It was cold Friday morning. Not heroic cold, not national news cold, not even local news cold, just plain middle of September in Minnesota winter’s coming cold, which is nothing to complain about, only something to get through. I powered up the windows on my Cherokee, closed the sun roof and actually flirted with the idea of activating the heater, but declined. In Minnesota, the longer you can go without heat, the more manly you are. Ask anyone.
The traffic was heavy as I caught I-35W south. Used to be “rush hour” was confined to seven to nine a.m. and four to six p.m., only that changed dramatically in just the past few years. A growing population and subsequent urban sprawl—and our ponderous mass transit system—have given the Twin Cities rush hour traffic around the clock. The worst of it probably can be found at the bottleneck known as the 35W-Crosstown Interchange, where a four-lane freeway suddenly narrows to three lanes and then splits off in three separate directions.
Traffic heading into it began to slow at 38th Street. By 48th it was stop and go.
As I drove I listened to Minnesota Public Radio. “In local news, the massive manhunt for suspected killer David C. Bruder and his infant son continues … Elsewhere, authorities believe that the shooting in the Uptown area of Minneapolis late Thursday afternoon that left one man dead, is indicative of the escalating gang violence in the city …” Unlike the newspapers, MPR didn’t mention my name and I made a silent vow to increase my contribution during its next membership drive. Yet when it segued into a liberal discussion about the appropriateness of making inmates in the county jail pay for their keep, I put Bonnie Tyler on my CD system and cranked the volume.
I drove east on Highway 62, leaving the bottleneck behind and increasing my speed to a brisk forty miles per hour—don’t you just adore freeway driving—until I caught the Portland Avenue exit. I went south, east, south, then east again, driving deep into the suburb of Richfield, until I reached the address Chopper had given me.
It was a three-story, white-brick apartment building set a respectful distance from the look-alike split-levels located on either side and across the street. I guessed six units to each floor, maybe another six in the basement. On the left side of the building was a parking lot filled with a half dozen older vehicles and two identical, brand-spanking-new black Chevy vans. Behind it there was an empty, unkempt field that extended a good hundred yards before butting up against a cyclone fence. There was a hole cut into the fence. A narrow path beaten into the ground ran the distance from the fence to the street.
The apartment building seemed to be in direct line with one of the runways at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport about a mile to the east. Planes flew so low over the neighborhood you could smell the fumes from their exhaust. They took off at thirty-second intervals. You could set your watch by them. The noise was so loud you felt it in
your teeth and I wondered what fool would build an apartment building there and what moron would live in it.
I parked down the street where I could watch the front and side of the building. There was a black man in the foyer leaning against a bank of mailboxes and watching out the glass door. A sentry. I took a pair of Bushnell 7 x 25 binoculars I keep in my glove compartment and gave him a hard look. He was cradling what seemed to be—“Geezus”—a Romanian AKM assault rifle. You could tell by the distinctive pistol grips, one behind the banana magazine and one forward. Where the hell did he get that? I asked myself. A moment later, he was joined by another brother who was also carrying an automatic rifle, this one an East German MPiKM. Warsaw Pact ordnance.
Chopper was right about the firepower. The Family Boyz were packed to the max, as the kids would say. I unholstered my last handgun, a Model 85 Beretta .380 with walnut grips and a single line eight-round magazine, and set it on the seat next to me. It didn’t make me feel any safer.
The brothers didn’t seem to have much to say to each other and a few minutes later the East German moved out of sight and the Romanian resumed his vigil. I turned on the AM/FM and tuned it to a classic rock and roll station. Joe Cocker was playing so I cranked it. He was followed by Bob Seger and I left the volume up. Next came a group called Tears for Fears. I turned the radio off. The noise was worse than the jet engines.
I watched the apartment building for another hour, only crime when it’s well run is boring and besides, the airplane noise was really starting to annoy me. “Why would anyone live in Richfield?” I asked myself as I fired up my Cherokee and headed home.
There were no messages on my voice mail so I got right to it, activating my PC and accessing my Internet provider. I have broadband so it didn’t take long.
