SIX

Nina Truhler lounged behind her desk, her feet on the blotter, eating donuts. Her office, if you could call it that, was located just off the downstairs bar at the jazz club that she had named after her daughter. It was small and cramped and filled with enough cartons and boxes that it resembled a storage closet. The only thing that suggested someone actually spent time there was the twelve-inch-high trophy—a gold figure with sword extended mounted on a marble stand—that Erica had won at the St. Paul Academy Invitational Fencing Tournament last year and given her mother. I sat in the only other chair in the room. I was eating a donut as well.

“These are amazing,” Nina said. She was licking brown sugar off her fingers as she spoke.

“Ambrosia,” I said.

“At least one good thing has come of your helping Jason.”

“Two. The donuts—”

“And?”

“I scored a few points with Erica.”

“Rickie has always liked you.”

“I’m not altogether sure that’s true. I’m the guy courting her mother. How could she possibly approve of that?”

“Good question. Clearly you’re not good enough for me.”

“All my friends who have met you say that I outkicked my coverage.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I like the sound of it.”

Nina smiled around a mouthful of donut, her pale blue eyes bright and shiny, and glanced up toward the ceiling. Even after all the years I’ve known her, there are still ways she can sit, stand, turn, move, run her hand through her jet black hair, ways she can cock her head, that make me feel suddenly flushed and light-headed. Even the way she chewed her donut made me aware of just how much I adored this woman. If it hadn’t been for Jason Truhler we might have married long ago. Her experiences with him had soured Nina on the institution of marriage, leaving us in a committed relationship, yet living on different sides of the city, together but apart.

Nina swallowed her donut and reached back into the white carton.

“We should save a few for Rickie,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m sorry about the way I reacted when you said you were helping Jason.”

“I understand. No need to apologize.”

“I never told you much about our relationship.”

“You told me enough.”

“He was very abusive. Not physically abusive. It would have been easier, I think, to deal with that. Instead, he had a way of making me do things I didn’t want to do, of making all of our problems seem like they were my fault, of—he had a way of making me feel small. That was the worst of it. He made me feel like I was so much less than everyone else.”

“The two of you did a good job raising Erica, though. Anyway, that’s what Jason said.”

“He’s wrong. Rickie didn’t get nearly as much time and attention from either of us as she should have. Jason was never around except on holidays and the occasional weekend when he could tear himself away from his bimbos. Me? I spent more time building and running this place than I ever did with her. I had to prove that I wasn’t small, you see. Rickie suffered because of it. She grew up despite us.”

“I don’t believe that’s true. I bet Erica doesn’t, either.”

“Rickie treats me like a dense, dull old woman who just happens to pay the bills. We get along, I suppose, but we’re not as close as we should be. She keeps a lot to herself. It kills me that she doesn’t take me into her confidence.”

“Doesn’t every mother say that about her daughter?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, that’s the thing. She’s grown up. She’s starting to make decisions that will affect the rest of her life. I’m not saying she can’t make smart decisions. She’s never done anything stupid; she’s never been in any real trouble. It’s just that she’s always pushing her luck. She rarely does anything until the last possible moment. She’s been working as a tutor for a couple of years and hasn’t saved a dime. She stays up too late, never picks up after herself, spends all her free time on her laptop or her cell phone, won’t eat unless you make her. She never dates the same guy more than twice. Well, I don’t mind that so much. I married at twenty-one. If I have my way, Rickie won’t marry until she’s thirty. It’s just—she drives too fast, if you know what I mean.”

“Erica has a perfect four-point-oh grade point average,” I said. “She’s a champion fencer, does charitable work, looks you in the eye when she speaks, and always finds a way to get home before midnight.” I pointed at the trophy. “I was there when she gave you that. ‘Thank you, Mom,’ she said, and since she didn’t say exactly what she was thanking you for, I presume it was everything. Sounds to me like you must have done something right.”

Nina stared thoughtfully at the trophy for a few moments. The metal plate at the bottom read CHAMPION WOMEN’S ÉPÉE.

“Maybe,” she said. She slid her legs off the desktop and sat straight in her chair. “I presume you mean I did something right, not her father.”

“Of course.”

“You’re done with him, aren’t you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“How much trouble was Jason in?”

