ELEVEN

I sat in my SUV in Clementine’s driveway and worked my iPhone. As promised, Erica had sent me a link and a password, plus instructions that even someone as technologically challenged as myself could follow, all of which gave me access to Vicki’s Facebook page.

It used to be, and not long ago, that you needed smart, focused Web surfing to find out what you wanted to know about a target. You had to have an aptitude for accessing both public and private records—court, motor vehicle, property taxes, health care, credit history, Social Security, and so much more. Now most of what you need to know can be found by hacking a target’s Facebook page. People upload the most amazing information, everything from comprehensive résumés to explicit details about their most intimate relationships.

Something else—it’s been my experience that 80 percent of what you want to know comes from human beings, not archives and databases. With Facebook you can uncover what targets have written about themselves; you can learn about their backgrounds, their personal histories, the people in their lives, and what’s important to them, so when you do talk to them, you’ll already know them. You’ll be able to chat with them like you’re old friends, like you already have a special relationship.

If that’s not helpful enough, the target’s Facebook page will also list an army of friends that can be ready and willing sources of intelligence. Take Vicki Walsh’s page. She identified thirty-two friends—one of them was Erica. That number seemed awfully low to me. I’ve heard of some Facebookers who have literally thousands of friends. Personally, I don’t believe it is possible to have thousands of friends. Or even thirty-two, for that matter, but that’s another story. In any case, I was able to follow the chosen few on Vicki’s page to their own pages, where I found their contact information.

The data Vicki supplied under INFO gave me an insight into her character:

Sex: Female.

City: St. Paul.

Hometown: Ditto.

Birthday: April 23.

Looking for: Friendship.

Relationship status: It’s complicated.

Religion: Infidel.

Education: Cornell University (in the fall); Johnson Senior High School.

Activities: Fencing, chess, and all things geek.

Favorite music: I like all music.

Favorite TV: Um, generally speaking, I don’t watch TV (but then she listed twenty-two programs including Star Trek—all incarnations, House, The Simpsons, Glee, and Invader Zim, whatever the hell that was.

Favorite movies: “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” “The Princess Bride,” “Spirited Away,” and the complete works of Hayao Miyazaki.

Favorite books: She listed thirteen authors including Jane Austen, but no titles.

Favorite quotes: “Forgiveness is the fragrance of the violet left on the heel that crushed it.”—MARK TWAIN.

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you cannot do”—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT.

She left Parents blank.

She also wrote, “I now present 21 random things you should know about me:”

  1. It’s hard for me to talk about myself.

  2. I have four piercings, two have healed over.

  3. Pets I’ve owned include fish, hamsters, a parakeet, and a dog named Riley. They’re all gone now.

  4. I thought about being a veterinarian when I grow up.

  5. I also considered being an architect, medical doctor, and writer.

  6. I cry every day.

  7. I also laugh every day.

  8. I started reading to myself at age three because no one else would read to me.

  9. I can’t stand coffee unless there’s chocolate in it.

10. I’ve never used illegal drugs, although plenty of people have offered them to me.

11. I have, however, used over two dozen different psychiatric medications.

12. I’ve never broken a bone.

13. is my lucky number.

14. The most challenging book I’ve ever read was “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo. It took me a solid month, reading an hour or two a day after I did my homework.

15. I want kids, but at the same time I’m terrified that I’ll raise them to be as screwed up as I am.

16. I like cherry Kool-Aid.

17. I’ve played violin, recorder, clarinet, flute, piano, and acoustic guitar, all of them badly.

18. I have a pathological fear of spoiled food. I can’t eat leftovers that are more than a day old.

19. I’ve never met a man who didn’t like me.

20. I’ve dyed my hair blue, blue-black, purple, green, and crayon red (which faded to orange). I decided my natural color is best.

