TEN

I probably was the only person in the state of Minnesota who was happy that the temperature dipped to its November average—thirty-three degrees with a wind waffling down from the northwest to remind us that while the calendar might say it’s fall, winter had begun. The chilly weather allowed me to conceal my Kevlar vest beneath a sweater. ’Course, the vest and the sweater—not to mention the distressed brown leather jacket that I wore to cover the 9 mm Beretta I had holstered just behind my right hip—made me look like the Before photo in a diet ad. Still, a man has to do what a man has to do.

Let’s not go through that again, my inner voice said.

Yeah, okay, I told myself.

After getting dressed, I made sure the prepaid cell phone I bought at Best Buy was charged. I had my iPhone, of course. Yet while anyone could reach me on my home phone—it was listed in all the directories—only a precious few had my cell number; at least they were precious to me. There was no way I was going to give it out to the various miscreants I expected to encounter while I searched for Vicki Walsh, including Truhler.

Still, I used my landline when I made my first call. Nina answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded blurry and faraway.

“Hey, it’s McKenzie.”

“McKenzie? Do you know what time it is? It’s, it’s—McKenzie, it’s eight o’clock. Are you out of your mind?”

Nina owned a jazz club that closed at 1:00 A.M. Even on a trouble-free night it might be two or two thirty before she reached her home and usually an hour later before she crawled into bed. To her, 8:00 A.M. was the crack of dawn. Truth be told, I agreed with her. I’d probably still be in bed myself if not for the mobile alarm clock that I bought online. The clock was mounted on wheels. When I hit the snooze button it jumped off the table and rolled across the room. I had to get out of bed and chase it down in order to turn off the alarm.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I said. “Actually, I was looking for Erica. Did she go to school after all?”

“No. Just a sec.”

I heard Nina set the phone down, and then I heard nothing for nearly three minutes. Finally Erica picked up the phone. She sounded as chipper as a songbird.

“Sorry if I woke you,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve been up for hours. I usually get up at six so I can be at school by seven to practice music. I would have slept later, but my internal clock wouldn’t let me.”

“Why didn’t you answer the phone, then?”

“I figured it was school wondering where I was. It’s hard to pretend that you have a contagious, life-threatening disease when you’re answering the telephone.”

“Yet people do it all the time. Erica, I need a favor.”

“Really? A favor from me?”

“Tell me how to gain access to Vicki Walsh’s Facebook page.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“If I’m going to find her, I’ll need clues.”

“I could send you a link and a password.”

“Please do.”

I didn’t need to give Erica my iPhone number or e-mail address. She was one of the precious few.

*   *   *

I dropped the prepaid in my jacket pocket and headed for the door. I opened it and looked around carefully before stepping out. Big Joe and Little Joe knew where I lived, and I didn’t want to be surprised by them as I had been in the parking lot at Rickie’s. I didn’t particularly like slinking around my own house; still, a man has to do what a man has to do.

Really, my inner voice said. Again?

Despite what I promised Truhler, I had no intention of giving a couple of drug-dealing thugs thirty-five thousand dollars. So what if I could easily afford it? It wouldn’t be enough to make them go away peacefully. Besides, there was a principle involved. Bobby Dunston had accused me of not always knowing where the line was, and maybe he had a point, but I certainly knew that paying off the Joes would put me on the wrong side of it.

On the other hand, I had no idea how else to deal with them. I couldn’t prove that they planted dope on my car in Canada, that they broke into my garage, that they jumped me at Rickie’s, or that they were the ones who shot up my Audi. At the same time, it was obvious that Truhler had no intention of bringing charges against them. He was either afraid or concerned that his own involvement in drugs would be discovered or he simply didn’t want to lose his connection, take your pick. That left the cops out of it.

On yet another hand, I couldn’t just sit back and wait for them to come after me, either.

What to do, what to do?

In the meantime …

*   *   *

It took nearly an hour to negotiate the morning rush hour traffic, not a pretty sight in the Twin Cities, working my way from Falcon Heights to the Eden Prairie Police Department. The department was located on the first floor of the Eden Prairie City Center, a building with all the charm of a dental clinic. Before going inside, I hid the Beretta under the seat of my Jeep Cherokee for fear it would cause a ruckus with the building’s metal detectors. Besides, there was a sign attached to the front door—THE CITY OF EDEN PRAIRIE BANS GUNS FROM THESE PREMISES—and you know me, I’m not one to challenge authority.

The cop sitting behind the bulletproof glass partition gave me a hard look when I asked to see John Brehmer, maybe because I failed to say Officer Brehmer or Sergeant Brehmer or Detective Brehmer. I would have except I never did get his official title.