I thought about the girl in the motel room. I thought about the telephone next to the bed.

“Without going into detail,” I said, “all he had to do was pick up a phone. If he had done that, all of his problems probably would have gone away. He didn’t. He was afraid. Everything escalated from there.”

“He was never one for taking responsibility.”

I would have agreed with her, except I didn’t get the chance. Nina’s chef, a temperamental young woman named Monica Meyer, who once worked for Wolfgang Puck, walked into the office without knocking, looked down at the carton of donuts, looked up at us eating the donuts, and said, “What are you two doing?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” I said.

“I have beef tenderloin with truffle potato puree and red wine demi and you’re eating donuts?”

I gestured up and down with my hands as if they were the business ends of a scale.

“Your cooking—donuts; your cooking—donuts; your cooking—ahh, donuts win.”

“Are you insane?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Stop it, McKenzie,” Nina said. “Monica’s cooking is superb. Profits have gone up nearly twenty-five percent since she took over the kitchen.”

“Don’t tell her that. She’ll ask for a raise.”

“Nina gave me a raise yesterday, smart guy,” Monica said. “Plus profit sharing.”

“At least we both agree that I’m a smart guy.”

“Sarcasm is wasted on you.”

“Do I have to put up with this every time you two are in the same room?” Nina asked.

Monica pointed at the white carton.

“He brought donuts,” she said.

“The world’s greatest donuts,” I said.

“Puhleez.”

“Try one.”

“Not a chance.”

“Seriously, try one.”

Monica looked at Nina as if she were seeking help. Nina shrugged. Monica sighed deeply.

“Fine,” she said.

She reached for a glazed donut, took a small bite, and chewed carefully. Then she took a bigger bite. Then another.

“Where did you get these?”

“World’s Greatest Donuts,” I said.

“Can’t you answer a simple question without trying to be funny?”

“I’m not kidding. That’s the name of the bakery. The World’s Greatest Donuts. It’s in Grand Marais.”

Monica looked at Nina. “Really?”

Nina nodded.

“Isn’t that like three hundred miles from here?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Monica took a second donut from the carton and held it up as if it were the apple Eve gave to Adam. She studied it carefully.

“I bet I can make donuts just as good as these,” she said.

“Fifty bucks,” I said.

“What?”

“Fifty bucks says you can’t.”

“You’re on.”

Monica spun slowly toward the door, still holding the donut in her outstretched hand.

“Monica?” Nina said.

Monica looked back.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you come into my office? Did you want something?”

“Hmm? Oh, Jenness asked me to tell you—there’s a man in the bar wants to talk. He says he’s your husband.”

*   *   *

Nina walked on the business side of the bar, making sure it was between her and Truhler. I recognized the smile on her face—let’s just say it was less than sincere and let it go at that. Truhler smiled with the same genuineness when he saw her.

“Hello, Jason,” Nina said. Her voice was as cold as the ice in Truhler’s drink.

“Like the man said, you look marvelous,” Truhler replied. His voice wasn’t much warmer. “Doesn’t she look marvelous, McKenzie?”

“Marvelous,” I said.

I climbed up on the stool next to him.

“Whatever else you think of me, you have to admit I have excellent taste in women,” Truhler said.

“The problem, Jason, wasn’t your taste,” Nina said. “It was your brand loyalty.”

“Ouch,” Truhler said. He took a sip of his drink and then waved it at the bar. “It looks like you’re doing well.”

The downstairs component of Rickie’s was humming with customers taking up nearly every table, booth, comfortable sofa, and overstuffed chair. The upstairs portion, which featured a full-service dining room, bar, and performance area, was standing room only—jazz and blues chanteuse Debbie Duncan was singing up there, and she always packed them in. Yet Nina replied with one of those positive-negatives Minnesotans use when they don’t want people to know what they’re thinking—“Not too bad.”

Truhler took another sip of his drink. Nina leaned against the back wall of the bar and watched him. They looked as though they had plenty to say to each other, yet were each waiting for the other to speak first. I gave it a couple of beats before breaking the silence.

“What do you want, Jason?” I asked.

“I couldn’t get you on the phone, so I took a chance—”

“I think it’s shameful that you’ve involved Rickie in your affairs,” Nina said.

“Affairs? Affairs? What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“What did McKenzie tell you?”