Few government agencies in Minnesota post public records online. A notable exception is Hennepin County, which posts property information. I accessed its Web site. The home page offered several options. I clicked on Property Address (Quick Search). A new screen appeared, offering me a box in which I typed the Family Boyz’s Richfield address. Execute. The next screen provided me with the apartment building’s property identification number. Execute. I scrolled down the screen and discovered the building’s school, watershed, and sewer district numbers, construction year, tax parcel description, current market value, the date the building was last purchased and for how much, and an updated tax summary. I was also given the name of the building’s fee owner.
David C. Bruder.
My telephone rang.
“Yes?” I answered automatically, not taking my eyes from the computer screen.
“Are you deliberately trying to make this difficult?”
“Hi, Chief.”
“This kid you killed, Cleave Benjamn.”
“I had no choice.”
“I appreciate that, McKenzie, but it makes you a hard sell. The mayor and city council, they’re pretty open-minded folks—they hired a black police chief for a white community, didn’t they? Only a cop with three killings to his name? I don’t know.”
“Don’t put yourself out, Chief,” I told him, sadly accepting my fate. “I know how it works. A cop gets so much political capital to work with and no more. Don’t waste it on me. You might need it some day.”
“I didn’t say it couldn’t be done.”
“Even I wouldn’t hire me now.”
“Don’t say that. We’ll see what happens. By the time this gets to the
grand jury—Christ, two grand juries now—you might be hailed as a hero.”
“How could I not be?”
“Just do me a favor, will you? Stay home and play with your damn ducks.”
“I’ll try,” I told him and he hung up.
How did he know about the ducks?
Bobby Dunston sat on a bench in Rice Park in downtown St. Paul, eating the chili dog I bought for him from the vendor who worked the corner of 5th and Market. Unlike Yu, I didn’t know him by name.
“What’s so damned important?” Bobby wanted to know.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“I’m really not in the mood, McKenzie.”
I told him what I had discovered. He stopped chewing and slowly dabbed the corners of his lips with a napkin—Bobby could be so dainty.
“Landlord to the Boyz,” he said at last.
“How ’bout that?”
“I don’t suppose you saw anyone matching Bruder’s description in or around the premises in question?”
“I’d be happy to say I did if it’ll help you get a warrant, but you won’t need my statement for that. Just surveil the joint for about ten minutes and you’ll see enough to satisfy any judge. It’s a stash pad if I’ve ever seen one and I’ve seen plenty.”
“What do the Family Boyz have to do with this?” he asked himself. He seemed surprised when I answered.
“I find Jamie. Jamie’s husband’s hooked up with the Family Boyz. The Family Boyz try to kill me—twice. Obvious progression.”
“So obvious I can’t see it. Why would Bruder send the Boyz after you?”
“Because I found Jamie,” I repeated.
“So?”
“I don’t know.” I was just throwing spaghetti at the wall now, seeing if anything stuck.
“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. There’s no doubt that Katherine and Jamie were killed by the same man. I don’t have a formal protocol yet, but more and more it looks like Bruder.”
“Not Bradley Young?”
“Young was right-handed. The killer was a southpaw. Also, the ME vacuumed the bodies of both victims and found head and pubic hairs. He put ’em through a full SEM analysis. Thickness and length suggest a male, but not Bradley. Something else. There was no trace of semen inside or outside the body of either victim, but we did recover the remains of a cigarette at both scenes, what he used to burn them with. Saliva on the filters indicate a group A secretor. Bradley Young was not group A. Nor were the victims. But I checked with David Bruder’s doctor. Guess what?”
“He’s group A.”
“Move the man to the front row. When Bruder is found, the ME said he’ll go for a genetic fingerprint. He said that like it’s the most fun a forensic pathologist can have.”
“Huh.”
“Is that all you have to say? Huh?”
“Can you connect him to Katherine?”
“Yep. Turns out they were both members of the same club, the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club.”
“Interesting.”
