without hats and gloves and with their coats hanging open. I watched them from the window of my room, wishing for a moment that I was among them. I glanced at my watch. Only three hours had passed since the snow shower began, but most Minnesotans will tell you¡ªif you don¡¯t like the weather, just hang around for a few minutes, it¡¯s bound to change.


    So, what¡¯s next? my inner voice asked.


    Go home, Lindsey Barrett had suggested. Why not?


    You haven¡¯t done what you came here to do.


    The world¡¯s not going to stop revolving if that happens.


    It¡¯s not about the world. It¡¯s about keeping promises that you made.


    My promise to Lindsey? I doubt any court would enforce it. A verbal contract isn¡¯t worth the paper it¡¯s written on, that¡¯s what my lawyer once told me.


    Those are precisely the contracts you have to keep.


    Who says?


    You¡¯re the one who chose this life. Maybe it was out of boredom or a need to feel useful or the conceit that you can personally make the world a better place to live, but you chose it. You can¡¯t give it up because sometimes it¡¯s difficult.


    I suppose that¡¯s true.


    Winners never quit and quitters never win, remember? I¡¯ll bet you a nickel they have that posted on the Victoria High School gym somewhere.


    Words of wisdom.


    When the going gets tough, the tough get going.


    Okay, now you¡¯re being annoying.


    I closed my eyes and shook my head and rubbed my temples in an effort to quiet my inner voice. I had been spending way too much time in my head lately, too much time talking to myself. You live alone, do most things by yourself, it¡¯s probably inevitable. Yet at the same time, it couldn¡¯t possibly be healthy, could it? If nothing else, you lose perspective.


    I thought about mixing another drink while I tried to determine my next step and quickly vetoed the idea.


    ¡°Maybe I should go for a swim, instead,¡± I told the empty room. ¡°Clear my head.¡±


    That would necessitate going shopping for a swimsuit, but so what? I needed clothes, anyway. The shirt, sweater, and jeans I¡¯d been wearing for three days were starting to get ripe. Besides, unlimited pool privileges came with the room; Florence told me so when I signed the register.


    When you signed the register.


    Why didn¡¯t I think of that before?


    Rufugio Tapia was behind the counter of Fit to Print. Jace Axelrod was on the opposite side, leaning against it while she spoke softly to him, and again I thought, Romeo and Juliet: ¡°See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!¡±

 Page 76

    Tapia was inhaling every word the young woman had to say, oblivious to the older gentleman seated at one of his PCs. To the three women who fussed over a photo album near the copy machines. To the Hispanic man wearing a shirt identical to the one he wore who was operating a printer behind him. He slid his hand across the counter to Jace¡¯s hand. She welcomed it; their fingers curled and twisted into a tight knot¡ªa knot they did not untie even when they saw me approaching.


    My first thought¡ªsomething had shifted in their relationship. They weren¡¯t hiding anymore.


    My second was more paternal. Why wasn¡¯t Jace in school?


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you in school?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Seniors get to leave campus if they want, and I had a free period.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re spending it here?¡±


    ¡°I wanted to visit my boyfriend.¡±


    Neither Jace nor Tapia looked to see if anyone heard, but I did.


    ¡°What am I missing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, we just decided not to keep our love a secret any longer,¡± Jace said.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Tapia.


    ¡°Well,¡± Jace repeated.


    ¡°Well,¡± I said. It was my turn.


    ¡°Well, it wasn¡¯t just our decision,¡± Jace said. ¡°My dad said¡ªThis morning he told me if I liked R.T. I should date him. Openly. Just don¡¯t sneak around. ¡®No one likes a sneak,¡¯ he said.¡±


    As hard as I tried, and with as much reason as I had, it was difficult to dislike the man.


    ¡° ¡¯Course, he still wants me to go to college.¡±


    ¡°So do I,¡± Tapia said.


    ¡°And leave you?¡±


    ¡°It is important to get a good education if you are to become wealthy and keep me in the style to which I want to become accustomed.¡±


    ¡°You love me for my money?¡± asked Jace.


    ¡°Why else?¡± said Tapia before he kissed her.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind me, kids,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m just standing here.¡±


    ¡°What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?¡± asked Tapia.


    ¡°Se?or Tapia,¡± I said.


    ¡°S¨ª.¡±


    ¡°Last Friday night, during your anniversary celebration, did you happen to keep a guest book?¡±


    ¡°S¨ª.¡±


    ¡°That you encouraged people to sign?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°May I see it?¡±


    ¡°Do you think the person who sent the e-mail is in the book?¡±


    ¡°The e-mail was sent at 6:57 P.M. You said that you closed down at about five so you could throw a party for your regular customers. That means one of those people sent the e-mail. I¡¯m just hoping that they signed the guest register.¡±


    ¡°Would you know who just by looking at the name?¡±


    ¡°Probably not.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get the book.¡±


    ¡°Gracias.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re still looking for that person who sent the e-mail, the one R.T. told me about,¡± Jace said while Tapia slipped into his office.


    ¡°I take it you two tell each other everything.¡±


    ¡°We have no secrets, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I mean.¡±


    ¡°Should we have secrets?¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be the first.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to live like that.¡±


    I didn¡¯t blame her.


    Tapia returned, carrying a leather-bound book with a spiral binding. ¡°I want to thank you for breaking Brian Reif¡¯s hand,¡± he said as he gave me the book.


    ¡°It was my pleasure.¡±


    I began flipping pages slowly. I was looking for a name, any name that I might recognize.


    ¡°Breaking his hand isn¡¯t going to make him any less of a racist,¡± Jace told me.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t break it because he was a racist. I broke it because he was a stupid racist. It was the stupid part that got him hurt.¡±


    ¡°There are a lot of stupid racists here,¡± Jace said.


    ¡°Sometimes it feels that way,¡± Tapia said. ¡°But I¡¯m not so sure. That group of Reif¡¯s, the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction he calls it¡ªit has only a dozen members. There are many more people like Mr. Axelrod than Reif.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a good town,¡± Jace said.


    ¡°Yes, it is a good town,¡± Tapia agreed.


    I found Tapia¡¯s eyes. He was looking at Jace so I looked at her, too. For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt, Shakespeare wrote. Reif didn¡¯t live in the same world as these two kids. When all was said and done, I suppose I didn¡¯t, either. What a pity.


    I went back to the book, studying each signature. Many were illegible, but then my handwriting wasn¡¯t so hot, either. Tapia took care of his customers while I studied the book, first the women, then the older man. His employee dropped a carton on top of the counter.


    ¡°Want me to take these across the street?¡± he asked.


    Tapia told him he¡¯d take care of it.


    ¡°These are nice,¡± Jace said. The box was sealed, but a single printed sheet was taped to the top¡ªthe zodiac place mats meant for the Rainbow Cafe.


    I went through the entire book, then started again. It was a long shot¡ªworse than a long shot. It was impossible. Still, I kept at it until I discovered a name that I recognized, one that I had missed before.


    ¡°Troy Donovan.¡± I¡¯ll be a sonuvabitch! ¡°Troy Donovan was here?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Donovan?¡± said Tapia. ¡°Yes, he was. Do you know him?¡±


    ¡°We spoke last Monday. How do you know him? Why was he here?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re partners.¡±


    ¡°Partners?¡±


    ¡°Yes. We have been for over a year.¡±

 Page 77

    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Fit to Print is a franchise, Mr. McKenzie. I have only one of seventeen stores. I bought the rights to operate Fit to Print in Victoria from the Donovan Printing Corporation. They¡¯re the franchiser. Mr. Donovan owns the company. It¡¯s his plan to put a Fit to Print in every small town in Minnesota.¡±


    ¡°He came here to help you celebrate your first anniversary?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. Of course. Mr. Donovan is very hands-on. He visits all the stores a couple of times a year. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll return for our next anniversary.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe it,¡± I said aloud. Inside my private voice was chanting, Dammit, dammit, dammit. I knew Donovan was franchising Kinko¡¯s-like print stores in Minnesota. I read it on the Internet when I was researching him and the Brotherhood, but I was too damn lazy to dig deeper. Dammit, dammit, dammit.


    ¡°I bet Donovan used one of your PCs,¡± I said.


    ¡°Just a minute,¡± Tapia said. ¡°You¡¯re not saying that Mr. Donovan is responsible for sending the e-mail you¡¯re talking about?¡±


    Jace swung her head from Tapia to me and back to Tapia again, sensing trouble.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s not,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯m just surprised to see his name in your book.¡±


    Of course, he sent the e-mail. He probably guessed someone would trace it to Victoria, as well¡ªthe scene of the crime. I bet he¡¯s also responsible for placing the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. He¡¯s been handling me from the very beginning, manipulating me to come down here and prove Jack Barrett killed Elizabeth Rogers. The incident in the skyway and the parking lot of International Market Square, the telephone call¡ªreverse psychology at its finest. I know why he did it, too. It all makes perfect sense.


    ¡°Mr. Donovan is an important man,¡± Tapia said.


    I stared at Donovan¡¯s signature. I wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about it.


    Such a small thing, writing his name down in a book. On the other hand, they caught Ted Bundy because of a broken taillight. On still another hand, if I had known about his connection to Fit to Print, I wouldn¡¯t have needed Donovan¡¯s signature.


    ¡°He¡¯s been very good to me,¡± Tapia said.


    I bet the Brotherhood doesn¡¯t know Donovan is trying to sabotage Governor Barrett. I wonder what they¡¯ll do when I tell them.


    ¡°This is so wrong,¡± Jace said. She was no longer interested in us. Instead, she was reading the place mat taped to the top of the carton. ¡°This is a mistake.¡±


    ¡°What? What is a mistake?¡± Tapia immediately moved to her side, forgetting me altogether.


    ¡°This horoscope. It says we¡¯re incompatible.¡±


    ¡°No lo creo,¡± he cried, which my high school Spanish translated into ¡°I don¡¯t believe it.¡±


    ¡°It says Sagittarius and Capricorn are opposites.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my, Judith Catherine.¡± Tapia put his hand over his heart. ¡°I thought you found a typo or something. I thought I was going to have to reprint the job.¡± He circled her shoulder with his arm and kissed the top of her head. ¡°Don¡¯t scare me like that.¡±


    ¡°You should reprint these mats,¡± Jace said. ¡°Look at this. It says, ¡®When Sagittarius and Capricorn join together they may feel that they don¡¯t have much to gain from one another.¡¯ Are you sure you were born in November?¡±


    ¡°November 30,¡± Tapia said.


    The same birthday as John Allen Barrett, my inner voice reminded me.


    ¡° ¡®Sagittarius and Capricorn may not be able to see beyond each other¡¯s faults.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be damned,¡± I said.


    ¡°Do you believe it, McKenzie?¡± Jace asked.


    ¡°I do not believe it.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I.¡±


    Donovan, you bastard. Who¡¯s the schnook now?