“McKenzie didn’t tell me anything. He’s an honorable man. But you, Jason? I know you. If you’re in so much trouble that you need McKenzie’s help, it probably involves a woman. A young woman.”

Truhler took another pull of his drink. Apparently he couldn’t talk to his ex-wife without imbibing.

“We’ve been divorced for so long, Nina, I’d think your anger would have run dry by now,” he said.

“I have an endless supply. You saw to that.”

“So it would seem.”

“I don’t want you in my place.”

“Isn’t it open to the public?”

“Management reserves the right to refuse service—”

“I came here to talk to McKenzie, not make you angry.”

“Yet you do, every time I see you.” Nina crossed her arms over her chest. “Every single time.”

“That tells me a lot.”

“What does it tell you?”

Truhler smiled then, his expression one of smug dreaminess, as though he spent a lot of time contemplating a valuable secret that no one else shared.

“People don’t get angry over things they don’t care about,” he said.

“You don’t get it, do you, Jason? You never have. I was a believer. White houses with blue trim, picket fences, two-point-four children, golden wedding anniversaries, Robert Browning—Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in His hand who saith ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; trust God: See all, nor be afraid!’ I wanted all of it. Since I was a little girl, I wanted it. You took the dream away from me, and when I see you I’m reminded of that. The loss becomes a fresh grief. As it turns out, my life is pretty good now, a vast improvement over what it was, and it seems to be getting better every day.” She was looking directly at me when she said that, and like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow in size. “That doesn’t mean I have to forgive you. Besides”—Nina gestured with her chin at the glass in Truhler’s hand; it was half filled with amaretto and 7UP, a very sweet concoction. “You drink like a girl.”

“Charming,” Truhler said.

“You want to talk to McKenzie, so talk to him. Then get out.”

Nina spun abruptly and walked away with long, purposeful strides.

“That woman,” Truhler said. “What a—”

“Hey,” I said. “You’ll be making a big mistake if anything comes out of your mouth that’s not a glowing compliment.”

“Christ, McKenzie. You are so whipped.”

“Fuck you, Truhler.”

I slid off the stool and started walking in the same direction as Nina. Truhler followed close behind.

“No, no, please. C’mon. I’m sorry, McKenzie. C’mon.”

He grabbed my arm. I shrugged it off.

“Erica said—”

I interrupted him again, this time shoving a finger in his face.

“You pull that card out of the deck one more time I’ll make you eat it,” I said.

Truhler took a cautious step backward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I know I can be a jerk. I know I have no right to ask you for help. I don’t know where else to go. McKenzie, they threatened to put the images on the Internet.”

I wondered then if I’d ever truly understand myself, recognize why I do certain things, why I don’t do others. Most days I’m pretty sure I have a good handle on life, that I have it all figured out. Then something will happen—like Truhler happened—and I’ll realize that I don’t have a clue. This has to stop, I told myself. I needed a plan, a set of guidelines to follow instead of always making it up as I go along. One of these days I’m going to find myself in real trouble and wonder how I got there.

“Sit down,” I said.

Truhler went back to his spot at the bar. I followed him.

“What happened?” I asked.

“They called. I said they would.”

“What happened?”

“I told them what you told me, told them there was no evidence that a girl was killed in Thunder Bay. They said there was a dead girl. They said she had been buried along with my DNA and business card. They said if I didn’t pay up they would tell the police where to dig.”

“They’re bluffing.”

“They also said they were going to post the photos they took of me and the girl on the Internet. Were they bluffing about that?”

“Does it matter?”

“If people saw them, my employers, my clients, my daughter—how could I possibly explain? I could say they were fakes until I turned blue. Do you think anyone would believe me?”

“Can you afford to keep paying?”

“No.”

“Well, then. Something’s got to give.”

“Help me. Please, McKenzie. Help me.”

“Help you do what, exactly?”

“I just want it to stop.”

“Call the cops. Extortion is against the law, after all. You could put your friends away for ten years.”

“It would ruin me.”

“It’s unlikely you’re their only victim. If you put the finger on them, others will probably come to light. It may never go to trial.”

“I can’t take the risk. I just can’t.”

“Truhler—”

“Please, McKenzie.”

Erica, my inner voice said.

“Dammit,” I said aloud.