“Oh, it gets better. We’ve interviewed Bruder’s secretary, his employees, his friends, we checked his appointment calendar and his credit card receipts. It looks like our boy’s been having an extramarital affair for at least the past six weeks.”
“With who?”
“We don’t know, but Jeannie …”
“Your young, beautiful, and smart as hell partner that you haven’t introduced me to yet.”
“Is flashing Katherine’s photograph in the restaurants and hotels listed in Bruder’s credit card records to see if we can find a witness who saw the two of them together.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Everything has to be perfect with you, McKenzie. Yeah, we lifted latents in Katherine’s bedroom that match latents lifted in Jamie’s. We don’t know yet if they’re Bruder’s. That’s something else we’ll find out when we take him. The point is, there’s plenty of probable cause to arrest Bruder, but I don’t see where Young and the Family Boyz enter into it.”
“Maybe they’re hiding him.”
“Maybe they are. But why try to kill you?”
“Because I found Jamie.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s all I have.”
Bobby finished his chili dog.
I finished mine.
“Did you get a line on Bruder’s business associate?” I asked. “The one who was stopping for drinks the day Jamie was killed?”
“Napoleon Cook. He owns Bloomington Alarms out on the strip. He’s also a member of the Entrepreneur’s Club. He said he spent a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes at Bruder’s house, just enough time for a drink and to discuss The Entrepreneur’s Club Ball. He said everyone was healthy and happy when he left and we have no reason to doubt him.”
“The Entrepreneur’s Club Ball?”
“Each year the club throws a formal ball over at the Minnesota Club, invites a slew of young entrepreneurs like themselves. Getting an invitation is supposed to be quite an achievement. I’m surprised a rich fella like yourself hasn’t been invited.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Wonder what?”
“When Chief Casey described the Family Boyz to me, he called the gang a ‘covert entrepreneurial organization.’”
“McKenzie, a lot of these rich guys own property they’ve never even seen. They hire agents to take care of it for them. Bruder probably doesn’t even know who his tenants are.”
“He’s landlord to the Boyz. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Ahh, hell.”
Bobby slapped his napkin and chili dog wrapper into my hand and marched briskly from the park more or less in the direction of the police building a half mile away. He didn’t look back.
Napoleon Cook danced in front of his audience like one of those crazed infomercial hosts you see on TV, except his stage was a large meeting room in the Creekside Community Center on Penn Avenue and West 98th Street about a mile north of the City of Bloomington government offices. I had been directed there by a sign attached to the door of his business: BECAUSE OF INCREASED DEMAND, BLOOMINGTON ALARMS FREE SECURITY SEMINAR HAS BEEN RELOCATED …
Cook was all smiles and positive energy—I could feel it even where I sat way in the back of the room. From his unrelenting upbeat delivery, you’d think he was selling a food processor or a set of Ginsu steak knives instead of alarm systems designed to keep you or your loved ones from being raped and murdered in bed. “It’s something I wish there was no market for,” he claimed. “But today we need the Bloomington Alarm’s comprehensive emergency-alert system more than ever.” Not once did he refer to Katherine Katzmark or Jamie Carlson Bruder by name, yet from the way his audience nodded its collective heads, I
guessed the murders were foremost in their minds. Probably the reason for the “increased demand” from customers, I concluded.
Nor did Cook linger over the cost of his toys, which started at $799—a small price to pay for peace of mind in a dangerous world, Cook insisted. Given the quality of his products, I figured his customers would be better off keeping geese, only no one asked for my expert opinion and I didn’t offer it.
As advertised, the seminar was free. However, the audience was encouraged to sign up afterward with Cook’s “lovely assistant Meredith” for a fifty-dollar home security assessment and at least half of the people who crowded into the room queued up in front of her. While they waited in line Cook kept selling. He shook hands, listened patiently to tales of property theft and other outrages, and offered advice, which nearly always consisted of arranging an appointment with one of his highly qualified security agents.
I sat in the back and waited. Cook noticed me and several times glanced my way. When the last customer left he moved quickly to my side, extended his hand. “Napoleon Cook. Can I be of assistance?” He probably thought I was a big fish in a pond of guppies, the manager of a large apartment complex, perhaps.