    I had not expected violence. There was a time back with the cops when that wouldn¡¯t have mattered. I would have responded quickly and efficiently just like one of those guys on TV who know exactly which way to roll when the bad guy leaps out with a lug wrench. Only not this time. This time I went into vapor lock. Norman probably thought I looked like a deer in the headlights when he pointed the Charter Arms .38 at me as we left Fit to Print. Only this time I knew Norman hadn¡¯t come to kidnap me. This wasn¡¯t a test.


    Jace had stepped outside first; I had held the door for her. I offered to hold the door open for Tapia, too. He insisted I go next, even though he was carrying the carton filled with place mats for the Rainbow Cafe.


    And there he was in the parking lot¡ªNorman¡ªdressed in his gray trench coat and black wingtips that were being ruined by the pool of slush he stood in.


    This is not good, I told myself.

 Page 78

    I had my gun. I had been carrying the Beretta in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket since my last meeting with Schroeder. Except my jacket was zipped halfway up. Why wouldn¡¯t it be?


    Norman was holding his gun with one hand. What a show-off, I thought. He aimed at my head. He smiled. An amateur to the end, coming at me in such a public way. He did something you only see in movies and bad cop shows, too. He started talking. He said, ¡°I¡¯m going to enjoy this.¡± That is what it took to kick-start me into action. His big mouth.


    I seized Jace by the arm and shoulder and pulled her with me as I dove to my right behind the bumper of my Audi, parked in front of the building.


    Norman fired twice. The bullets missed me and hit Tapia, catching him in the exact center of the carton he was toting. He staggered backward, hit the glass wall of his business, and slid into a sitting position on the sidewalk, still holding the carton in front of him, his eyes closed.


    Jace screamed his name with such profound anguish, but at that moment it was merely noise to me. I pushed her down under the bumper and said, ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± even as I unzipped my coat and found my gun.


    I don¡¯t know if Norman was surprised that he missed me or that he hit an innocent bystander, yet for a precious moment he just stood there, looking down on Tapia, as paralyzed as I had been.


    I circled to the rear of the Audi in a low crouch and brought my gun up.


    ¡°Norman.¡±


    He pivoted toward me, firing on the move. I yanked my shot wide, missing him completely, before I dipped back under the bumper of the car. I don¡¯t know where my shot went. Two of his slugs ripped into the body of the Audi.


    I wished people would stop hurting my car.


    Norman was on the run now. He dashed across the parking lot, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. I came up from behind the bumper and gave pursuit. Norman had about a thirty-yard lead and I wasn¡¯t sure I could catch him, wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to: He still had a shot left in his .38 and one was all it took. I was surprised when he decided to use it, when he brought his gun up to shoot over his shoulder.


    I stopped chasing and went into a Weaver stance¡ªa shooting stance with good balance. I brought the Beretta up with both hands, took two quick, deep breaths, and sighted down the barrel with both eyes open. I took a third deep breath, let half out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.


    I fired one round.


    It caught Norman high in the shoulder.


    Yes!


    The force of the bullet spun him in a complete circle and knocked him to the pavement. He rolled twice, yet managed to regain his feet. An amazing thing. He was staggering now instead of running, his pace much slower. I took aim, thought better of it. Norman was fifty yards away now and I didn¡¯t want to take the chance on a wild shot.


    I gave chase again. A black Park Avenue sedan rolled past me and down the street. I had seen the car before. It outraced me to Norman¡¯s position. Norman cut across the boulevard to the curb. The car stopped and the passenger door flew open. Norman dove inside the car. The car sped off with as much acceleration as the tired sedan could muster.


    I brought my gun up again, intent on getting off a few more rounds, but changed my mind. There were far too many people in the line of fire.


    I watched as the car took a corner far too fast, nearly sideswiped an ancient station wagon, and kept going.


    It¡¯s partly your own fault, my inner voice informed me. If you had indicated that you could be bought or frightened when you first met Muehlenhaus, he might not have resorted to such extremes to get rid of you. Still, Norman got down here in one helluva hurry, didn¡¯t he?


    Tapia! I remembered.


    I turned and began running back to Fit to Print, fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone as I went. I wanted to call emergency services. I had the phone in my hand, was bringing it to my ear by the time I reached the edge of the parking lot.


    That¡¯s when I heard Chief Mallinger¡¯s voice.


    ¡°Halt, halt, do not move.¡±


    She was standing thirty feet away, sighting on me with her Glock.


    ¡°Drop the gun.¡±


    ¡°Danny, it¡¯s me.¡±


    ¡°Drop the gun. Drop it. Dammit, McKenzie, you drop that gun right now.¡±


    There are few people who enjoy a good argument as much as I do, but just then didn¡¯t seem like the time. Instead of protesting my innocence, I held the gun out in as nonthreatening a manner as I could mange and slowly lowered it to the ground. I set it gently on the asphalt and stood up, placing my hands behind my head, my right hand still holding the cell.


    ¡°Kick it away. Kick it away. Do it now, McKenzie.¡±


    I nudged the gun ten yards across the lot with the side of my boot.


    ¡°Put your hands behind your head, McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°They are behind¡ª¡±


    ¡°On your knees, on your knees.¡±


    I sank slowly to my knees. My jeans were instantly soaked with slush.


    Mallinger was behind me. She locked one wrist with a handcuff, brought it down behind my back, and wound the cuff around the second wrist. She pushed me forward, so that I was lying flat in the slush of the parking lot, the cell still in my hand.

 Page 79

    ¡°Don¡¯t even think of moving,¡± she told me.


    I fumbled in my head for a few lines that might appeal to Mallinger¡¯s gentler nature. The best I could come up with was ¡°You have nothing to fear from me.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    ¡°See about Tapia,¡± I said.


    Mallinger rushed to the front door of Fit to Print. Jace was kneeling next to Tapia¡¯s body, hugging his shoulders and weeping. He was still holding the carton on his lap.


    Mallinger took the place mats out of Tapia¡¯s hands and set them aside. She opened Tapia¡¯s jacket to examine his wounds. Only there were no wounds.


    I watched as Mallinger sat back on her heels and contemplated the carton. She turned it in her hands. The bullets had gone in one side, but not out the other. She spun back to Tapia. She checked his pulse and smiled broadly. She began gently patting the back of his hands. Gradually, Tapia opened his eyes.


    ¡°What happened?¡± he said.


    More statements. It seemed like I was making a lot of them lately, this time to Mallinger, an impossibly young county attorney, and a Nicholas County deputy with chevrons on his sleeve. With both Jace and Tapia backing me up, it was decided that I had probably not committed a crime, but I could be sure that all the parties involved would investigate thoroughly before they returned my gun. As Mallinger put it, ¡°This used to be a nice, quiet town before you arrived, McKenzie.¡±


    I carefully explained that the man who shot at us¡ªwhom I most likely shot in return, in case they wanted to check neighboring hospitals and emergency rooms¡ªwas named Norman¡ª¡°I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s his first or last name¡±¡ªand he was employed by Mr. Muehlenhaus of Minneapolis. Neither Mallinger nor the deputy tumbled to his name. But the eyes of the young county attorney grew wide and shiny. I knew phone calls would be made. I doubted that Norman would ever be found, much less arrested.


    Kevin Salisbury, on the scene with his ubiquitous camera, had arrived before anyone else. He took photographs of Tapia, Fit to Print, the carton of place mats, Mallinger, the deputy and county attorney, assorted officers, me, and Jace¡ªat least a half roll. Everyone gave him a statement but me. He was upset about that and reminded me that we had an agreement. I gave him a wink and a smile and brought my index finger to my lips in the universal sign of conspiracy. He whispered, ¡°I¡¯ll talk to you later.¡±


    Eventually, Salisbury, the attorney, and the deputy left me alone in the parking lot of Fit to Print with Mallinger. The kids had been whisked off to Nick¡¯s by Axelrod, where, he assured Tapia, a cure for whatever ailed him could and would be found. I would have liked to go with them, but I wasn¡¯t invited.


    I was cold and wet with slush and Mallinger asked me, ¡°Are you satisfied?¡±


    ¡°Satisfied?¡±


    ¡°Do you have what you came here for?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Yes, I do.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ll be leaving us soon.¡±


    Mallinger allowed me to take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips. I kissed her middle knuckle.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I complicated your life,¡± I said.


    ¡°I¡¯m a big girl. I can deal.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°Who didn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°Barrett. He didn¡¯t kill Elizabeth Rogers. Chief Bohlig and the Seven and the rest of Victoria¡ªeveryone jumped to a conclusion thirty years ago, and so did I this morning.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯s innocent?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Two reasons. First, Jack didn¡¯t have a car. How could he have dumped Elizabeth¡¯s body along the county road if he didn¡¯t have a car?¡±


    ¡°An accomplice?¡±


    ¡°That would suggest premeditation and we know there couldn¡¯t have been.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s thin, McKenzie. What¡¯s the second reason?¡±


    ¡°The second is a lot more conclusive. Unfortunately, I can¡¯t tell you. Not unless it is absolutely essential and it isn¡¯t because . . .¡±


    ¡°Because Barrett will never be charged, right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to embarrass the governor if you don¡¯t have to.¡±


    ¡°That pretty much covers it.¡±


    ¡°Whatever it is that you know, it can¡¯t possible be worse than the rumor that he killed a girl.¡±


    ¡°Sure it can.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s not a rumor. Listen, I just wanted you to know that Barrett is innocent.¡±


    ¡°So it doesn¡¯t haunt me that he got away with murder.¡±


    ¡°I like you, Danny.¡±


    ¡°I like you, too, McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about everything that¡¯s happened.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not. At least not about everything.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d kiss you if we weren¡¯t in public¡ªa nice, long, noncomforting kiss, if you get my drift.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I should put the cuffs back on and drag you off to a holding cell.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie, if the governor didn¡¯t kill Beth, who did?¡±


    ¡°I have some ideas about that.¡±


    ¡°Feel free to share.¡±


    ¡°What are you doing for dinner, tonight?¡±


    ¡°That depends. Am I going to be in uniform?¡±

 Page 80

    ¡°Personally, I prefer lace. A pretty girl in lace can sell me anything she wants.¡±


    Mallinger fingered my soiled sweater.


    ¡°What about you?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Chief. I clean up real good.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll meet you at the motel,¡± she said.


    ¡°Sounds like a plan.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I made you lie in the slush,¡± she said. But the way she was grinning at the memory of it, I didn¡¯t believe her.


    When I unlocked the door to my motel room, I found Lindsey Bauer Barrett waiting inside. I wouldn¡¯t have been more surprised if Hillary Clinton had come calling.


    Lindsey was sitting at the small table; her hands were folded neatly on top like a schoolgirl waiting for the principal. The drapes were opened and I could see the motel parking lot over her shoulder. She had to have seen me coming and this is the pose she had chosen to greet me with.


    ¡°Hello, Mac.¡±


    ¡°Zee.¡±


    I didn¡¯t bother to ask how she got in.


    Zee gave me a quick inspection, wrinkling her nose at my appearance.


    ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    ¡°I was lying in a gutter. You should know something about that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be one of those conversations, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    I set the shopping bag on the bed and removed my jacket. I¡¯ve had it for many years¡ªbought it long before I came into my money¡ªand I hoped a dry cleaner could restore it. I hung it in the small closet and pulled off my boots while Lindsey watched me. There was a look of expectation on her face.


    ¡°I want you to do two things,¡± I told her. ¡°First, call your friend Muehlenhaus.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not my friend.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t give a damn what he is. Call him. Tell him there¡¯s been a terrible mistake. Tell him that I can prove Jack Barrett didn¡¯t kill anyone; I can prove it beyond a doubt, reasonable or otherwise. Tell him to stop trying to have me killed.¡±


    Lindsey didn¡¯t bat so much as an eyelash, which proved to me what I had suspected: She knew Muehlenhaus had sent Norman. She had probably been in cahoots with him since the very beginning.


    ¡°Second¡±¡ªI pointed at the bucket near her elbow¡ª¡°go down the hall and get some ice.¡±


    I took my time in the shower. Took my time shaving and brushing my teeth and getting my hair just so for my date with Mallinger. I had purchased a pair of black Dockers and a blue dress shirt with a button-down collar and put them on. It was warm and damp in the tiny bathroom, so I waited until I was outside and had a chance to cool off before donning a black silk-blend sweater speckled with blue, red, and gold. I sat on the edge of the bed, quickly buffed my black leather boots with a towel and slipped them on.


    ¡°You look good,¡± Lindsey said.


    She was still sitting at the table. The ice bucket was three-quarters full and she had made a sizable dent in the vodka.


    ¡°I made you a drink,¡± she told me.


    I went to the table and picked up the short, squat glass that the motel provided. The drink was a bit stronger than I liked, but welcome nonetheless.


    ¡°Where¡¯s your driver?¡± I asked.


    ¡°He¡¯s around.¡± Lindsey gestured at my room. ¡°Not exactly a Barrett Motel, is it?¡±


    ¡°Did you call Muehlenhaus?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What did he say?¡±


    ¡°He said, ¡®Oops.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°You people.¡±


    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t think that I¡ª¡±


    ¡°You called him. You told him that I had information that might prove Jack killed his high school sweetheart. You probably asked him, ¡®What should we do?¡¯ What did you think his answer would be?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Fine, you didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. You must believe me, Mac. I only wanted to protect Jack. That¡¯s why I called Mr. Muehlenhaus.¡±


    ¡°The thing that bugs me¡ªbesides getting shot at and seeing an innocent kid almost killed¡ªisn¡¯t Muehlenhaus. He¡¯s predictable. It¡¯s you, Lindsey. It¡¯s your willingness to believe that your husband actually murdered a girl. That just floors me.¡±


    ¡°You told me he did.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°What you said when you entered the room, that wasn¡¯t just to hold off Mr. Muehlenhaus, right? You really can prove Jack is innocent?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    She smiled, and for a moment she looked as she had when we were kids, when our lives were only slightly complicated.


    ¡°What proof? What do you know?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to tell you.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean you¡¯re not going to tell me?¡±


    The smile disappeared. Lindsey was on her feet now and leaning heavily on the table. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table and I thought there was a good chance she would throw it across the room.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to tell you for the same reason that Jack never told you, or anyone else for that matter, the reason why he was content to let people whisper the word ¡®murderer¡¯ next to his name.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an honorable man.¡±


    Lindsey stared at me like she didn¡¯t believe it.


    ¡°You said so yourself, back at the Groveland Tap,¡± I reminded her.


    She still didn¡¯t believe it.

 Page 81

    ¡°Speaking of honor,¡± I said. ¡°Or the lack thereof. Tell me about Troy Donovan.¡±


    Lindsey regained her seat.


    ¡°I told you. I barely know¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop it, Zee. Stop lying. Just this once, tell me the truth. I¡¯ve been shot at, my car has been forced off the highway, I¡¯ve been assaulted in skyways, accosted in parking lots, received menacing phone calls late at night, and that doesn¡¯t count the dead bodies I¡¯ve tripped over. I figured I earned the truth. Tell me about Troy Donovan.


    ¡°He¡¯s just an acquaintance.¡±


    ¡°Tell me!¡±


    ¡°We were lovers. Is that what you want to hear, McKenzie? We were lovers, okay?¡±


    ¡°Ex-lovers?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Is that why he sent the e-mail?¡±


    ¡°He did send it, then.¡±


    ¡°You know he did.¡±


    ¡°I knew, but I didn¡¯t know. Not one hundred percent. That¡¯s why I sent you down here. To find out for sure.¡±


    ¡°What then? Were you going to call Muehlenhaus? Have Donovan whacked?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know what I was going to do.¡±


    Lindsey finished her drink and poured another. She didn¡¯t add ice or tonic water. A grimace distorted her face as she took a long sip of the straight vodka and suddenly her perfect beauty seemed terribly brittle and easily shattered.


    ¡°It¡¯s my fault,¡± she said. ¡°Everything that¡¯s happened has been my fault. I know what I am, McKenzie. I¡¯m an adulteress. I betrayed my husband¡¯s trust and his love just for the fun of it. Only I won¡¯t steal his dreams. That¡¯s one gutter I won¡¯t crawl into. That¡¯s why I broke it off with Troy. When it became clear that Jack was going to win the election, I told Troy I wasn¡¯t going to see him anymore. Only he wouldn¡¯t let me go. Even now he still calls. He sends e-mails . . .¡±


    I flashed on Nina Truhler¡¯s ex-husband.


    ¡°Some men need to own,¡± I said.


    ¡°Troy thinks if Jack doesn¡¯t run for the Senate, we can still be together.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s afraid that if Jack wins a senate seat, he¡¯ll take you with him to far, far away Washington. I understand that. Only why send the e-mail to you and not to Jack?¡±


    ¡°It was a warning. I¡¯m expected to talk Jack out of it, otherwise . . .¡±


    ¡°Otherwise Donovan will carry out his threat. Nice people you hang out with, Zee.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t let it happen, McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°We?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t let him hurt Jack like that. We . . . I love Jack. I love my husband. I know how that sounds after what I¡¯ve done, but I do love him, McKenzie. We can¡¯t¡ªwe just can¡¯t . . . Oh, God.¡±


    Lindsey sighed as if all the air had left her lungs.


    ¡°What am I going to do?¡± she asked.


    I poured a small amount of vodka into my glass, added both ice and tonic water. I sat across from Lindsey at the table.


    ¡°Why did you have the affair?¡±


    ¡°For the same reason I slept with you.¡±


    ¡°To get back at your sister?¡±


    ¡°No. I mean . . . Have you ever done anything extraordinarily stupid, knowing it was stupid even while you were doing it?¡±


    Images of Danny Mallinger flickered in my head.


    ¡°Do you mean recently?¡± I asked.


    ¡°We¡¯re supposed to become wiser as we grow older. Don¡¯t you believe it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that, Zee. It¡¯s the only thing that keeps me going.¡±


    ¡°You never struck me as a man who makes many¡ªwhat shall we call it¡ªerrors in judgment?¡±


    ¡°I can tell you stories that would bring bitter tears to your eyes.¡±


    Lindsey smiled briefly before drinking enough straight vodka that she coughed.


    ¡°Troy came along when I was feeling pretty sorry for myself,¡± she said. ¡°We had been married for seven years, Jack and I, and somehow our lives had come between us. Jack was busy doing Jack things¡ªrunning his business, the charities, getting involved in politics, all the rest. Me¡ªyou know I had worked in advertising. That¡¯s how I met Jack. I was an associate creative director working on the Barrett Motels account, winning awards, making money, having fun. I quit after the wedding because¡ªbecause of the resentment of my colleagues. It was as if by marrying a wealthy man I had somehow forfeited the right to work side by side with people who worried about mortgages and car payments and braces for the kids. Instead, I shopped. I lunched with women who shopped. Sometimes I did busywork for a couple of charities and nonprofit groups that would rather I just sent a check.¡±


    ¡°You became desperately bored,¡± I said.


    ¡°You know exactly what I¡¯m talking about, don¡¯t you?¡±


    I thought of Teachwell and the enormous amount of money that capturing him had brought me¡ªthe reason I had quit the cops.


    ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± I said.


    ¡°Except that you found something constructive to do with your time. I didn¡¯t. Instead, I found Troy.¡± Lindsey shook her head sadly. ¡°Sometimes we see things in people that just aren¡¯t there. Women do it more then men. Or maybe we¡¯re just more likely to admit it and be disappointed by it when we see that we¡¯re wrong.¡±

 Page 82

    ¡°How did Donovan know about Elizabeth Rogers?¡±


    ¡°I told him. Jack has this recurring nightmare. It doesn¡¯t happen often. Couple of times a year at most. He has never told me what happens in the dream, but eventually I discovered what caused it¡ªthe murder of Elizabeth Rogers. I told Troy about it. I don¡¯t know why.¡±


    ¡°Troy did some sleuthing, but not enough,¡± I said. ¡°He settled for the rumors.¡±


    ¡°The rumors were all that Troy wanted. That¡¯s what he believed. It¡¯s what I believed. You must think me a fool.¡±


    ¡°No. Foolish, maybe. There¡¯s a difference.¡±


    ¡°What am I going to do?¡±


    ¡°What do you want to do?¡±


    ¡°I want to protect Jack. That¡¯s all I want.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°What does okay mean?¡±


    ¡°Now that we know Jack is innocent, the Chief and I are going to try to learn who actually did kill Elizabeth Rogers. Possibly we can remove the threat from Jack once and for all. As for Donovan¡ªI¡¯ll take care of Donovan.¡±


    I told myself I was doing it for the governor, not for her. I still liked the governor.


    ¡°How?¡± Lindsey asked.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to . . . kill him?¡±


    ¡°Did you ask that when Muehlenhaus said he¡¯d take care of me?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What did he say?¡±


    ¡°Said, ¡®Don¡¯t ask, don¡¯t tell.¡¯ ¡±


    ¡°Sound advice.¡±


    As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.


    ¡°That¡¯s probably my driver,¡± Lindsey said.


    I yanked open the door and found Danny Mallinger on the other side. She was still wearing her police uniform.


    ¡°McKenzie, I have something you should know,¡± she said. She saw Lindsey standing behind me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t know you had company.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Lindsey said. ¡°I was just leaving.¡±


    I helped Lindsey on with her coat while Mallinger stood in the doorway watching.


    ¡°Are we still friends, McKenzie?¡± Lindsey asked.


    I was still having a difficult time getting past Norman and Muehlenhaus.


    ¡°I liked your sister and then I stopped liking her,¡± I said. ¡°I liked you, too.¡±


    ¡°But not anymore.¡±


    I didn¡¯t say no, yet the word hung there between us just the same.


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say that you used up your allotment of favors and let it go at that,¡± I told her.


    I led her to the door.