21. I can change a flat tire.

I scrolled down Vicki’s home page, reading all the postings. She seemed genuinely thrilled when Cornell University accepted her application in early April; she wrote that her hands were trembling when she replied by e-mail that she would enroll there in the fall. Her friends congratulated her profusely. Denny Marcus wrote that they should take a road trip to Ithaca to scope out her new digs. Denny, as it turned out, was one of only two males included among Vicki’s friends. The other was named Drew Hernick, and as far as I could tell, Vicki had exchanged no postings with him. However, she had exchanged more postings with Denny than with anyone else, male or female. In fact, her very last posting was to Denny. It was made July 2, just before she left for Canada.

*   *   *

According to Denny Marcus’s INFO page, he was a freshman at Augsburg College in Minneapolis and worked part-time as a barista in a coffeehouse on East Franklin Avenue, not far from the campus. He even provided his work schedule. That’s where I found him, working behind the counter. I recognized him from his photograph. He was three inches taller than I was and thirty pounds lighter. If you ever needed someone to sweep your chimney, he was your man.

“What can I gitcha?” he asked.

I looked up at the menu written in chalk on the blackboard behind the counter.

“What would Vicki have, I wonder?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Vicki Walsh. She doesn’t drink coffee unless there’s chocolate in it, am I right? How ’bout a Café Mocha?”

He stared at me for a few beats before saying, “Would you like whipped cream with that?”

“Of course.” I cringed even as I said it. There was a wonderful man who helped raise me named Mr. Mosley who would roll over in his grave if he saw me drink coffee with additives of any kind.

Denny made the drink and set it on the counter under the PICK UP sign.

“How do you know Vicki?” he asked.

“The question is, how do you know Vicki?”

He took my money and rang up the purchase. I dropped all of the change into the tip jar.

“We’re friends,” Denny said.

“Close friends?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is McKenzie.”

“Why are you asking about Vicki?”

I lied. I said, “Her family asked me to help try to find her.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Vicki’s disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“No one has seen her since the Fourth of July.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Do you know where she is?”

He thought about it before answering.

“Why would I?”

“You were close friends,” I said.

“I suppose.”

“More than close.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were romantically involved, weren’t you?”

Denny laughed out loud. “Don’t you think it’s possible for a man and a woman to be just friends without anything else between them?” he asked.

I thought about my own relationships.

“Not really,” I said.

“Well, we were just friends.”

“Friends with benefits?”

Denny laughed some more. “McKenzie,” he said. “Did you say your name was McKenzie?”

I nodded.

“McKenzie, I’m gay.”

Oops.

“Couldn’t you tell?” he said.

I thought about a guy I played hockey with for thirty Friday nights out of the year every year since I graduated college who was gay and how everyone in the locker room seemed to know it but me until he put purple laces in his skates and I said, “Tommy, that is so gay,” and he said, “What’s your point?”

“No, I couldn’t tell,” I said.

“Then I must be doing it wrong,” Denny said.

“When was the last time you saw Vicki?”

“Last summer.”

“When?”

“July something. Look, McKenzie, if Vicki’s disappeared”—he quoted the air—“it’s because she wanted to disappear. Have you met her mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then…”

“I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

Denny studied me carefully without speaking.

“Listen,” I said.

“No, you listen. Vicki is fine. I got a text message from her yesterday. I got an e-mail the day before.”

“Why doesn’t she use Facebook?”

“She said Facebook is too consuming. She hasn’t got time for it anymore.”

“These messages you received, what did they say?”

“Having a wonderful time, wish you were here—whatever they said is none of your business.”

“Where did she send them from? Where is she?”

“If it’s so damn important, Vicki is in Ithaca, New York. She’s attending Cornell University.”

*   *   *

Either Denny Marcus was lying to me, or Vicki Walsh was lying to him. In any case, Vicki was not at Cornell. That had already been established. Cornell was where she told people she was so they wouldn’t look for her.

I asked Denny to contact Vicki and have her call me. He said he would. I gave him the number of my prepaid cell; I watched him write it down. I didn’t know if he would make the call, though, and if he did, if she would respond. Or even if she could respond. If Denny was lying to me—and why would he be different from everyone else—then it was entirely possible that Vicki really was dead but none of her friends noticed because they knew she was planning to leave.