“Does he know what this is regarding?” he asked.

“Tell him it’s McKenzie. He’ll know.”

The cop made a call. A couple of minutes later the secured door leading into the cop shop opened. Brehmer stood on the far side of the threshold, holding the door open and chuckling as if I were a sight gag in a TV sitcom.

“I’m surprised to see you, McKenzie,” he said.

“I don’t know why. It’s like you said, I owe you one.”

“Come on back.”

Brehmer released the door after I passed him, and it shut of its own accord. I followed him to an island made from four desks shoved together. We found a couple of chairs.

“Seems you’ve put on weight since I saw you last night,” he said.

“What can I say? I’m a glutton for mini-donuts.”

“I thought it might be the body armor you’re wearing. You are wearing body armor under that bulky sweater, aren’t you?”

“You’re a lot more observant than I remember.”

“Talk to me, McKenzie.”

“The two men who roughed up Jason Truhler last night, they’re called Big Joe and Little Joe. I don’t have last names.”

“I know them.”

“Yeah?”

“Couple of North Side asswipes who decided to export their bullshit to the suburbs—Big Joe Stippel, Little Joe Stippel.”

“They have the same name?”

“They’re brothers. Their old man thought he was quite the comedian; called himself True Joe Stippel. He named his eldest son Joe Two. The kid got whacked by some bikers during a drug deal gone sour a while back. The Joes had terrorized North Minneapolis for years. They were into everything—drugs, guns, armed robbery. Their biggest claim to fame, though, they had a real estate business, if you want to call it that. What they’d do, they’d force people out of their homes, buy the property cheap or acquire it through a quitclaim deed, no money changing hands at all, then resell it at a profit or, more often than not, burn it down for the insurance money. If you’re dealing with them, you’re smart to be wearing body armor.”

“What are they doing in your jurisdiction?”

“According to my contacts, the Joes had partners, a couple of hard-core pyromaniacs named Backdraft and Bug, short for Firebug, who did all the heavy lifting. Apparently the Joes stiffed them on a job. Backdraft called them out in the parking lot of a bar, and True Joe beat him with a claw hammer and then he and his sons pissed on him. Backdraft was beat so badly that he couldn’t feed himself anymore, couldn’t dress himself. This didn’t sit well with Bug, but before he could express his outrage, the MPD grabbed True Joe up for assault with arson as an aggravating factor. Apparently he attempted to cut out the middleman and set fire to a house while someone was inside it. The courts sentenced him to twenty-seven months in Oak Park Heights. He served three days before he was shanked.

“Meanwhile, True Joe’s boys fortified their house with four-by-eight-foot steel sheets weighing five hundred pounds each so they could get a night’s sleep. Two days after their old man bought it, someone tried to blow a hole through the armored house with C4. That’s when his boys decided they needed a change of scenery. Unfortunately, they picked us. Do you know how Eden Prairie got its name? An East Coast writer, back in eighteen fifty-something, called it the garden spot of the territory. Get it? Garden of Eden? Hasn’t been that for a long time. Could be, though, if we could get rid of pricks like the Joes.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said.

“I’m listening.”

“The Joes are smuggling coke across the Canadian border. Some of it was lost in transit. That’s what prompted their disagreement with Truhler.”

“Truhler is dealing?” Brehmer asked.

“Let’s say he is being forcefully encouraged to participate.”

“Is that true?”

“It could be.”

Brehmer studied me carefully.

“Are you here to make a deal for Truhler?” he asked.

“I am not authorized to do so, but here’s the thing, John—I might be able to get Truhler to come forward if someone else came forward with him.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire, my inner voice said.

Brehmer studied me some more.

“Whom do you have in mind?” he asked.

“Caitlin Brooks,” I said. “She was there when Truhler was attacked. She can identify the Joes.”

“Why would she?”

“Caitlin is a working girl.”

“That’s my impression as well.”

“Perhaps we can offer her an incentive.”

Brehmer clucked at the idea.

“If the Joes have any gifts at all, it’s in witness intimidation,” he said. “Last March, Big Joe knifed a gangbanger in the parking lot of the Eden Prairie Center. There were twenty witnesses. None of them came forward, including the guy who got knifed. There’s a reason for that. Three months earlier they robbed a Christmas drug party, got away with product and cash. Afterward they went to the homes of each and every one of the witnesses; showed up in the middle of the night and threatened to kill anyone who talked and their families. What could I possibly offer a little girl in return for standing up to that? A walk on a ninety-day misdemeanor? C’mon.”