I shook his hand and said, “McKenzie.”
Cook’s body stiffened and the pupils of his eyes grew wide at the sound of my name. He knew who I was and the knowledge frightened him. Lovely assistant Meredith came up from behind. “Is there anything else, Napoleon?”
She had to ask twice before Cook answered, “No, Meredith, thanks.”
“Okay, see ya Monday,” she replied in a pleasant sing-song voice.
I watched her go through the doors of the meeting room. “Pretty,” I said.
“Huh? Yeah. Sure, she is.” I had been holding Cook’s hand all that
time and he pulled it away. “Very pretty.” And winked. “Very athletic, too, if you know what I mean.”
He smiled mightily, selling me like he did the rest of the crowd.
“Oh, does she play tennis?”
“Tennis?” Cook started to laugh. He patted my shoulder. “Tennis?” he said. “Yeah, you should see her serve.”
We were pals now, talking dirty in the locker room.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Jamie Bruder,” I told him.
“Unbelievable, isn’t it? Such a lovely woman. Terribly tragic.”
“Good for business, though.”
“Sad, but true. I thought I would take some of my profits and start up a memorial in her name, something like that. Such a lovely woman.”
“You were there the evening she was killed.” I made it sound like an accusation.
The smile froze on his face and he brushed a hand through his hair. It was hard hair, not a strand moved out of place. “No.”
“No?”
“I was invited for drinks, but I stayed for only a few minutes.”
I stared at him without blinking, waiting for him to blink, which he did several times before looking away altogether.
“You’re not with the police,” he reminded himself more than me.
“I’m doing a favor for the family.”
“Family?” The word seemed to frighten him more than my name did.
“Jamie’s family,” I clarified. “Were you thinking I meant the Family Boyz?”
Cook lost his smile completely. He began flexing the fingers of his hands without purpose. “Family Boyz? What are you talking about?”
I was on to something and kept pressing. “I’m talking about conspiracy, murder, drugs, guns …” On the word “guns” Cook’s eyelids began to flicker.
“I have nothing to do with any of that,” he insisted.
“Aren’t you and Bruder and the Boyz all members of the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club—same as Katherine Katzmark?”
“Katherine,” he whispered, like it was the first time he had heard the name. Cook moved quickly away from me. I thought he was going to make a break for it, but he stopped at the door and spun to face me.
“I’m very upset about Katherine and Jamie.” My take was that he was telling the truth. “But I can’t help you. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Of course, you did. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cook.” I extended my empty hand. He shook it vigorously like he was relieved about something.
Quickly, I slapped my left hand over the back of his right, making sure my thumb was over his wrist and my fingers underneath. I stepped in with my left foot and brought his hand up in a counterclockwise motion over his head. I pivoted my body in a complete circle, locking his shoulder. I let go with my left hand, clutched his elbow at the point and pulled up hard, arching his back. And that, boys and girls, is how you execute a shoulder-lock come-along.
“Stop it, that hurts,” Cook bellowed.
“No doubt about it,” I said, giving the hold a little extra pressure. I walked him face first into the wall. I bounced him a few more times before releasing him and pushing him away. I pointed an accusing finger at him.
“You and the Family Boyz killed Jamie and tried to kill me,” I hissed through my teeth. “I’m going to get you for it.”
Cook shouldn’t have even known who I was, yet he was afraid of me. I had decided to use that, accuse him, muss him up some, then sit back and watch what he did. If he was completely honest and totally innocent, he’d scream bloody murder, maybe even call the cops. If he wasn’t, his outrage would be overshadowed by fear—a fear he might
want to share with whoever else was involved. When he did, I would be there.
Napoleon Cook rubbed his wrist vigorously. “You’re making a big mistake,” he told me as I went through the door.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
I left the parking lot but didn’t go far, idling on Penn Avenue where I could get a clear view of the front door to the community center with my binoculars. Cook didn’t come out right away and I speculated that he was making a phone call. Despite the cool air, the sun beat hard through my windows and I began to feel sweat on my back.