    ¡°It would seem that I¡¯m the one who owes favors,¡± she said.


    ¡°One day I may call to collect.¡±


    Lindsey kissed my cheek.


    ¡°Good-bye and thank you,¡± she said, and slipped past Mallinger into the corridor. Mallinger let the door close behind her.


    ¡°Was that the first lady?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask, don¡¯t tell.¡±


    Mallinger moved deeper into the room.


    ¡°I like your sweater,¡± she said.


    ¡°I wish I could say the same about your outfit. I thought we were having dinner.¡±


    ¡°I thought you might like to take a little trip with me first.¡±


    ¡°Where to?¡±


    ¡°You remember Andy, my rookie officer? I just met with him. Damned if he didn¡¯t get a hit after all. PDQ identified the color of the paint chips on your car as ¡®true blue.¡¯ They came from a 1999 Ford F-350 Superduty XLT pickup truck, and yes, it¡¯s available with a plow package. I just got off the phone with DMV. It seems there is, in fact, only one true blue 1999 Ford F-350 Superduty XLT pickup truck with a plow package in the county.¡±


    ¡°Who owns it?¡±


    ¡°Eugene Hugoson.¡±


    14


    The stars glistened in the night sky. They seemed to be considerably larger, brighter, and more numerous than they were in the Cities, where light pollution usually renders them as vivid as a flashlight with an exhausted battery. The moon, too. None of the songs I knew could do it justice. Mallinger was also gazing up at them. We were standing together next to the police cruiser she had parked in the space between the house and two outbuildings on Hugoson¡¯s farm.


    ¡°I wish I knew astronomy,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°If I knew astronomy I could be your guide. Instead, we¡¯re both lost in the night sky. Lost in the stars.¡±


    ¡°Danny, you¡¯re a poet,¡± I said.


    ¡°Nah. A guy used that line on me once and I¡¯ve always wanted to give it a try myself.¡±


    ¡°Was it successful?¡±


    ¡°You tell me?¡±


    ¡°We should have backup.¡±


    ¡°I told you. All my guys are at the high school covering the basketball game. Against Albert Lea. There¡¯s going to be five thousand people there. Besides, we¡¯re not going to arrest anyone. This is just¡ªwhat did you call it before¡ªa ¡®knock and talk¡¯?¡±


    Mallinger walked purposefully to the door. A light flashed on before she reached it. The heavy inside door opened. Hugoson stood behind the glass of the flimsier storm door. He made no effort to open it.


    ¡°Do you have a warrant?¡± he wanted to know.


    ¡°A warrant?¡± Mallinger said. ¡°Gene, why do we need a warrant? We just came to chat with you is all.¡±


    ¡°Chat about what?¡± Hugoson was talking to Mallinger while staring at me.


    ¡°Truth is, we wanted to take a gander at your Ford,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°Why?¡±

 Page 83

    ¡°Just a quick look.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Well now, Gene. We have reason to believe that it might have been involved in a traffic accident.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? Who did I hit?¡±


    Mallinger gestured toward where I was standing, my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets.


    ¡°No way,¡± Hugoson said.


    ¡°We¡¯ll take a quick look. If we¡¯re wrong, if there¡¯s no damage, we¡¯ll apologize for disturbing your peace and be on our way.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯d like to see that¡ªa cop apologizing to me.¡±


    ¡°Could be it¡¯s your lucky day.¡±


    Hugoson responded with an obscenity you don¡¯t hear on network television and slammed the door.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get a search warrant,¡± I suggested. ¡°Tomorrow we¡¯ll take this guy apart.¡±


    ¡°Just wait,¡± Mallinger said.


    A moment later, Hugoson flew through the door wearing a bulky winter coat and thick boots. Mallinger arched her eyebrows at me. Her message was clear: I told you so.


    ¡°I knew you were coming,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°Sooner or later I figured. Chief, there¡¯s damage to my truck. You can see that for yourself, but you gotta know¡ªListen, Chief¡±¡ªhe jabbed a thumb in my direction¡ª¡°I never touched this guy. I never went near this guy.¡±


    We followed Hugoson into his pole barn. He flicked a switch and a series of fluorescent lights blinked to life.


    ¡°I admit there¡¯s damage.¡± He gestured at the pickup and stopped talking.


    The truck shimmered beneath the lights. The plow blade was still attached. We eased to the right side of it with Hugoson trailing behind. Mallinger squatted next to the plow blade and front bumper. With a flashlight for help, she examined the blade, front grill, bumper, and side panel. After a few moments she flicked the light along the length of the vehicle. There were plenty of dings, dents, and rumpled metal.


    ¡°Look,¡± she said.


    I leaned over her shoulder. There were also plenty of dots and dashes of silver paint on the blade and truck body.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet you a thousand dollars PDQ identifies it as Audi light silver metallic,¡± I said.


    ¡°I know this looks bad,¡± Hugoson claimed. ¡°But we gotta be able to work this out. I¡¯ll pay to have your car fixed,¡± he told me.


    Mallinger pulled a plastic bag and a pair of tweezers that she had borrowed from Officer Andy out of her coat pocket. She dug chips of silver paint out of the plow blade and side panel and dropped them in the bag.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t right,¡± Hugoson wailed. ¡°I didn¡¯t go after this guy, Chief. You gotta believe me.¡±


    ¡°You were correct before, Gene. This does look bad.¡±


    Hugoson glared at me like I was the source of all his problems in life. ¡°What are you trying to do to me?¡± he wanted to know.


    ¡°Guess,¡± I told him.


    ¡°You¡¯re trying to fuck me over cuz of what happened to Beth.¡±


    ¡°If you want to tell that story in court, you go right ahead,¡± I said.


    ¡°Goddammit, I can¡¯t go back to prison. I just can¡¯t.¡±


    Mallinger finished collecting samples and straightened up.


    ¡°I¡¯m going back to the Law Enforcement Center,¡± she said. ¡°Do everyone a favor and turn yourself in early tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I¡¯m coming back here with sheriff deputies and that kid from the Herald.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t do this to me.¡±


    ¡°The county attorney will begin with a charge of leaving the scene of an accident,¡± I said. ¡°I think he can make a pretty good case for felony assault, maybe even attempted murder.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°It was your truck.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know . . . Oh, shit. All right, all right, I know how things work. You gotta give me a deal.¡±


    ¡°A deal? Why?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you everything if you promise not to fuck up my parole. You can¡¯t send me back to prison.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°Do we have a deal? I ain¡¯t talkin¡¯ unless we have a deal.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t make a deal,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°I can,¡± I told him.


    Mallinger scowled at me.


    ¡°I can only speak for the car,¡± I told Hugoson. ¡°Tell us something good and I won¡¯t file a complaint. I¡¯ll forget about the car.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not enough.¡±


    ¡°How much more do you need?¡± Mallinger asked.


    Hugoson started walking in small, tight circles at the front of the garage, his hands squeezing each side of his head.


    ¡°I knew this would happen, I just fucking knew this would happen,¡± he chanted.


    Finally, he stopped. He moved to Mallinger¡¯s and raised his hand like he wanted to set it on her shoulder, but didn¡¯t dare. Instead, he stared deeply into her eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re a good cop,¡± he said. ¡°You got my respect. You do your job, but you cut people slack when there¡¯s slack to cut. You don¡¯t go around tryin¡¯ to break people¡¯s balls. If you promise to vouch for me with the county attorney, I¡¯ll tell ya.¡±


    ¡°Tell me what?¡±


    ¡°Everything.¡±


    ¡°For everything I¡¯ll cut you all the slack there is,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°It was Coach.¡±


    ¡°Coach Testen?¡±

 Page 84

    ¡°He came to me¡ª¡±


    ¡°Coach Testen?¡± Mallinger repeated.


    ¡°He borrowed my truck. He said he wanted to move some stuff out of Josie¡¯s place. Later, when he brought it back, it was like this. I asked him about it. You gotta know I asked him about it. Look what he did to my truck. I asked him and Coach says, he says, ¡®Looks like we don¡¯t need to worry about McKenzie anymore.¡¯ ¡±


    Mallinger grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard to keep me from speaking.


    ¡°When did this happen?¡± she said.


    ¡°Yesterday morning,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°He took the truck at about seven. He brought it back just before noon.¡±


    ¡°He said, ¡®We don¡¯t need to worry about McKenzie, anymore.¡¯ Exactly those words.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What else did he say?¡±


    ¡°He said to keep my mouth shut or he¡¯d fuck me over, too.¡±


    ¡°Coach said that?¡±


    ¡°Not those exact words, but that¡¯s what he meant.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t do anything about it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What about Josie?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t hear about Josie until¡ªuntil later that night.¡±


    ¡°What did you think when you heard about Josie?¡±


    ¡°I thought Coach must¡¯ve fucked him, too.¡±


    ¡°Still you did nothing?¡±


    Mallinger scowled again when I asked, ¡°What does he have on you, Gene?¡±


    Hugoson began massaging his temples.


    ¡°A while ago, he and Josie¡ªthey asked me if I had¡ªThey said they didn¡¯t want to go through a dealer. They asked . . . shit. I gave them some anhydrous ammonia.¡±


    Shit is right.


    ¡°What is anhydrous ammonia?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s a chemical fertilizer,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°Farmers use it in the spring and fall to add nitrogen to the soil.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s also a chief ingredient in the manufacture of methamphetamine,¡± I added. ¡°Did you know Coach Testen and Josie were cooking meth?¡±


    ¡°No, but . . .¡±


    ¡°But what?¡± asked Mallinger.


    ¡°I knew they weren¡¯t growing soybeans.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you come forward?¡± Mallinger asked. ¡°If you knew they were cooking meth, why didn¡¯t you say so? When Josie was killed . . .¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t. Don¡¯t you see? I gave Coach the fertilizer. Later, when he brought the truck back, he told me if I said anything, he¡¯d take me down with him, claim I was in on it. What could I do? Tell me, what could I do? Even if I beat the meth rap, I¡¯m not supposed to go anywhere near the bad thing. They would have violated my parole sure as shit. I can¡¯t go back to prison.¡±


    ¡°Why did you give him the fertilizer in the first place?¡±


    ¡°He was my coach.¡±


    It was one of the few things Hugoson said that I understood. I¡¯ve had coaches I would have walked through fire for.


    ¡°Josie and the Coach dealing meth,¡± Mallinger said. ¡°It doesn¡¯t make sense.¡±


    ¡°It makes perfect sense,¡± I told her.


    ¡°How does it make perfect sense?¡±


    ¡°People deal drugs for only one reason. Money. Josie needed a lot of cash for his pull-tab enterprises, and Coach¡ªI saw his house, his car, his clothes. I didn¡¯t think of it at the time, but he does awfully well for a retired high school basketball coach.¡±


    ¡°Not much money in coachin¡¯ high school ball,¡± Hugoson said. ¡°Coach had his pension¡ªthirty years in the school system. He figured the town owed him more. He figured it shoulda done better by him. He had, whatchamacallit, illusions of grandeur.¡±


    ¡°Delusions,¡± I said.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Never mind.¡±


    Hugoson stood a few feet off. He was looking down at the toes of his heavy boots, probably wondering what was going to happen next. Mallinger gave him a hint when she went to the back of the pickup and examined the bed.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to impound your truck,¡± she said.