“What?”

“When are you supposed to give them the money?”

“Tomorrow.”

“When tomorrow?”

“They’re going to call, tell me the time and location. In the past though, it was always around three in the afternoon and always in a crowded place.”

I glanced at my watch. It was pushing 9:00 P.M.

“We should have plenty of time to get ready. I’ll call you at about eight in the morning.” I winced even as I said it. I hated getting up early.

“What are we going to do?” Truhler asked.

“Follow the money.”

“And then?”

“That depends on where it leads us.”

Truhler thought about it for a few beats. It occurred to me that he was thinking that I might take on his adversaries, maybe even shoot them. He was mistaken.

“Thank you, McKenzie,” he said.

“Nuts.”

*   *   *

I leaned against the door frame of Nina’s office and quoted Christopher Marlowe.

“Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield.”

Nina didn’t even bother to look up from the envelopes she was opening with a letter opener that looked like it could be used in trench warfare.

“Nice try, McKenzie,” she said.

“One of the first things you learn as a cop, you don’t get to choose the victim,” I said.

“You’re not a cop anymore.”

“No, I’m not. Sometimes I forget.”

“I don’t know what all this is about, and I don’t want to know unless it involves Rickie.”

“That’s the only reason I’m involved, so Erica won’t be.”

Nina thought about that for a moment. She looked up from her mail.

“Be careful,” she said. “Jason—he can’t be trusted.”

“I know.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Thanks for the donuts.”

*   *   *

I stepped outside the bar and took in a lungful of cool air. The wind blew a cloud in front of the moon and I lost a little of my light. The cloud passed and the moonlight came back. I noticed for the first time that it was a full moon. My psychiatrist ex-girlfriend once explained that the chemical makeup of blood was very similar to seawater and the moon pulled on it just the way it did on ocean tides. That, she said, was why we all go a little crazy during a full moon.

My car was parked in the back of the lot. I walked toward it with my head down and my hands in my jacket pockets wishing it were two days ago, wishing I could go back in time and tell Jason Truhler to solve his own problems. I should have been inside Rickie’s listening to Debbie Duncan, drinking Summit Ale, and flirting with my girl. Instead, my girl was upset and I was helping a guy I didn’t even like. This sucks for so many reasons, I told myself—to which my inner voice replied, The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

Suddenly, I was sitting in the back of a mandatory poetry class at the University of Minnesota reading Omar Khayyám, the line repeating itself in my head like an unwelcome song. I blamed Nina for putting me on a poetry jag—she had started it with her Robert Browning.

“Dammit,” I said aloud.

I immediately looked around to see if anyone had heard my outburst. The parking lot was full of vehicles, yet empty of people. I had just stepped into the aisle between my Audi and the car parked next to it when a man appeared, seemed to materialize out of thin air, and shoved a gun in my face.

I hate it when there’s a full moon, my inner voice said.

I’ve spent most of my adult life on the lookout, first as a cop patrolling the mean streets and now as an unlicensed investigator or whatever else you might call me—looking for people and things that seem out of place, looking for shadows hidden within shadows, looking for trouble. Yet there I was, trapped between two cars by an armed assailant with my hands in my pockets. Could I possibly be more careless?

The man held the gun steady while a second man approached from behind. I turned my head to get a look at him. Medium height, overweight, the beginnings of a beard, long blond hair flowing down his back—adult men with blond hair make me nervous. Yet it was the gunman who commanded my attention.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked. From the light of streetlamps I recognized him. He was the man who had walked into the office of the Chalet Motel while I was quarreling with Daniel Khawaja. He was wearing the same leather jacket, the same ponytail. Blondie had been with him when they strolled past my room at 3:30 in the A.M. They must have followed me from my home after I investigated the break-in.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Where is what?”

Blondie punched me hard in the spine. I heard myself cry out and felt my knees buckle. I had to grab hold of the roof of the Audi to keep from falling. Blondie seized my shoulder and pulled me back between the cars. I nearly fell again when he released me, but managed to keep my feet. The gunman raised his gun with one hand and pointed the muzzle between my eyes. He spoke slowly.

“Where is my coke?”

“Oh, that,” I said.

