Arona was a two-hour drive from the Twin Cities if you obeyed the posted speed limits. It was the largest city in Kamin County in Wisconsin with just over three thousand residents, yet it wasn’t the county seat. That honor belonged to Tintori Falls, about twenty-five miles east. Even though it was out of my way, that’s where I drove first thing in the morning because that’s where the sheriff lived.
I found the Kamin County Sheriff’s Department a block off the main drag. It was located in one of those flat, ultramodern, energy-efficient, multipurpose brick buildings that somehow manage to always look like an elementary school. That impression changed quickly once I stepped inside, though, and approached a desk that was protected by a thick wall of bulletproof glass. I told the female officer I found there who I was and what I wanted. She directed me to a blue molded-plastic chair and told me to wait.
I expected a long wait. Instead, the officer was back in less than a minute. She pushed a hidden button, and I heard a loud buzzing sound. She waved me through a security door and led me down a brilliantly lit corridor to a spacious office. Directly behind a cluttered desk stood a large man with white hair and glasses and wearing a neatly pressed white shirt with a five-point star over his left pocket and an American flag sewn above his right. He made no attempt to shake my hand, so I didn’t try to shake his.
“Mr. Taylor,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You have?”
He jerked his head to his left. I followed the movement to a comfy-looking sofa against the wall. Martin McGaney was sitting on the sofa. He gave me a little finger wave. I didn’t know if he was saying hello or tut-tut.
“’Morning, Martin,” I said.
“Taylor.”
“You’re out and about bright and early today.”
“So are you.”
“You’re here cuz of the bullet,” the sheriff said. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I went into my spiel, explaining my presence and purpose in an out-of-state jurisdiction to the proper authorities just like the handbook suggests.
“Sheriff, I am a licensed private investigator from the state of Minnesota. I am investigating the murder of a woman who went by the name of Emily Denys in St. Paul. I have reason to believe that her murder is connected to the killing of a Kamin County resident some thirteen months ago. I am asking for your cooperation in this matter.”
The sheriff smiled and turned to McGaney.
“I like ’im,” he said. “A little formal for my taste.”
“He’s not a bad sort once you get past his attitude.”
“Hell’s bells, son, all them PIs got attitude.”
“Tell me, Taylor,” McGaney said. “How’d you know about the bullet? The BCA didn’t even confirm a match until late yesterday.”
He probably already guessed that Anne Scalasi told me, yet there was no way I was going to give her up.
“You might find this hard to believe, Martin,” I said, “but there is a surprisingly large number of employees in the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office who simply do not like their new boss.”
“Actually, I don’t find that hard to believe at all.”
“A mite prickly in person, is she?” the sheriff asked. “Cuz over the phone she was charming as all get-out.”
“Marianne Haukass is a politician,” I said.
“They’re all politicians, son. So am I when it comes down to it. That’s why I’d like to see some closure in the Franson case before the next election. Which is also why I’m not gonna kick if you go down there. You’re not going to get any cooperation, at least not from me or my office. You want to go pokin’ around, though, you got my blessing. Who knows, might be you raise up some dust we missed. Right now we ain’t got jack. Let me tell ya, that’s embarrassing. A mayor—the goddamned mayor, mind you—catches a nine in the back of the head and we can’t solve it? Embarrassing.”
“Don’t you have any suspects?”
“Problem is we have too many suspects. Half the town hated the prick. Well, anyway, forty-nine percent if you go by the last election.”
“Can I see your field reports?”
“What part of you’re not going to get any cooperation from me don’t you understand? The skirt down in Arona might let you see hers, but not me.”
“Skirt?”
“The police chief in Arona is a woman,” McGaney said.
“Ahh.”
Anne Scalasi had received a steady litany of insults when she joined the St. Paul Police Department and worked her way up the promotion ladder, yet I don’t remember “skirt” being among them.
“Now, Mr. McGaney here—he and his boss have all my cooperation and copies of most of my records,” the sheriff said. “Call it professional courtesy. Maybe they’ll share with you.”
I gave him a hopeful glance. After all, we were friends—sorta. McGaney waved his finger at me.
“Can you at least tell me if you identified Emily Denys?” I asked.
“When we do, I’m sure your lawyer friend will be the first to hear about it.”
“I got a question for you, now,” the sheriff said. “You carrying?”
“I have a permit for Minnesota,” I said. “Not for Wisconsin, though, so no, I’m not armed.”
The sheriff glanced at McGaney as if he were seeking confirmation.
“I’ll bet real money he has a gun stashed in his car, probably the trunk, probably a Beretta. I believe that’s his weapon of choice.”
The sheriff was looking directly at me when he said, “As long as he keeps it in his trunk we ain’t got no problems.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
I headed for the door. McGaney called after me.
“Haukass said if we ran into each other I should tell you—the tow truck operator who boosted all those vehicles, he copped a plea. Your testimony won’t be required after all.”
With that, whatever leverage I had with the woman was gone.
“It’s always a pleasure, Martin,” I said.
“Best to the assistant chief next time you see her.”
* * *
Arona was one of those small towns that seemed to stretch forever. There was a McDonald’s at one end of the main street, a Subway at the other, and in between just about everything you’d expect to find in a small town, plus several healthcare centers, one linked to the Mayo Clinic. North of town was a factory that manufactured furniture, and south was a facility where they processed chicken. West along the river, bait shops, boat rentals, resorts, and campgrounds catered to tourists. Surrounding it all were family farms stretching to the horizon.
Yet what I noticed most were the heavy trucks. At least a half dozen rumbled past while I stood at a gas pump filling my Camry, a cloud of yellow dust following each like the contrails of a high-flying jet.
“You believe this shit?” the owner of the service station said. “Been like this for over a year now. They say there are over nine thousand truckloads of frack sand leaving the state every day. I believe it, man. Just sitting here, if you don’t see a truck driving past every ten minutes you think there’s something wrong with your watch.”
“Must get old in a hurry.”
“People used to walk the streets, you know? Used to stroll down Main Street. That was a thing. Nobody does that anymore. Not with these monster trucks flying by all the time.”
“You live here long?”
“My whole life.”
“Working a service station, you must know everyone.”
“Wouldn’t say I know ’em, but there ain’t but a couple of us pumping gas, so we pretty much see everybody at one time or another.”
“Did you ever see this girl?”
I showed him a pic of Emily on my cell phone. He took the phone and studied the screen for a moment before passing it back.
“No, can’t say I ever saw her before, and if I did, I’d think I’d remember. Not too many women hereabouts look as good as she does. What’s it all about?”
“A missing girl I was asked to find.”
“You one of them private eyes?”
“Something like that.”
Another truck filled with silica sand rumbled down the street as he spoke.
“If she lives around here, I can’t blame her for running away.”