“I might be able to convince her.”

Brehmer smiled and nodded his head. “Okay,” he said. “Now I get it. Now I understand. You didn’t come here to deal for Truhler. You came to get the girl’s address.”

“Yeah,” I said. I saw no reason to lie to Brehmer any further—he saw right through me. “Are you going to give it up?”

Brehmer considered the question for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you want to know why? Because as far as Eden Prairie is concerned, no crime has been committed, not by the Joes, not by Truhler, certainly not by Caitlin. There’s nothing I can do but sit here and twiddle my thumbs, and I hate that, hate not being able to put away pricks like the Joes. You, on the other hand, have a knack for disrupting the status quo, and like the man once said, in confusion there is opportunity. Just remember, you owe me.”

*   *   *

Caitlin Brooks lived in a tastefully decorated two-thousand-dollar-a-month apartment less than five minutes away from the Eden Prairie cop shop. She greeted me at the door wearing a pink sweatsuit that made her look so young I nearly asked for her mother. I told her so when she let me in.

“That’s my fortune,” she said. She spoke with her mouth full of English muffin smeared with grape jelly. “Looking young enough that old men can pretend they’re screwing their grandchildren. It’s why I get top dollar. Do you want some breakfast?”

I thanked her for the offer but declined.

“I’m sorry I look like crap,” she said. “I was just about to go for a run.”

I told her that she looked just fine.

“You’re a nice man,” she said. “Your face looks much better. Can’t hardly see any scratches.”

I thanked her for noticing.

“So, why are you here, McKenzie? Change your mind about the hundred dollars? Want to get your money’s worth?”

“Caitlin with a C,” I said. She smiled broadly. “I need your help.”

Caitlin circled a glass coffee table and sat on a sofa that looked like it cost as much as her monthly rent, tucking her feet beneath her. There was a copy of Brian Freeman’s latest thriller on top of the table.

“I bet it’s the Joes,” she said.

“You knew who they were when they came to Truhler’s last night,” I said.

“Oh sure. A couple of psychos. They used to work for Roberta until she discovered that they were scaring the clientele. Didn’t help that they were dealing drugs, either. Roberta hates drugs.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police who they were?”

“I didn’t think Jason would like that. I know Roberta wouldn’t have. It’s one of her rules—no police intervention.”

“Roberta is your employer?”

“She’s more like a facilitator. She puts people together, kinda like a matchmaker.”

“For how much?”

“A third.”

“That seems like a lot.”

“No, it’s fair,” Caitlin said. “She runs the Web site, screens the clients, collects the money. That limits our exposure, you know? If no cash changes hands, then the cops can’t call it solicitation, can they? They have to call it voluntary relationships. Plus, she takes care of us, protects us, makes sure we have health care, that we’re always being checked for STDs. I have no complaints.”

“How long have you been working for her?”

“Since the day after my eighteenth birthday. That’s another one of Roberta’s rules. All the girls, we might look like kids, but no one works for her who isn’t at least eighteen. I had to show her my birth certificate. It’s about the law, I guess. Soliciting for prostitution of a minor is serious business. You can go to jail for twenty years. For someone who’s not a minor, eighteen or over, a good lawyer can get that down to a gross misdemeanor, and Roberta has good lawyers.”

I bet, my inner voice said.

“Where did you meet her?” I asked aloud.

“Mall of America. I was sitting there by myself, being angry at the world, I don’t even remember why, and she sat down and started talking, made me laugh. If she had been a guy I would have bolted right away because that’s what they do, guys, they cheer you up, they schmooze you, tell you how misunderstood you are, how beautiful you are, they buy you clothes, dinner. Pretty soon they love you, they need you, they can’t live without you. Next thing you know, they’re turning you out because they need this, they need that, and only you can help them. You end up doing lousy twenty-dollar tricks in an alley somewhere.”

“How is Roberta different from them?”

“With Roberta I can get anywhere from six thousand to seventy-two hundred a week depending on how many dates I go on, and I keep two-thirds. With some pimp, I might not be able to keep any. Plus, I’ve been in the nicest hotels and some of the nicest homes in Minnesota, once even on a yacht on Lake Minnetonka. She makes it clear anytime you want to call it quits, just let her know and she’ll take you off the Web site, no questions asked. In fact, she’s always telling us, save your money, have a plan, go to school, start a business, get married cuz you can’t do this forever. Like I said, I’ve got no complaints.”

“If you don’t mind the work,” I said.