    ¡°I need my truck,¡± Hugoson said.


    ¡°I want the county lab to take a look, see if they can find anything, any residue, that could link it to a meth lab.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why Coach borrowed it,¡± I said. ¡°To haul away Josie¡¯s lab.¡±


    ¡°After I talk to the county attorney, you¡¯re going to come in, Gene. You¡¯re going to make a full statement¡ªon camera¡ªand then you¡¯re going to testify in court.¡±


    ¡°I promise, Chief. I¡¯ll do everything you tell me that¡¯ll keep me from going back to prison. Only, beyond what I just told you¡ªthe truth is, I never saw Coach or Josie with meth, never saw them sell it or cook it or anything. So I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Just tell us what you do know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir . . . ma¡¯am. Yes.¡±


    ¡°In the meantime . . .¡±


    Mallinger turned and walked out of the pole barn. Before following her, I turned on Hugoson.


    ¡°Listen to me.¡± I was leaning so close to Hugoson that I could have kissed him. ¡°Listen to me carefully. The night Elizabeth was killed¡ª¡±


    ¡°I had nothing¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up and listen! After you guys had your fun, after she left, what did you do?¡±


    ¡°Had a beer.¡±


    I was so angry now I was shaking.

 Page 85

    ¡°Don¡¯t screw with me, convict! Your life is hanging by a thread as it is. After Beth left, what did you do?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. The guys were all anxious about Beth and Jack, wondering what was going to happen and I guess we found out. We didn¡¯t do anything except . . .¡±


    ¡°Except what?¡±


    ¡°Josie.¡±


    ¡°What about Josie?¡±


    ¡°He called Coach.¡±


    We were fast approaching Victoria and I was anxious. The left side of my brain wanted Mallinger to use her siren and light bar. The right side wanted her to stop the car and let me out.


    ¡°This is a mistake, Chief,¡± I said.


    ¡°It might not be smart police work, but I want to talk to him tonight.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. It isn¡¯t smart police work. We should wait¡ªsee what forensics comes up with; see what CID pulls out of its hat.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯ll talk to him tonight.¡±


    ¡°Chief, if you want to lose the interim label, if you want the job permanent, you should do it by the numbers.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about the job, and I resent it that you think it is.¡±


    ¡°What then?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired of people fucking around in my town. If nothing else, I¡¯ll put the sonuvabitch on notice. He isn¡¯t welcome here.¡±


    Mallinger found a road that allowed us to circle Victoria and the traffic, such as it was. The downtown was a soft glow in the darkness.


    ¡°It was there in front of me all the time and I didn¡¯t see it,¡± I said.


    ¡°How could you have guessed?¡±


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have had to guess, that¡¯s the point. When I heard the autopsy results I should have known. Skin and blood type O positive were found under the fingernails of Elizabeth¡¯s right hand. I¡¯ve seen photos in back editions of the Herald taken at Elizabeth¡¯s funeral. Coach Testen was wearing a bandage over his cheek, his left cheek, the cheek Elizabeth would have scratched with her right hand.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s still circumstantial,¡± Mallinger warned. ¡°Since the samples were destroyed.¡±


    ¡°You know about that?¡±


    ¡°I called the county coroner¡¯s office after your performance at Nick¡¯s. You did well getting those guys to talk after so long.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Still.¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡±


    ¡°I was thinking, we probably can¡¯t get Coach for Elizabeth. We probably won¡¯t be able to get him for Josie, either, unless we can connect the gun to him or he left something of himself at the scene. As for the meth, if he destroyed the lab¡ªit doesn¡¯t look good.¡±


    ¡°He did try to kill me with the truck.¡±


    ¡°Why did he try to kill you? I¡¯m playing devil¡¯s advocate here.¡±


    ¡°To keep me from learning about Elizabeth and probably the meth.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but if we can¡¯t connect him to Elizabeth and the meth . . .¡±


    ¡°I see what you mean. Most likely he¡¯ll be charged with hit and run.¡±


    ¡°How do you know he tried to kill you? Did you see him? Did you see his face? That¡¯s what a defense attorney will ask.¡±


    ¡°No, I didn¡¯t see his face.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be Coach¡¯s word against Hugoson¡¯s and Hugoson, the ex-convict who did time for armed robbery, car theft, and assault, he did have a motive for attacking you¡ªthe fight outside Nick¡¯s the night before, remember?¡±


    ¡°We do have one thing going for us. I haven¡¯t known him very long but I know this much, Coach likes to talk.¡±


    ¡°He does indeed.¡±


    ¡°Still, you should wait, Chief.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not waiting.¡±


    ¡°Is there no way I can talk you out of this?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll drop you off at the motel.¡±


    ¡°You could do that, Chief. ¡¯Course, I¡¯ll just follow you to Coach Testen¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°You would, too.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I would.¡±


    ¡°Does the term ¡®interfering with a police officer in the performance of her duties¡¯ mean anything to you?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°Minnesota Statute 609.5¡ªObstructing Legal Process. It¡¯s a misdemeanor punishable by up to ninety days in jail. Since it¡¯s my first offense, I¡¯ll probably get a thousand-dollar fine. I¡¯ll take it out of petty cash.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope that¡¯s all it costs.¡±


    I shouldn¡¯t have been there. Mallinger shouldn¡¯t have taken me. The Nicholas County sheriff told me so later, and the Nicholas County attorney agreed¡ªoh, boy did he agree. It was foolish, reckless, and possibly even criminal; certainly it was against proper police procedure. ¡¯Course, I knew that going in. I told myself I went because I needed to see Testen¡¯s face, I needed to look into his eyes. The evidence against him was so iffy, it was the only way I could be sure he was guilty, and I needed to be sure for Governor Barrett¡¯s sake. Yet, at the same time, I was aware of a curious mixture of fear and excitement twisting together in my stomach that I found exhilarating. It was like the time I buried the needle on the Audi, taking it up to 130 miles per hour. I didn¡¯t want to give up the feeling.

 Page 86

    We parked in Testen¡¯s driveway. Mallinger stood for a few moments gazing across the street toward Jail Park. I wondered if she found it as forbidding as I had.


    Without comment, Mallinger rubbed her gloveless hands together and headed for Testen¡¯s front door. There wasn¡¯t a single light showing in the house.


    Mallinger rang the doorbell and knocked.


    She rang the doorbell and knocked some more.


    There was no response.


    ¡°He¡¯s not home,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°It only now occurred to me, he¡¯s probably at the basketball game,¡± I told her.


    ¡°Just as well. Now that we¡¯re here, we really shouldn¡¯t be doing this.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go talk to the county attorney,¡± I said.


    Behind us, we heard an unexpected voice.


    ¡°What would you tell him?¡±


    We turned. The chrome and glass of the Crown Victoria police cruiser glistened under the bright night sky. Beyond that I could see nothing.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± Mallinger asked.


    ¡°What are you going to talk to the county attorney about?¡± the voice asked.


    ¡°Coach? Coach Testen?¡±


    A shadow moved near the corner of the garage.


    ¡°Coach, I¡¯d like to ask you a few questions.¡±


    ¡°I know. I know what questions you wish to ask.¡±


    The shadow detached itself from the garage and drifted forward. Mallinger moved to meet it. Soon she was standing on one side of the cruiser and the shadow was on the other. I was standing behind Mallinger and to her right. The wind had picked up and was raking my face. Don¡¯t you just love the weather in Minnesota?


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re not at the basketball game, Chief,¡± Testen said.


    ¡°I could say the same thing about you, Coach.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen my share of big games.¡±


    ¡°You were at the biggest game.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Now that there are four classes, there¡¯ll never be a game as big again.¡±


    ¡°I agree.¡±


    Testen was smiling.


    ¡°Why are you here, Chief?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Coach, I¡¯m almost too embarrassed to tell you,¡± Mallinger said.


    ¡°Please do. I won¡¯t be offended.¡±


    ¡°There have been allegations, sir.¡±


    ¡°From whom?¡± Testen nodded at me. ¡°This gentleman?¡±


    ¡°Among others.¡±


    ¡°Concerning what?¡±


    ¡°Josie Bloom¡¯s murder. A drug called meth.¡±


    ¡°How can I ease your mind, Chief?¡±


    ¡°I like your permission¡ªwritten permission, if you¡¯ll give it¡ªto search your property.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d be happy to grant you that permission,¡± Testen said. ¡°I have nothing to hide.¡±


    Nice touch asking for written permission, I thought. The way the Chief was playing Testen¡ªvery professional. Yet it wasn¡¯t getting us anywhere. Coach was too smug, too sure of himself. He had been expecting us, which meant the lab equipment and everything else linking him to Josie¡ªanything that would taint the shrine he had carefully built to himself¡ªwas gone, gone, gone. Still, I had a hunch and I played it.


    ¡°Chief Mallinger is looking for evidence of methamphetamine,¡± I said.


    Coach smiled at me.


    ¡°That is my understanding,¡± he said.


    ¡°I¡¯m searching for the silver locket you took off Elizabeth Roger¡¯s body the night you killed her.¡±


    The smile went away.


    ¡°You killed her,¡± I said. ¡°Elizabeth didn¡¯t find Jack Barrett that night. Instead, she found you. She told you what happened in Josie¡¯s basement and what she had planned. You strangled her to death for it. Didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no proof to support these spurious allegations.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, there is. Add the locket and it¡¯s a slam dunk.¡±


    ¡°Do you understand what is happening here?¡± Testen asked Mallinger, his voice climbing the ladder. ¡°Do you fully appreciate what this . . . this gentleman is attempting? Do you, Chief?¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s attempting to destroy the legend, the myth on which this town exists.¡±


    My stomach suddenly had that express-elevator-going-down feeling. There was danger here. I felt it. Mallinger had not. She had been correct at the motel when she told me that no one had taught her how to behave. She stood with her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, not even thinking about her gun. I couldn¡¯t imagine a St. Paul police officer standing so casually before a suspect.


    ¡°Read him his rights,¡± I said, frantic to get Mallinger¡¯s attention, trying to make her start thinking like a cop.


    She glanced my way, but her attention was quickly drawn back to Testen.


    ¡°Rights?¡± Coach asked. ¡°What about the rights of the people who live here? What about the rights of those people who were inspired by what was accomplished here? By what the Seven did, by what they represent? There is virtue here that the world does not often see. Sacrifice and commitment, perseverance and character, strength, and yes, integrity. It is what we teach our children. It is what all of us aspire to. Yet he would defecate on all that. And make us eat it.


    ¡°I cannot allow that to happen,¡± Testen added.