I started working the index of BFFs that Vicki had posted on her Facebook page. Nearly all of them listed contact information. I sent e-mails to those who gave addresses. I told them I had been asked by the family to find Vicki—when I find a good lie I stick with it—and asked that they reply with whatever information they had. I called those who listed cell phone numbers, yet didn’t get through to anyone, which surprised me. Isn’t instant communication the whole point of cell phones? I left voice mails using the same lie, only shorter. Some cell phone users had taped messages that said they did not accept calls, that they preferred texts instead, which also surprised me—I just don’t get out enough. So I texted them with an even shorter lie.

Staring at the tiny screen on the iPhone was starting to give me a headache. It became worse after I called Truhler. He didn’t say hello when he answered. Instead, he said, “Rickie’s here. Isn’t that nice?”

“Just swell,” I said. “Have you heard from our friends?”

“No, but…”

“But what?”

“You should know that I’ve been examined by a real doctor, not that nitwit who checked me in last night. The new doctor upgraded me to a Grade Two concussion, or maybe he downgraded me, I don’t know which.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means suddenly I’m having difficulty with my balance, I’m sensitive to light, I have blurred vision, they think I might have tinnitus, you know, ringing in my ears. They think I might have postconcussion syndrome. I might have headaches, fatigue, anxiety, irritability for weeks.”

“What does that mean?” I asked yet again.

“It means I can’t help you deal with the Joes,” Truhler said. “I just can’t. I’m not physically able. You’ll have to do it alone.”

“How convenient for you.”

“You are going to pay them the money, right? You haven’t changed your mind about that, right?”

“I’ll do what I have to,” I said. “Let me know when you hear from them. I’ll give you my number.” I recited the number for the prepaid cell phone, and Truhler wrote it down. At the same time my inner voice asked, Why are you helping this guy? Why, why, why?

“Do you want to talk to Rickie?” Truhler asked.

“Tell her I’ll call later.”

*   *   *

Thaddeus Coleman possessed more entrepreneurial spirit than anyone I had ever arrested. He never let a business setback get him down. When his face became so well known that store security guards would greet him by name, he gave up his shoplifting ring for girls, running a small but lucrative stable on University and Western. When gentrification and the subsequent increased police presence forced him out of the neighborhood, he switched to dealing drugs around Fuller-Farrington. When a trio of Red Dragons objected to the competition and put a couple of slugs into his spine, he moved to Minneapolis, where he started a surprisingly lucrative ticket-scalping operation. That’s what he was doing when I entered his small office in a converted warehouse overlooking Target Field, where the Minnesota Twins now played baseball.

“Hey, Chopper.”

“McKenzie, you sonuvabitch.”

Coleman maneuvered his wheelchair from behind the desk and rolled out to greet me. He had earned the nickname Chopper because of the wheelchair, which he rode with the reckless abandon of a dirt-track biker. We engaged in an elaborate handshake dance that ended with me messing up.

“McKenzie, you so white,” he said, which is what he always said to me. I was the one who scooped him off the pavement and got him the medical attention that saved his life. He’s been a generous friend ever since, although he never did tell me what he knew about the three Red Dragons that we found executed near the St. Paul Vo-Tech a few days after he was discharged from the hospital.

“How’s business?” I asked.

I found a chair in front of the desk while Chopper rolled back behind it. There was a PC on the blotter and a dozen more set up on tables against two walls. Chopper would have associates sitting at every terminal when tickets went on sale online for concerts and ball games all around the nation; sometimes he’d pay people to stand in line outside of ticket booths to buy rare small-venue events. He then sold the tickets at highly inflated prices through eBay and other outlets or directly to customers who were “in,” like me.