“It’s not so bad. For a while I thought I might give adult films a try, but that’s brutal. There’s no money in it anymore. You can’t make a living because of all the amateur stuff on the Internet, all the pirating. They pay what? A thousand to eighteen hundred a sex scene, yet you only get a couple of scenes in a film and only a couple of films a month, if you’re lucky. You don’t get to say who you’ll have sex with, either. This is much better. With Roberta I make four thousand dollars for fifteen hours of work and I don’t have to sleep with anyone I don’t want to. You know, it’s funny they call it that—sleeping. No one ever sleeps. Not ever. That’s not the information you wanted to know, though, is it? You want to know about the Joes.”

“I want to know about Vicki Walsh.”

Caitlin flinched.

“Vicki,” she said. “How do you know Vicki?”

“I don’t. I want to, though. You seem surprised.”

“It’s just that, Vicki Walsh, that’s a name out of the past.”

“You know her?”

“Well, sure. She was one of the girls, for a couple of months, anyway. I didn’t know her well. I don’t know any of the girls well. We worked a couple of parties together in June, though. She seemed nice.”

“What happened to her?”

“She quit. She had a gig somewhere up in Canada, and when she came back she quit. That’s what Roberta said. I hadn’t actually seen her since just before she left. Sometime before the Fourth of July. I know Roberta was upset. She liked Vicki a lot. At least that’s the impression I got. I know she kept Vicki’s profile up on the Web site a lot longer than she had for anyone else who retired.”

“That’s surprising, isn’t it? That Vicki would retire so soon?”

“It’s not for everyone, what we do,” Caitlin said. “This is a choice for us. The prostitutes who work the streets, most of them are being forced into it, you know? Some guy is making them do it, or they need money for drugs, or whatever. It’s a bad situation. It’s not the same with call girls—I suppose that’s the category you’d put us in. People say we’re being exploited, but call girls are partners in the exploitation. It’s just a way for us to make a lot of money in a hurry. In olden days they called us courtesans, and no one thought it was particularly immoral. Madame de Pompadour was a courtesan, you know. So was Theodora, who was empress of the Byzantine Empire. There’s this economics professor at the University of Chicago who said hiring call girls is like renting trophy wives by the hour. That’s no different than what Louis the Fifteenth did, or Justinian the First.”

“I’m impressed by your grasp of history,” I said. I meant it as a compliment, only Caitlin didn’t take it that way.

“I don’t go to college, okay? That doesn’t mean I’m dumb.” She pointed at Freeman’s book. “I read.” She took a deep breath. “People judge. They think if you do what I do—I just got tired of believing the things they teach in high school. You know what I’m talking about, that through hard work and perseverance you can become whatever you want. It’s not true, you know. You don’t believe me? Ask all the people who lost their jobs when the housing market collapsed and now can’t get them back, the jobs they should have. The American Dream. It might be a dream for all those rich bastards who screwed up the economy in the first place, but for the rest of us … Anyway, you need to have the right mindset for what we do. I guess Vicki didn’t have it.”

Good for her, my inner voice said.

“Do you know where I can find her?” I asked.

“Vicki? Gosh no. I have no idea. Why are you looking for her?”

“It has something to do with Jason Truhler.”

“That dweeb? You meet so many people in my business that are pretending to be something they’re not. It’s kinda sad.”

“If you can’t help me, I’d like to talk to Roberta.”

Caitlin thought that was awfully funny. When she stopped laughing, she said, “No one talks to Roberta.”

“Not even you?”

“Sometimes, when she calls me first. Otherwise, everything is done over the Internet.”

“How do I get her e-mail address?”

“Do you have an account with My Very First Time?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t get her e-mail.”

“You could help me.”

Caitlin shook her head vigorously. “Nuh-uh,” she said. “Not about this, McKenzie. I could send her your name and number. If she calls you she calls you. I can’t give out her e-mail, though. That’s one of Roberta’s rules.”

*   *   *

Caitlin and I left the apartment building together. When we reached the front door she said, “You’re a nice man, McKenzie. You can visit anytime.”

Caitlin started jogging down the street. I watched her go while I made my way to the Cherokee. A horn sounded as a car passed her, and not because she was in the way.

It occurred to me once I climbed inside the SUV that it was possible Vicki took Roberta’s advice. She could have gone to college. I used my iPhone to call Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. I told the admissions department that I was an employer checking on the job application of a young woman who claimed to be a student there. After a few minutes, an administrative assistant informed me that the enrollment application of a Vicki Walsh of St. Paul, Minnesota, had been accepted by the school last April and that Vicki indicated the same day that she would be attending classes in the fall. However, Cornell had not heard from her since. Vicki never completed the paperwork necessary to register, nor did she show up for the fall term.