    ¡°Coach?¡± asked Mallinger. She was smart, but not experienced. When the shadow raised its hand and pointed it at her¡ªthe hand holding something made of dark metal¡ªshe did not move.

 Page 87

    ¡°Gun!¡± I shouted.


    That made her react. Mallinger quickly removed her hands from her pocket and went for her Glock. It was too late. Testen fired his gun. Mallinger was hit. She spun hard to her left and collapsed on the driveway.


    I did a foolish thing. I moved forward. Not toward Testen, trying to get his gun¡ªnothing as brain-dead heroic as that. I went toward Danny, wanting to help Danny. I might have even called her name.


    Testen fired again. How he missed me from that distance I don¡¯t know. The explosion jolted me back into the reality of the moment. My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. Outside Fit to Print I had been a deer caught in the headlights. Now I was a deer running, covering asphalt in a hurry as I dashed down the driveway toward the street.


    The sound of multiple explosions followed me.


    I wasn¡¯t running out of fear, I tried to convince myself. The point of running was to find a better place to fight, to give myself a chance. To give Danny Mallinger a chance. I couldn¡¯t help Danny if I was killed. I needed to escape so I could call for help. Yeah, sure.


    I crossed the street and kept running toward Jail Park. Oak, pine, spruce, ash, and birch trees loomed above me, bending and swaying in the hard wind. The boulevard of snow between the street and the trees slowed me down. It filled my boots and immediately began to melt. Floundering, once falling, I pushed myself forward, knowing I made an inviting target in the bright moonlight.


    I heard another explosion.


    My heart beating wildly, breath coming in rasps, an ache in my side¡ªhow is this possible, I wondered. I play hockey thirty weeks out of the year. I work out three-four times every week. How could I be so out of shape? I pressed my hand hard against the ache and kept running.


    Finally, I was there. Inside the park, surrounded by trees and underbrush. I squatted against an oak and searched for Testen. He was at the edge of the park and coming in. He was watching the ground, trying to follow my tracks in the snow. He seemed confused. The moonlight barely penetrated this deep into the forest and he was having trouble following my trail.


    I fumbled for my cell phone, stopped. There was something on my hand. Blood. I didn¡¯t have an ache in my side because of running. I had been shot. I opened my coat, pulled up my shirt. More blood. I grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it against the wound. The snow quickly darkened. My body heat melted it and rivulets flowed into waistband of my slacks. The damage didn¡¯t seem too bad in the moonlight, but what did I know? I gathered more snow and held it against my side while I worked my cell with one hand, using my thumb to punch the numbers 911.


    ¡°Officer down.¡±


    I spoke so quietly the operator had trouble hearing.


    ¡°Officer down,¡± I repeated, forcing my voice higher. I gave the address, explained that Mallinger had been shot and by who¡ªthat I had been shot¡ªthat I was being stalked by the shooter. The operator didn¡¯t seem to believe me, kept saying, ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡± Still, she passed my call for help to both the city of Victoria Police Department and the Nicholas County Sheriff¡¯s Office without hesitation. She told me to stay on the phone.


    Testen¡¯s head jerked up and he held it at an angle that suggested he was listening for something. I deactivated the cell phone. I was breathing deeply and rapidly and the noise distressed me. I covered my mouth with my hand, hoping my breathing sounds wouldn¡¯t be heard at any distance.


    I wondered how long it would take for help to arrive. If it was the Twin Cities, the first squad would have been on the scene within two minutes. But this wasn¡¯t the Cities. There was no telling where the nearest cop could be.


    The wound wasn¡¯t bad. Movie heroes would call it a mere flesh wound and then ignore it. Pardon me if I wasn¡¯t as hardy as those guys. I gathered up another handful of fresh snow and winced in pain as I pressed it against the injury. I started running some more, pushing deeper into the woods.


    The snow didn¡¯t seem quite as deep under the thick trees, only about a foot. It was hard going, but not as hard as it had been. Still, after fifty yards I was breathing rapidly and I began to feel warm inside my coat. Soon I was perspiring freely. I had trouble seeing in the woods and tripped several times over branches hidden in the snow. I dug up one of them and began carrying it as a weapon¡ªit was three feet long, two inches thick, and better than nothing.


    The branch gave me confidence. My original plan was simple. Avoid Testen, cross the park, find a street, find a house, wait for help, don¡¯t get lost, stay alive¡ªsimple. Now I was thinking about taking the battle to him, wound or no wound. Circle around and attack Testen from behind. Or lie in ambush and hit him as he passed.

 Page 88

    I paused for a moment to rest. The area around my injury had become numb and the bleeding had stopped, yet I kept the snow pressed over it just the same.


    Again I searched for Testen. I couldn¡¯t see him, but I doubted he had given up the chase. It wasn¡¯t about money, or anger, or even survival with him. That¡¯s not why he killed Elizabeth and shot Mallinger. Coach killed for pride. He would never quit.


    Dammit, you can never find a cop when you need one.


    After a few moments, I continued walking, keeping low. I began to lose sense of both time and distance. I had no idea where I was. I halted, crouched in the snow. I was positive that the park must end just ahead with a street and houses beyond, except I had nothing on which to base that assertion except my own natural confidence. Or was it merely wishful thinking?


    Where in hell was Testen?


    I marched forward. Suddenly, I was out of the woods. Only it wasn¡¯t a street I had found, just a wide path. The path had appeared so abruptly that I was several yards deep into it before I shied like a startled horse and retreated back along my trail. I squatted behind a stand of spruce and examined the path. It must lead to the street, my inner voice told me, but that was just a guess. Still, it must lead somewhere. My concern was the light. In winter it¡¯s never entirely dark. The snow and ice always find one source or another of illumination to magnify and reflect, like the hundreds of stars in the night sky. The path seemed inordinately bright. I would be terribly exposed.


    I watched the path for what seemed like a long time. Nothing moved on it except a few grains of ice and snow propelled by the wind. I could wait, I told myself. Go to ground. If Testen used the path, I¡¯d be in perfect position to bushwhack him. Otherwise, the police and sheriff deputies were bound to arrive sometime¡ªmaybe after the high school basketball game. Except I really couldn¡¯t tell how serious the wound was. My hand holding the snow over the wound had become numb. So had my feet. My exposed ears and cheeks had become so cold they ached. Waiting didn¡¯t seem like an option.


    I gave myself a slow count to three and dashed forward.


    It was a mistake.


    Testen had been waiting for me. Apparently he possessed greater patience.


    He saw me, called out my name, and demanded that I stop.


    I continued running along the path toward wherever it led. My legs ached and my lungs burned¡ªyou try sprinting through a foot of snow. I tripped, fell, skidded across the path, regained my feet and kept running.


    Testen was shooting.


    A bullet exploded snow at my feet; another whistled past my ear.


    The snow was so deep.


    I had no speed.


    No chance.


    I tripped and fell against the trunk of the tree. I couldn¡¯t run anymore. Not in the snow.


    Testen was behind me, waving his gun. I turned to face him. He was as winded as I was. Worse. Yes, much worse. His breath came hard and fast and he was holding his side. There was a look of pain on his face.


    He had the gun. I had only a branch hidden between my body and the tree. I gripped it tightly.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± Testen shouted.


    He was closer now.


    Let him come.


    If I could hit him and get past him, I could outrun him. Seeing him the way he was, I knew I could escape. If he came closer.


    He did.


    ¡°It didn¡¯t have to be this way,¡± he said.


    He could barely get the words out.


    He extended his arm, pointing the gun.


    A target.


    I brought the branch out from behind me and struck down hard at Testen¡¯s wrist.


    He yanked his arm out of the way.


    I missed.


    Testen was startled by my weapon and took a step backward.


    I swung again.


    Missed again.


    Testen brought his gun up.


    I lunged at him.


    He pivoted away and my momentum took me past him. I tripped and fell headlong into the snow. I dropped the branch.


    Testen was there.


    I attempted to crawl through the snow on hands and knees, trying to escape into the woods, knowing there was no escape.


    Testen followed me easily, the gun leading the way. He seemed amused by my efforts.


    A shout. From behind us.


    ¡°Halt. Police.¡±


    A silly thing to say given the circumstances, I thought.


    Testen turned toward the voice.


    Mallinger was staggering forward along the path, her left arm pressed hard against her side, her right hand holding the Glock, her face twisted with pain and effort. She brought the Glock up, pointed it more or less at Testen.


    Testen stood straight. He held his own gun at his side and watched the Chief approach.


    He might have surrendered, who knows? Except Mallinger collapsed. She pitched forward into the snow. The Glock slipped from her grasp and was lost. Mallinger was still alive, still trying to make headway, only it was like a woman thrashing in her sleep. Testen watched the Chief for a moment before turning toward me.


    ¡°This is your fault,¡± he said. ¡°None of this would have happened except for you.¡±

 Page 89

    He raised the gun until the barrel was pointing at my face.


    My mind became a satellite dish¡ªfive hundred channels. I surfed through them all, holding no image long, never finishing a thought, until finally a stillness settled in me, the screen empty. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the impact of bullets.


    Another shout.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    I opened my eyes and saw Testen pivoting toward the voice, the gun still pointed at me.


    Greg Schroeder stood next to Mallinger¡¯s prone body, her Glock cradled in his two hands. He was sighting down the barrel.


    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot me,¡± Testen cried.


    Schroeder killed him anyway.


    It happened in slow motion.


    Testen seemed to lean forward, crouching like he was about to spring into a dive. The bullets¡ªthere were four of them¡ªhit him high in the chest and straightened him out. Some of the bullets went through him, and a spray of blood splattered both the snow and me. The force of the bullets lifted Coach up and away. His arms spread wide and then his legs, and when he splashed backward into the snow and came to a rest he looked like a man who was making angels.


    A moment later, it was real time. Schroeder was standing next to me, the Glock resting against his thigh. He glanced at Coach Testen¡¯s body for a moment, then back at me. He opened my jacket, examined the bullet wound, grunted ¡°hmmpf,¡± like it was nothing to get excited about.


    ¡°How you doin¡¯, pal?¡± he asked as he helped me to my feet.


    ¡°Is he dead?¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯s not, he never will be. Are you all right?¡±


    I heard him; I couldn¡¯t answer. I didn¡¯t know if I was all right or not. I felt my body shaking, yet that could have just as easily been the cold. I was so very cold. I stared at Testen¡¯s body, couldn¡¯t seem to pull my eyes away. Should you laugh or cry or what? my inner voice asked.


    ¡°McKenzie? Look at me!¡±


    I looked.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± Schroeder repeated.


    ¡°It was just a walk in the park, Greg.¡±


    Together we trudged back to Mallinger. The Chief was kneeling in the snow, her right hand clutching her left armpit. Schroeder opened her jacket to examine the wound. Over his shoulder I could see that Mallinger was much worse off than I was. She had lost an enormous amount of blood. I eased past Schroeder. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it into the bullet hole in the muscle between Danny¡¯s arm and her chest, trying to check the bleeding. She winced in pain, but said nothing.