“It’s good,” Chopper said. “It’s all good. It’s just—it’s not as much fun as it used t’ be, you know? ’Member when I used t’ cruise up and down Target Center or the Ex in St. Paul, sellin’ direct to customers—you want four, I got four—dodgin’ the cops, maybe slippin’ ’em a couple of Wild tickets to keep ’em from bustin’ me? ’Member that? Now I sit here all day, payin’ rent, keepin’ books—I pay taxes, man. What is that? Not even called scalpin’ no more. I’m a fuckin’ broker.”

“It’s the state legislature’s fault,” I said. “It made an honest man of you.”

“They shoulda never made scalpin’ legal. Took all the fun out of it. You know the governor. How come you didn’ help me out?”

“I know the governor’s wife. It’s not the same thing.”

“Ahh, man. So wha’ you doin’ here, McKenzie? You sure ain’t lookin’ for tickets t’ Smucker’s Stars on Ice.”

“I worry that you don’t get out enough, Chopper. I thought I’d buy you dinner. Chinese. I know how much you like the gai ding they serve at Shuang Cheng in Dinkytown.”

“If you buyin’ it’s cuz you want somethin’.”

“What a suspicious mind you have.”

“I was watchin’ the Discovery Channel—don’ look at me that way. I was watchin’ the Discovery Channel, and the guy says the definition of crazy is doin’ the same thing over and over again but expectin’ a different outcome.”

“So?”

“So, if’n you invitin’ me to dinner it’s cuz you want somethin’. What?”

“Being that you’re such an honest and upright tax-paying citizen, I realize that you’re not wired the way you used to be.”

Chopper gave me a grin and a head nod. We both knew that ticket scalping might be his daytime job, but Chopper had plenty of enterprises to occupy his evenings, including smuggling brand-name cigarettes from Kentucky and selling them to independent convenience stores, making a hefty profit by dodging the state’s cigarette tax. He was better connected than an Apple computer.

“So you’re wantin’ intel,” Chopper said.

“Yeah.”

“You know, the cops, they pay their CIs.”

“I offered you dinner.”

“A ten-buck plate of spicy chicken almond ding.”

“You want a combo platter? I’ll spring for a combo platter.”

“You so cheap, McKenzie. You got all that money, too. Jus’ tell me what you wanna know.”

“I need something on a couple of lowlifes named Big Joe and Little Joe Stippel.”

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? The Joes? You messin’ wit’ the Joes?”

“You know them?”

“I know enough to stay away from ’em. Fuck, McKenzie.”

“Where can I find them?”

“I don’ know. I don’ wanna know.”

“Can you find out?” I could have asked John Brehmer, but I didn’t want to go on record.

“I’d have t’ be as crazy as you,” Chopper said.

“Something else. Do you know a couple of firestarters named Backdraft and Bug?”

Chopper stared at me for a moment, his mouth open, before he started to laugh out loud.

“Gettin’ kinda ambitious in your ol’ age, ain’tcha? These are fuckin’ bad people, McKenzie.”

“I heard that the firestarters have a feud with the Joes. I’d like you to put the word out that I might be able to help them.”

“Wha’?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“See if I got this right. You goin’ up again’ the Joes and you’re wantin’ allies.”

“Something like that.”

“This is North Side shit, McKenzie. You don’ want none of that. The cops these days, I don’ know if it’s cuz of budget cuts or what, but most cops they ride solo, you know? Watch ’em on the streets, it’s one cop t’ every car. Except on the North Side. They ride in pairs up there. What’s that tell ya?”

“Can you help me or not?”

“You know I can, but McKenzie, I’d hate like hell t’ see the expiration date on your milk carton run out.”

“I appreciate that, Chopper.”

He stared at me for a moment. I stared back.

“You want somethin’ else, doncha?”

“If I wanted a young girl, who would I go see?” I said.

“Now you’re just messin’ with me.”

“I would never do that.”

“Wha’ happened to that nice lady runs the jazz joint?”

“I’m not asking for myself.”

“Tha’s what they all say.”

“Chopper…”

“Yeah, I’m jus’ foolin’. Wha’ you wanna know?”