At about six-thirty-five, Napoleon Cook left the building and walked to his own car, a black Porsche. The vanity license plate read IMCUKN. It took me a while to figure it out. I’m Cookin’? He paid an extra hundred bucks for that? Still, I admired the vehicle. I followed it onto I-494, staying eight lengths back and to his right as we went east toward St. Paul at ten miles above the speed limit. We followed I-494 until it became West 7th Street, continued east to Lexington, went north, turned east on Summit, then north again on Dale Street, stopping for a light at Selby Avenue, not far from a restaurant where August Wilson wrote some of his plays and a bar where Scott and Zelda used to party. We hung a right. Too many turns, I told myself. Cook should have made me long ago, but apparently he wasn’t paying attention.
Cook drove Selby until he reached the parking lot adjacent to Rickie’s, a jazz club that was developing a nice reputation for displaying gifted performers on their way up—Diana Krall had played there early in her career, but I had missed it. Minneapolis may have had the best rock, but by far St. Paul had the best jazz in the Twin Cities—Artists’ Quarter, Brilliant Corners, Blues Saloon, a new joint called Fhima’s. I had frequented them all, yet I had neglected Rickie’s because the name
reminded me of Rick’s Café Americain in the movie Casablanca. I’m not a big fan of retro.
I gave Cook a two-minute head start and followed him inside. Rickie’s was lightly populated—I had caught the seam between the one-drink-before-I-go-home and the let’s-get-dressed-and-go-out-tonight crowds. When I didn’t see him downstairs, I went upstairs. A dozen steps past the door, a spiral staircase with red carpet and a shiny brass railing led to a comfortable second-floor dining and performance area. I peeked just above the landing. An elevated stage was set against the far wall, a baby grand and several microphone stands sitting unattended in the center. A couple dozen small, round tables were arranged immediately in front of the stage and a second ring of larger square tables covered with white linen and set for dinner were strategically placed beyond them. About a dozen booths and another bar lined the remaining three walls. Cook was leaning into a booth in the corner, bussing the cheek of a woman with raven hair. Even from a distance the woman looked expensive. I retreated downstairs.
To my delight, the decor was about as far away from Casablanca as it could get. In fact, the first floor of Rickie’s reminded me of a coffee house. A large number of comfortable sofas and stuffed chairs were mixed among the tables and booths. A small stage big enough for one or two performers was erected near a fireplace. There was even a large espresso machine behind the bar. The sound system played Hoagy Carmichael and Cole Porter. There wasn’t a TV in sight.
I made a quick pit stop at the men’s room—I didn’t know when I would have another opportunity. Afterward, I found a spot at the far end of the bar where I could watch the staircase and front door without seeming conspicuous. The bartender was busy serving a woman who ordered a champagne cocktail in a pleasant, somewhat aristocratic voice. The bartender refused to serve her. “Do you have an ID?”
“What?”
“An ID? A driver’s license?”
“Are you kidding?” asked the woman. “I’m over twenty-one.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. C’mon, let’s see it.”
The woman tried to act indignant but couldn’t quite pull it off. She unfolded her wallet and flashed her license at the bartender. He studied the photograph on the license, glanced at the woman, went back to the photograph and said, “Yeah, right. Tell your big sister I said, ‘Hi.’” He made the drink and served the woman. The woman left a bill on the bar and drifted to the table where her friends sat. “You’re not going to believe this,” she told them, a happy grin on her face. The bartender pocketed the bill and came over to me. I ordered a Grain Belt and club sandwich.
“Hey,” I said as the bartender moved away.
“Something else?”
“How much did the woman give you?”
“A ten.”
“How much was the drink?”
“Four-fifty.”
“Nice.”
The sandwich was served by a handsome woman with the most startling silver-blue eyes I had ever seen, made even more luminous by the short jet black hair that framed them. She reminded me of the actress Meg Foster. You know who I mean. She did The Scarlet Letter on PBS a while back as well as The Osterman Weekend and Leviathan, been on TV a hundred times.