    Schroeder held out the Glock by the barrel.


    ¡°Take it,¡± he told the Chief.


    Mallinger seemed dazed. She stared at Schroeder for a moment like she was waiting for something to happen. When it didn¡¯t, she reached for the gun with her bloody hand, took it by the grip, and looked at it like she didn¡¯t know what it was.


    ¡°Screw it up and God knows how it¡¯ll end, Chief. If you play it smart and take the credit¡ªLook at me.¡± Mallinger looked. ¡°Take the credit and you¡¯ll be a hero. Work it right and you¡¯ll be chief of police for as long as you want the job.¡±


    Schroeder patted my back. Maybe he winked at me, I couldn¡¯t tell in the darkness, although I was sure there was a smile.


    Then he was gone.


    15


    Huge trucks and SUVs, their headlights blinding, came at me from the oncoming lane. They passed with a loud snatching sound, ripping the air around the Audi, creating tremors that I felt in the steering wheel. I was driving well beyond my headlights along State Highway 60, heading toward Mankato. I hadn¡¯t felt my fatigue until I started driving, and now it threatened to overwhelm me. I played all the tricks¡ªslapping my face, powering down the window to let the frozen air do it for me, chewing gum, singing. I even poked my side, hoping the shock of pain would help keep my eyes open. Above all, I avoided staring at the white stripes, refusing to let them hypnotize me into an accident. Probably I should have stopped and rested. But I had to get shy of Victoria. I had to get home.


    After I went to Mankato.


    According to the Mankato phone directory, G. Monteleone, the only Monteleone in the book, had a house on Floral Avenue near the Minnesota State University campus. It was nearly ten P.M. when I knocked on the door. A light flicked on above my head. The door opened and Monteleone peered out. She saw my face, which I suppose looked frightening, and the dried blood on my jacket and slacks, which must have looked worse. A fearful expression formed on her face.


    ¡°Do you remember me?¡± I asked.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°I need to ask a few questions.¡±


    ¡°I only conduct business at school. If you call tomorrow . . .¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s about your son.¡±


    Monteleone held tighter to the door.


    ¡°What is this about, Mr., Mr. . . . ?¡±


    ¡°McKenzie. You told me your grandson was a Sagittarius, like his father.¡±


    Monteleone hesitated.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said.


    ¡°That means he was born between November 22 and December 21, like his father.¡±

 Page 90

    ¡°What is this about?¡±


    ¡°That means your son was conceived in March. You didn¡¯t meet your husband until June, after you left Victoria¡ªdo the math.¡±


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie¡ª¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t date anyone in Victoria, Suzi Shimek told me so.¡±


    ¡°What has that got to do . . . ?¡±


    ¡°Tell me about March.¡±


    Monteleone answered with a blank stare.


    ¡°Jack Barrett is your son¡¯s father. Isn¡¯t he? You were having an affair with your student and you became pregnant and that¡¯s why you left Victoria¡ªto keep it private. Not even Jack knows.¡±


    Monteleone continued to hug the door while her face came florid with anger.


    ¡°That¡¯s the most outrageous thing I¡¯ve ever heard,¡± she insisted.


    ¡°Jack Barrett was with you the night Elizabeth Rogers was murdered. You left at eight thirty. He left a few minutes later. That¡¯s what the fight with Elizabeth Rogers was all about, him leaving her for you. Only he never spoke of it. He could have used you as an alibi for her murder. He didn¡¯t. He cared for you so much that he was willing to protect you at his own peril. Because of that, for over thirty years the chief of police and nearly everyone else in Victoria was sure he had committed murder. For over thirty years the real killer got away with his crime.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°The truth often is. Ms. Monteleone, I¡¯m not here to compromise you in any manner. I¡¯ll protect your privacy if for no other reason than that¡¯s what Jack Barrett wants. He¡¯s an honorable man, the only honorable man I¡¯ve met in what seems like a good long time. But I need to know. I need to be sure.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Why what?¡±


    ¡°Why should I trust you to keep my secrets?¡±


    For an instant I flashed on Jack Barrett and Lindsey, I saw Donovan and Muehlenhaus and all the others, and I heard the words they emphasized during the meeting in Muehlenhaus¡¯s conference room. You have already proven to us that you can keep a secret.


    ¡°Because that¡¯s what I do,¡± I said. ¡°You don¡¯t know me, so you have no reason to trust me, but time will prove that I¡¯m telling you the truth. I will never repeat to anyone what you tell me here, tonight. You have my word.¡±


    ¡°I will answer one question. Only one.¡±


    ¡°Was Jack Barrett with you the night Elizabeth Rogers was killed?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Ms. Monteleone. I¡¯m sorry to have troubled you.¡±


    I was only a few miles north of Mankato when my cell phone played its melody. I fumbled for it in my pocket.


    ¡°Hello.¡±


    ¡°Hey, pal. Nice night for a drive.¡±


    ¡°Schroeder?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°Where are you?¡±


    ¡°On your bumper.¡±


    I glanced in my rearview mirror just as Schroeder flicked his high beams at me.


    ¡°So, how are you doin¡¯?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been better.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s the bullet hole?¡±


    ¡°Not a hole. A scratch. Granted, it took eleven stitches to close it, but a scratch just the same.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. The cops held you for a long time. Nearly twenty-four hours.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a thorough bunch.¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter? Are you nervous, Greg?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Mallinger took the hint. Your name never came up. When her officers and the sheriff deputies finally arrived, she told them that she had shot Testen. She told them that she went to see Testen about a traffic accident involving me. She told them that she suspected that the accident might have been premeditated, that Testen had attempted to kill me, and that he might have killed Josie Bloom over a meth operation. She said she had no proof of these allegations beyond Gene Hugoson¡¯s testimony, at least not until Testen shot her when she started asking questions. She said she went to see Testen alone at night because Testen was an important figure in Victoria and she wanted to spare him from gossip in case the allegations proved unfounded. Eventually, they put her under anesthesia and took the bullet out of her armpit. Even doped up she stuck to her story. By then it sounded more believable. CID found Coach Testen¡¯s fingerprints all over Josie¡¯s place. Apparently he thought they would never even bother to look.¡±


    ¡°What about the girl?¡±


    ¡°Elizabeth Rogers?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s her name.¡±


    ¡°I cornered Kevin Salisbury alone at the hospital. He¡¯s a reporter for the Victoria Herald.¡±


    ¡°I know him.¡±


    ¡°Of course, you do. I told Salisbury that Coach Testen killed Elizabeth. I couldn¡¯t supply him with a motive; I couldn¡¯t tell him what happened in Josie Bloom¡¯s basement¡ª¡±

 Page 91

    ¡°What did happen in Jose Bloom¡¯s basement?¡±


    ¡°Never mind. I did tell him that the ME found skin and blood under Elizabeth¡¯s fingernails and that they match Testen¡¯s O positive blood type¡ªGod, they had better match¡ªand that if he looked, Salisbury could see scratches on Testen¡¯s face in the photographs taken at Elizabeth¡¯s funeral. I also told him that Testen had probably kept a locket among his many souvenirs of the Seven¡¯s victory. Salisbury took the information to the sheriff¡ªmade it sound like he was the one who figured it out¡ªand convinced the sheriff to search Testen¡¯s museum. Sure, enough, they found the locket at the bottom of one of the smaller trophies.¡±


    ¡°Beautiful.¡±


    ¡°So, you can tell your boss that come Sunday¡¯s edition of the Victoria Herald he should be free and clear of that particular problem.¡±


    ¡°My boss?¡±


    ¡°The governor of the state of Minnesota. He hired you, didn¡¯t he, Greg?¡±


    ¡°Did he?¡±


    ¡°The only question I have is, Did he hire you to make sure I solved the case or watch my back?¡±


    ¡°Maybe both¡ªif he hired me.¡±


    ¡°The incidents on the skyway and in the parking lot, the telephone calls¡ªthe fifteen roses at Milepost Three. You arranged all that, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I had to keep you interested, pal. You have to admit the roses were a nice touch.¡±


    ¡°Very nice. Tell me something. Why didn¡¯t he send you in the first place? Why did he pick me?¡±


    ¡°The governor didn¡¯t pick you. The first lady picked you, remember?¡±


    ¡°Does he know why?¡±


    ¡°Of course he knows why.¡±


    ¡°Then he knows about Donovan.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my understanding.¡±


    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he do something about it?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯d have to admit to his wife that he knows what happened, and he¡¯s not prepared to do that.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°If he admits he knows about her infidelity, he¡¯d have to do something about it and maybe he doesn¡¯t want to do anything about it. Maybe he¡¯s content with his marriage, warts and all. Maybe he hopes to avoid confrontation so he can repair the damage quietly and in his own time. Maybe, despite everything, he loves his wife and doesn¡¯t want to lose her. This is all hypothetical, of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Personally, I¡¯d like to blow Donovan¡¯s brains out, but the governor won¡¯t have it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take care of Donovan.¡±


    Schroeder chuckled loudly.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t get suckered into doing another favor, did you, pal? When are you going to learn?¡±


    ¡°I wish you¡¯d stop calling me pal.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°Better. I spoke to Mrs. Rogers, Elizabeth¡¯s mother, before I left.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°I told her that Coach Testen killed her daughter because he was afraid she would distract Jack Barrett from the big game. I didn¡¯t mention what happened to her before she was killed.¡±


    ¡°What did Mrs. Rogers say?¡±


    ¡°She said she¡¯d pray for him, pray for Testen. Can you imagine that?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°She said something else that kinda threw me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°She said it looked like God picked the right emissary to do his will.¡±


    ¡°She said that?¡±


    ¡°She believes in that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°What do you believe, McKenzie?¡±


    ¡°I pretty much make it up as I go along. How ¡®bout you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the same, I guess.¡±


    ¡°I suppose I should thank you. For saving my life, I mean. I didn¡¯t get the chance before.¡±


    ¡°It was my pleasure. Now I have a question for you.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°Why did you visit Grace Monteleone?¡±


    ¡°Are we about finished here, Greg?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re done. You have to admit¡ªit was fun while it lasted.¡±


    ¡°You have a strange idea of what¡¯s fun, Greg.¡±


    Schroeder chuckled.


    ¡°I suppose I do. I¡¯ll see you around, McKenzie.¡±


    ¡°Not if I see you first.¡±


    I deactivated the cell and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I watched Schroeder through my rearview mirror as I gave him a backward wave. He flicked his high beams. I downshifted into fifth gear and accelerated, leaving him far behind me.

 Page 92

    The streets of North Oaks all had soft names that made the place sound like a nature preserve¡ªWildflower Way, Birch Lake Road, Red Forest Heights, Long Marsh Lane, Catbird Circle, Mallard Road¡ªand I doubted I had been the only visitor who questioned the sobriety of the men who had mapped them. The few times I had driven the streets I had become hopelessly lost. Members of the city¡¯s private police department were forced to give me directions¡ªafter first running my plates for wants and warrants and demanding that I explain exactly what I was doing in North Oaks in the first place since I wasn¡¯t sporting the tiny black reflector on my rear bumper that indicated I belonged to the exclusive community. Fortunately, no one stopped me as I negotiated the troublesome streets looking for Troy Donovan¡¯s address at nearly one in the morning, which made me wonder: They paid extra for this kind of security? Given the late hour, my appearance, and the condition of the Audi, the cops should have been on me like I was doling out free Krispy Kremes.