“There’s an upper-class operation calls itself My Very First Time, run by a woman called Roberta.”

“Don’ know nothin’ ’bout that.”

“Apparently they use the Internet.”

“That ain’t surprisin’. Whorehouses, the brothel, tha’s long gone, man. Wha’ you call a quaint anachronism. You still got hookers workin’ outta bars, outta gyms, massage parlors that ain’t been closed down, and out on the street corner, you’re always gonna have that. More and more, though, they’re usin’ the Internet, includin’ amateurs just lookin’ for a thrill.” Chopper stared menacingly at his PC. “Fuckin’ computer takin’ the fun outta everything.”

“Anything you can get me, I’d appreciate it,” I said. “If you want more than a free dinner, let me know.”

Chopper smiled at me.

“Nah, no cash between us,” he said. “I know that in your world favors are coin of the realm. Let’s just say you gonna owe me one.”

Chopper smiled some more because he knew what I knew—owing him a favor was serious business.

*   *   *

It took a full half of an hour to drive my way out of downtown Minneapolis and across the river into St. Paul. I had a choice to make when I came to the I-94–Highway 280 interchange: Go home or go to Rickie’s. I chose Rickie’s, partly to proclaim my undying devotion to Nina and partly to mooch a free meal.

Five minutes later I took the Dale Street exit, coming to a stop at the top of the ramp. I was the fourth car from the traffic light. A shabbily dressed middle-aged man wearing glasses that were too big for his face approached each of the vehicles in front of me. He was holding up a handwritten sign—WILL WORK FOR FOOD. The way he looked into each driver’s side window and then moved on, I guessed he wasn’t having much luck. I powered down my window and reached into my pocket for cash. I was peeling off a twenty by the time he reached me.

“How you doin’?” I asked.

“Not bad, McKenzie,” he said. “How ’bout you?”

I turned my head so quickly to look at him I nearly gave myself whiplash. I didn’t know any homeless people, did I?

The man grinned broadly. His teeth were yellow, and his beard was three days old.

“Is that for me?” he asked.

He reached in and took the twenty from my hand. He stepped back and waved the bill triumphantly over his head for everyone else to see.

“You always were a generous guy, McKenzie,” he said.

I couldn’t help staring.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

He grinned some more and lifted his glasses so I could get an unimpeded look at his face.

“Ruben?” I asked. “Ruben Barany?” I had worked with him out of the Eastern District when I was with the police. He had five years on me, a good guy to go to for advice. “What the hell happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? Will work for food? What happened to Patti, what happened to your pension?”

“Patti’s good. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

“Ruben?”

“McKenzie?”

Ruben placed both hands on the windowsill of the Jeep Cherokee and leaned in.

“We’re running a seat belt sting,” he said. “Earning a little extra scratch for the state general fund. I think the law libraries get a cut, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cars come to a stop—we’ve been manipulating the traffic lights, by the way. Cars come to a stop, I look inside the waiting vehicles, identify the drivers who are in violation of the mandatory seat belt law, and alert officers down the road. We have Ramsey County and the State Patrol working with us.”

“No way.”

“The guys call me Homeless Harry.”

“This is so wrong for so many reasons.”

“It’s pretty insensitive to the homeless, I admit. On the other hand, the state makes one hundred and eight bucks a citation and so far today we’ve written out a hundred and twelve. I’m happy to see you’re wearing your belt, McKenzie.”

“Sometimes I’m glad I’m not on the job anymore.”

“I know what you mean. We’ll be here all week. Be sure to tell your friends.”

Ruben beat a rhythm on the roof of the Cherokee.

“Good to see ya, McKenzie,” he said. “Don’t be such a stranger.”

He slapped the roof of the vehicle one last time and started walking back toward the corner. The traffic light turned green, and the cars ahead of me surged forward. I followed, calling out the window as I passed him.

“Hey, Ruben. What about my twenty?”