“Ms. Walsh is not a student at Cornell University,” the assistant said, “although she would be most welcome should she wish to begin classes in the spring.”

Next, I called Johnson Senior High School in St. Paul, pretending to be a member of the admissions department at Cornell University. I explained that Ms. Walsh had been accepted by the school but hadn’t showed up for the fall term. The university was attempting to contact Ms. Walsh to remind her that she was welcome to attend classes in the spring; however, the phone number she listed was not in service. The counselor supervising students with last names U–Z remembered Vicki—“a wonderful student with a great attitude,” she said—and she was happy to help me out. She gave me both an address and a phone number. I called the number. I let it ring ten times before hanging up. I decided to drive out there.

*   *   *

Vicki’s last known address was on a high hill above Seeger Square, on Greenbrier Street three blocks down from the John A. Johnson Elementary School. It made me aware that the locations for the money drop and the ambush were not chosen randomly. This was her ground.

I parked in the driveway between the Walsh residence and the house next door. The Walsh house was narrow and ugly; a two-story built in the early years of the previous century. It had been built to last like everything else in those days, yet the best intentions of the builders couldn’t keep it from decaying along with the rest of the neighborhood. I walked across the tiny yard and up the six steps to the front porch. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I moved to the door. There was no bell. I knocked and waited. I knocked again. When no one came to the door I glanced at my watch. It was well past noon on a Thursday.

Some people work for a living, I reminded myself.

I left the porch, but before I could get to my Cherokee, a car pulled to a stop in front of the house. A woman got out. She stared at me across the roof of the car. I gauged her age at about forty-five, an overly plump woman with a blond dye job and skin that, at this time of year in Minnesota, suggested she was a frequent patron of the tanning salons. She didn’t ask who I was. Instead, she demanded, “What do you want?”

“Mrs. Walsh?” I asked.

She ducked into the car and quickly emerged with two large white plastic shopping bags with bright red circles printed on the sides. She walked past without looking at me.

“Walsh is my ex-husband’s name,” she said. “My name is Clementine Lollie. If you want Tim, he’s not here. He hasn’t been here for years.”

I followed Clementine onto her porch. When she fumbled with her door key, I said, “Let me get these for you,” and took the bags from her hands. She stared at me for a moment as if she had never seen an act of consideration before. She opened the door, reclaimed her bags, and said, “Wait here.” I half expected her to slam the door in my face. She didn’t. Instead, she emerged from the house a few minutes later, locking the door behind her.

“The house is a mess,” she said. “Besides, I have to get back to work.” Clementine moved to the railing of the porch and rested her thigh against it. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“McKenzie,” I said.

“What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie? If it’s about that asshole Tim, I haven’t seen or spoken to him in almost fourteen years.”

“I’m looking for Vicki Walsh.”

“You’re in luck, McKenzie. I haven’t seen or spoken to Vicki since the Fourth of July.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Nope. She packed her bags, said she was going to Canada, and left. Haven’t seen her since.”

“She just disappeared?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t call the police?” I knew she hadn’t or I would have seen the missing persons report, yet I needed to ask.

“She was eighteen and graduated from high school. I no longer had any legal obligations toward her. That was the only reason she stayed with me once she got out of the hospital anyway. Legal obligations. So the hell with it. If she doesn’t want to stay here with me, good riddance. Besides, it’s not like we were close or anything. We barely spoke to each other after she seduced my husband.”

“Vicki seduced her father?”

“No, no, hell no. Even she wasn’t that depraved. No, her father, Tim, he’s been gone forever. Carson Lollie was my second husband, Vicki’s stepfather.”

“You’re saying that Vicki seduced her stepfather?”

“Came on to him like gangbusters. Carson never had a chance. Once I found out, I couldn’t stay married to him, of course not, I mean … well, how could I? Had to divorce him. Now look at me. Look at where I live.”

“You blame Vicki?”

“That little slut, yeah, I blame her. She’s the reason I got no one to love me now. No one except bastards who want you to suck ’em off, who want to dominate you, degrade you, make you into something they’d just as readily piss on. The guys I meet, all they want is a hole to masturbate in.”

“Mrs. Lollie…”

“I’ll tell you the last thing Vicki said, her parting words as she’s marching out the front door. She said she was tired of getting pushed around. From now on she was going to do the pushing. Well, good fucking luck with that. You know what? I haven’t got time for this. I need to get back to work.”

Clementine moved quickly off the porch and across her tiny yard. She didn’t look at me again until she opened her car door, and then only for a moment before getting behind the wheel and driving off.