    I took me awhile, but I finally located Donovan¡¯s house, a sprawling two-story, white, with black trim and shutters. I parked on the street and walked to his front door. It was late, yet there were plenty of lights burning inside.


    ¡°One last promise to keep,¡± I said aloud before leaning on the bell.


    Donovan examined me carefully through the spy hole before he opened the door, the safety chain in place.


    ¡°Mr. McKenzie? What is it? Do you know what time it is?¡±


    ¡°May I come in? There is something important I need to discuss with you, sir.¡±


    ¡°With me? I suppose.¡±


    Donovan closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it. I stepped across the threshold.


    ¡°Are you alone?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡±


    I hit him under the jaw with a palm fist, driving him backward into the house. I followed him inside, closing the door behind me.


    At some point in his life, Donovan must have actually been in a fight because he didn¡¯t act surprised and indignant the way some people do when confronted with unexpected violence, demanding an explanation before attempting to defend themselves, asking ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± while their opponent pummeled the hell out of them. Instead, after regaining his balance, Donovan actually threw a punch at me. It didn¡¯t amount to much, but I admired the effort.


    I blocked the punch with my left forearm, stepped in close, slid my right arm under his left arm and around his body, swept his leg out and up, and threw him over my hip and down solidly on the hardwood floor. The move took his breath away, immobilizing him long enough for me to grab his right leg.


    I hauled him across the floor to a chair while he gasped and coughed. I propped his heel on the edge of a chair and braced it against my leg so he couldn¡¯t pull it off. I removed my Beretta from my inside pocket, made sure he saw me chambering a round, and pressed the muzzle against his knee.


    ¡°Kiss it good-bye,¡± I said.


    ¡°No, no, please, no,¡± he screamed. ¡°Stop. Oh, God. Why are you doing this?¡±


    I ground the muzzle against his kneecap.


    ¡°No! McKenzie, please.¡±


    ¡°Do I have your attention?¡±


    ¡°What? My attention? McKenzie, don¡¯t shoot me. Please. Why are you, why are you . . . ?¡±


    I tried to keep all emotion out of my voice.


    ¡°You really want to stay away from Lindsey Barrett from now on,¡± I said. ¡°Don¡¯t see her, don¡¯t talk to her, don¡¯t write her, don¡¯t even think about her. These are the new rules you live by. Break the rules and one of two things will happen. Either I¡¯ll come back and put you into a wheelchair, or I¡¯ll inform Mr. Muehlenhaus that you¡¯ve been endangering his investment. Personally, I think the second prospect is more frightening than the first, but that¡¯s just me.¡±


    ¡°McKenzie, please . . .¡±


    ¡°Do you understand what I¡¯m telling you?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Say it.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you think you can say anything now and forget about it later.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    I rapped Donovan¡¯s kneecap hard with the barrel of the gun. I didn¡¯t damage it permanently, but he¡¯d be walking uncomfortably for a few days, and that would give him something to think about.


    I released his leg. Donovan folded it neatly against his chest and caressed the knee.


    ¡°Why, why?¡± he whimpered.


    ¡°Just doing a favor for an old friend,¡± I told him and returned the Beretta to my pocket.


    I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.


    Two of North Oaks¡¯s finest were standing fore and aft beside my Audi.


    ¡°Is this your vehicle, sir?¡± the one in front asked as I made my way across Donovan¡¯s icy sidewalk. All things considered, I was surprised he wasn¡¯t shooting first and asking questions later.


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s my vehicle,¡± I said. ¡°Such as it is.¡±


    ¡°Sir, it is a violation of city ordinances to park your vehicle on the street.¡±


    ¡°I apologize. I¡¯ll move it right away.¡±

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    ¡°Sir, may I see your ID?¡±


    ¡°Officer?¡± Donovan was calling from his front door. He was leaning heavily against the frame, favoring his left leg. ¡°Officer?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Donovan,¡± the officer replied. I wondered if the cops knew everyone who lived in North Oaks by name or only the seriously wealthy.


    ¡°Officer¡±¡ªI was sure that Donovan was going to burn me. He didn¡¯t¡ª¡°it¡¯s all right, officer. Mr. McKenzie is a friend of mine. I should have told him about the rules. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine, sir.¡± The officer nodded at me. ¡°Mr. McKenzie, you¡¯re free to go.¡±


    I gave Donovan a nod. Apparently, Donovan got the message, which meant I could forget about him. And I so much wanted to forget about him, about all of them. I felt crummy about frightening him with the Beretta and wondered for a moment if I would have actually done what I had promised. In any case, he brought it on himself.


    ¡°Thank you, officer,¡± I said and climbed into the Audi.


    ¡°What happened to your car?¡± the officer asked as I fired it up. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of damage here.¡±


    ¡°I was sideswiped on the freeway by a snowplow.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s terrible.¡±


    ¡°I thought so, too.¡±


    ¡°It was such a nice car, too.¡±


    Was?


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Is that a bullet hole?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be silly,¡± I said before driving away. ¡°Who would want to shoot at me?¡±


    Just So You Know


    On Saturday a few hundred people crowded into the St. Mark¡¯s Elementary School gymnasium to support about a half dozen nonprofit groups. There was a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, a raffle, cakewalk, something called a ¡°bottle blast,¡± various games of chance for the entire family, and, of course, sno-cones, popcorn, and mini-donuts. The corner where Girl Scout Troop 579 was ensconced had been hopping the entire day¡ªwe had to send Bobby Dunston out to get more paper bags for the mini-donuts, which gave me a great deal of pleasure.


    ¡°You scoffed when I bought the donut machine,¡± I reminded him and Shelby. ¡°Now what do you say?¡±


    They admitted that making a hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour just about met the demand. On the other hand Shelby asked, ¡°Have you ever even come close to making this many donuts before?¡±


    I told her, ¡°Just knowing that I could was enough.¡±


    On Sunday morning, I drove my Jeep Cherokee to Rickie¡¯s and had brunch with the boss. There was a jazz trio playing soft and mellow and they were pretty good. They were also college kids and you could tell they were itching to cut loose, only Nina wouldn¡¯t let them. Apparently she was concerned they would disturb the digestion of her older, after-church customers. She did promise them a Monday night gig to see what they could do and that seemed to encourage them.


    While we ate, I told Nina everything that happened in Victoria, without pause or hesitation, starting with my meetings with Lindsey Barrett and the Brotherhood. The question Donovan had asked in Muehlenhaus¡¯s conference room¡ª¡°Can we rely on your discretion?¡±¡ªflashed in my brain without leaving an impression. It hadn¡¯t occurred to me to ask Nina the same question.


    Nina seemed surprised that I had been so forthcoming.


    ¡°Usually you keep these things to yourself,¡± she said.


    ¡°I met two kids in Victoria. They were young and they were in love, and the girl, who reminded me a little of your daughter, she told me that she and her lover had no secrets between them and I thought that¡¯s the way it should be.¡±


    Nina hugged me and kissed my cheek and thanked me for including her in that part of my life and I should have been glad for it, except I wasn¡¯t. Probably because I was holding out on her. I didn¡¯t tell Nina about Jack Barrett and Grace Monteleone or the child that they conceived together, a crime for which I easily forgave myself.


    I also didn¡¯t tell her that I had slept with Danny Mallinger. Or that I had kissed her before I left Victoria and reminded her that we still had a standing dinner date. ¡°Give me a week or two to heal and I¡¯ll call you,¡± Danny said from her hospital bed.


    No, I couldn¡¯t bring myself to tell her that.


    On Monday I went to see Muehlenhaus. I entered his lobby and walked past the receptionist, through the glass doors into the inner office area, found the long corridor and marched to the conference room at the end of it. I did it without stopping¡ªnot even to admire the Degas¡ªfor fear someone would ask who I was or where I was going. Walk purposefully and with confidence, I told myself. You¡¯d be surprised how far you can get.


    I entered the conference room without bothering to knock. I was in luck. Muehlenhaus was there, along with Donovan, Glen Gunhus, Carroll Mahoney, Prescott Coole, and a half dozen other men I didn¡¯t recognize. If the room had been empty, I wasn¡¯t sure what I would have done.

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    ¡°Hey, everyone¡¯s here,¡± I said. ¡°Good to see you all. No kidding. Troy, Mr. Muehlenhaus . . . Norman, how¡¯s the shoulder?¡±


    Norman had been sitting in a chair near the door. He was standing now, his arm held in a white sling over his dark blue suit coat.


    ¡°No need to get up, I won¡¯t be staying long,¡± I said.


    Norman didn¡¯t sit down. He looked like he wanted to attack me. One thing you had to say about him, he was a gamer.


    There was plenty of muttering. Someone wanted to know who the hell I thought I was. Muehlenhaus raised a fragile hand and silenced the table.


    ¡°Gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting your meeting,¡± I said. ¡°However, I think you should know that I am going to vote for John Allen Barrett. I am going to contribute money to his campaign. If I find the time, I¡¯ll even deliver campaign literature door to door. Unless he¡¯s weak on crime¡ªan issue that¡¯s suddenly become quite important to me¡ªI can think of no reason why he shouldn¡¯t be elected U.S. senator from the state of Minnesota. Maybe even president.¡±


    Troy Donovan was on his feet. He looked like he wanted to say something. I didn¡¯t give him the opportunity.


    ¡°There was a slight problem involving Mr. Barrett¡¯s wife that might have become an impediment to his campaign,¡± I said. ¡°However, I believe it has been satisfactorily rectified.¡±


    Donovan sat down slowly.


    ¡°What problem was that?¡± Muehlenhaus asked.


    ¡°Good morning, gentlemen,¡± I said and left the room.


    I retreated from the office along the same path I had come. When I reached the lobby I was stopped by the woman with the smart brown eyes that I had met, God, was it only a week ago?


    ¡°Mr. Muehlenhaus would like to speak with you,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s coming now.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s coming to me?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    That I wanted to see.


    While I waited, I examined the Degas. I decided I understood the ballerina a little bit better than the first time I had encountered her.


    A moment later, Muehlenhaus arrived. He offered his hand and I shook it. I was surprised by the strength of his grip.


    ¡°You did an excellent job in Victoria,¡± he said.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do it for you.¡±


    ¡°Nonetheless, we are very pleased.¡±


    ¡°Makes you wish you hadn¡¯t tried to kill me, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    I spoke loud enough for at least a half dozen people to hear me, yet no one behaved as if they had.


    ¡°I was wondering, Mr. McKenzie. How would you like to do a favor for me?¡±


    You can guess what I told him.