I felt better, believe it or not. I now knew I wasn’t a random mugging victim. The two men had targeted me because they wanted something specific. That gave me a little leverage, and time—but not much. That’s something else the cops teach you: A bad situation can only get worse. If you’re going to make a move, do it quickly.

“You’re the guys who hid the coke on my car,” I said.

Apparently that wasn’t the answer they were looking for, because Blondie took a step forward and drove his fist into my kidney just above the belt line, putting some muscle behind the blow. I fell forward again, this time against the gunman. He pushed me upright, grabbed a fistful of my jacket and shirt, and shoved the business end of the gun against my throat with the other hand.

“Where is it?” the gunman asked.

“I found it while I was washing my car. Imagine my surprise.”

While we were talking, I cautiously lifted my hands until they were even with my shoulders. No one seemed threatened by that.

“Where’s my fucking coke?” The gunman again.

“Why did you pick me to mule your shit across the border?” I asked. “Did I look particularly stupid or what?”

He shook me by my shirt and jacket. He was a big man and strong, and for a moment I understood how a rag doll must feel.

“Goddamn you, where is it?”

“I flushed it down the drain.”

The gunman’s eyes grew wide, his nostrils flared, and his mouth fell open. Behind me Blondie sucked oxygen like somebody who just heard his dog died. It seemed as good a time as any to bust a move. I set myself, visualized what I was going to do, and then did it.

I grabbed the gunman’s wrist with my left hand and pushed the gun away to the right, bending his arm at the elbow until the muzzle was actually pointing behind him. At the same time, I seized the hand holding my lapel and held it tight against my chest. I pivoted slightly to my right, raised my left leg, and drove my foot down against his kneecap. I heard a cracking sound followed by the gunman’s scream. He dropped the gun and crumbled to the pavement, both hands reaching out to cradle his knee. I heard the gun skitter along the asphalt, yet paid it no mind. Instead, I spun around to face Blondie.

It occurred to me at that moment with agonizing clarity that I had made a monumental mistake. I didn’t know if the second man was armed. If he had been—but he wasn’t. He stood there, a kind of stunned expression on his face, staring at his partner. I set my kicking leg down, turned my hip toward him, and executed a side thrust kick, driving my foot hard against his rib cage—he never saw it coming. He fell against the rear quarter panel of the Audi, bounced off, and hit the ground.

I quickly searched for the gun, found it, and snatched it up. It was a wheel gun and heavy, a .357 Magnum Colt King Cobra—a fucking cannon. Blondie rose quickly to his feet, his left elbow pressed against his side. He was getting ready to take a run at me. He stopped short when I pointed the gun at him. Enough of his face was visible for me to see that he was weighing the odds. I thumbed back the hammer. It wasn’t necessary. The Colt had a double action; it would fire just as easily hammer down. The gesture had the proper dramatic effect, though. He took a breath, drew back.

“Get the hell out of here,” I said. “Go on. Go on.”

He turned slowly and started to move across the lot. I heard his partner moan, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him writhe on the pavement.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

Blondie halted. I gestured at his partner.

“Take this asshole with you.”

Blondie hesitated before carefully making his way to the aisle between the two vehicles. I stepped backward, avoiding the gunman, holding the revolver steady in front of me with both hands, keeping my distance, pretending my back didn’t hurt like hell. Blondie reached an arm under the gunman’s shoulder and pulled him up. They both groaned with the effort.

“Have you done this often—find someone to sneak your shit into the country for you?” I asked.

They didn’t answer.

“Why did you pick me?”

The gunman spoke between clenched teeth.

“I’m going to fuck you up,” he said.

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley, an’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain.”

“Huh?”

“Robert Burns. Get the hell out of here. Both of you. Don’t ever let me see you again.”

The two of them moved with surprising quickness to a battered Buick parked on the street. Blondie helped his partner into the passenger seat before limping around to the driver’s side. He opened the door. Before getting in and driving off, he glared at me across the roof of his vehicle.

“Hey, shithead,” he said. “No one flushes thirty-five thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine. They either call the cops or they keep it for themselves. You steal from us? From us? We’re gonna get you. We’re gonna get you good.”

I should have shot him right then and there. The Colt had more than enough oomph to go through the SUV, through him, and probably through the building across the street. I didn’t. Shoot someone in the parking lot of Rickie’s? Nina would never have forgiven me.