*   *   *

I had just completed dinner, for which I received no check yet left a tip equal to the price of the meal—curried chicken satay with fresh mint-soy vinaigrette. I took a great deal of pleasure from teasing Monica and had every intention of continuing to do so in the near future, but my God, the woman could cook, not that I would admit it to her.

Now I was sitting at the bar drinking Summit Ale and working my iPhone. If Denny Marcus had given Vicki Walsh my cell number as promised, she hadn’t bothered to call it. I had received several replies from the e-mails and voice mail messages I had sent earlier to her friends yet learned nothing that I didn’t already know. I was surprised that Vicki’s friends had been so forthcoming. Only one person refused to answer my inquiries until I explained who I was and why I had contacted her. The question was, now what?

There’s an art to finding a missing person, and as with most artistic endeavors, to do it well requires an enormous amount of effort. You start with the person herself, assembling every known fact about her from her style of dress to her hobbies and interests to her education to her spending habits to her employment record to her friends and family to her—well, you get the idea. The reason for all of this work was simple: People are creatures of habit. After spending a lifetime doing a specific thing in a specific way, it becomes extremely difficult if not impossible to change. It was her past that would lead me to Vicki, except that she was so young her past was not that deeply ingrained. Also, she had not been gone for so long that she might feel the need to reach out to someone she might have cared about, although apparently she had reached out to Denny Marcus.

Damn, this is going to be hard, my inner voice told me. Maybe you should just wait until she demands more money from Truhler, only this time hire an army of investigators to help follow it.

While I was thinking it over Nina joined me.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“Nope. I need at least a nickel.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Very long.”

“Your face looks much better.”

“As compared to what?”

“This is turning into a scintillating conversation.”

“Sorry. I’m just fried. I thought I’d give you a long, heartfelt kiss and then go home.”

“Are you sure? Connie Evingson is singing tonight.”

“She wasn’t scheduled, was she?”

“No, but the trio that was scheduled was involved in a car wreck this morning outside Milwaukee. Connie graciously agreed to fill in.”

“I’ve always liked Connie,” I said.

“Just as long as you like her from afar,” Nina said. She then batted her long eyelashes to tell me that she was kidding—sorta.

“I think I’ll pass tonight,” I said.

“You really are tired. I was thinking of coming over to your place after closing.”

“I appreciate the thought, Nina, but you should probably stay away for a while. You and Erica. The guys who thumped Jason last night know where I live. I don’t want you walking into harm’s way.”

“Jason knows who they are, doesn’t he?”

“Of course he does.”

“Why doesn’t he tell the police?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I bet it isn’t. I bet it’s a very short story. Women.”

“I hate keeping things from you,” I said.

“As long as you don’t make a habit of it.”

I was thinking that I wasn’t that tired after all when Monica came out of the kitchen wearing a white chef’s jacket trimmed with red.

“McKenzie, you’re just the person I want to talk to,” she said.

“Uh-oh,” Nina said.

“What?” I asked.

“Monica has been experimenting with donut recipes all day.”

“How’s that going?” I said.

“I am dissatisfied,” Monica said.

“Want to pay me the fifty bucks now or later?”

“I haven’t given up, McKenzie. I never give up. It’s just that I have been unable to replicate the mouthfeel of these donuts of yours. The answer could be in the shortening, the temperature, baking time, or something in the batter itself.”

I spread my hands wide and shrugged. “Yeah?”

“I want you to do me a favor,” Monica said. “That’s what you do, right? Favors?”

I answered slowly. “Yeah.”

“I want you to get the answer for me,” she said.

“The answer?”

“The recipe.”

“How would I do that?”

“By any means necessary.”

“Wait a minute. Are you asking me to go up to Grand Marais, break into World’s Best Donuts, and steal their donut recipes?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Lady, I think you’ve had a little too much cough syrup, if you know what I’m saying.”

“How hard can it be? I looked them up online. Their bakery looks like a shack.”

I flashed on Bobby Dunston and the lecture he delivered the day before.

“Monica,” I said, “no. Absolutely not. I mean, a guy’s gotta draw the line somewhere.”