Just in case Cook started to move, I told the server I wanted to pay my tab right away. She seemed to read my mind.
“Whatever you say, shamus.”
“Shamus?”
“Isn’t that what they call private eyes these days?”
I didn’t think they ever called detectives that except in the movies. “What makes you think I’m a detective?”
“I saw you come in, saw you follow a man upstairs, saw you watch him over the railing while trying not to be seen yourself, and now you’re sitting here, a little mouse in the corner, paying up front in case you need to make a quick getaway.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes, I am,” she told me, her silver eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Why not a cop?”
She pointed at the Grain Belt.
“Cops don’t drink on the job—well, most of them don’t.”
“Amazing,” I repeated.
“Besides, I figured someone like you would be along sooner or later.”
“Someone like me?”
“The woman that met the man you’re following? She’s married. Wears a ring the size of a grade AA jumbo egg. Yet she comes in once, twice, sometimes three times a week, sits alone in the same booth and waits for a man to meet her. Rarely the same man twice. None of them her husband.”
I didn’t ask her if she was sure. Why insult the woman? Instead, I asked, “What’s her name?”
“She doesn’t pay, the man always pays, so I’ve never seen her name on a check or credit card. But she reserves the table under the name Hester, just Hester, no last name. I figure it’s a private joke.”
“Why?”
“Hester Prynne.”
I shook my head.
“The adulteress in The Scarlet Letter.”
“Oh, okay, sure. Say, has anyone ever told you that you have eyes just like Meg Foster?”
“Who’s she?”
“A pretty good actress.”
The woman shook her head.
“Never mind.”
“So, are you working for the woman’s husband or what?”
“I’m following the man. I don’t know anything about the woman.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Following the man.”
“It’s a complicated story.”
She leaned an elbow on the bar. “That’s what bartenders are for, to listen to complicated stories.”
“Who are you?”
“I own the place.”
“You’re Rickie?”
“Nina. Nina Truhler.” She offered to shake hands, her grip was firm. “Rickie’s my daughter, also known as Erica.”
“McKenzie.” I didn’t tell her I wasn’t a private investigator. Why ruin the illusion?
“Pleasure.”
“Where’s the namesake?”
Nina looked at her watch and said, “Erica should just be getting home from dance class now. She’ll read my note telling her to eat a decent meal, ignore it, grab some Lucky Charms and eat them dry from the box like peanuts while she decides if she’ll go cruising with her friends tonight or simply curl up with a good book. I’d say it was fifty-fifty.”
“No gentlemen callers?”
“She’s fourteen. Boys bore her.”
“Boys bored me when I was fourteen, too.”
“Are you gay?”
“No,” I said way too loud. “I was just making a joke.”
“Oh, funny.” She rolled her eyes and moved down the bar.
I liked her. I liked everything about her. I liked the way her movements were smooth and effortless when she served her other customers—a dancer who knows all the steps. I liked her clear, unaffected voice and the way she spoke as if she was in the habit of speaking up for herself. I liked it that her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and generous mouth required little makeup. I liked her outfit—a brandy colored turtleneck sweater under a matching long-sleeve cardigan, the sleeves pushed up, and a pleated, charcoal gray skirt. I even liked it that she was ten pounds over what the New York fashion designers decreed was her ideal weight—a woman who cared about her appearance but who wasn’t going to starve herself over it.
“Okay, good, not gay,” she said when she returned. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
I was beginning to think Bobby was on to something. Maybe I was a catch.
“How about you?” I asked.
“Divorced.”
“Happily?”
Nina chuckled. “Very.”
“Rickie your only offspring?”
“Yes, thankfully.”
“Thankfully?”
“Believe me, Erica is enough to keep both hands full.”
“And all this,” I said, gesturing at the club.
“The business is starting to run itself, now. I could probably even sneak away on a Saturday night and not be missed.”
“Is that a proposition?”
Nina blushed, something rarely seen in a mature woman. I found it entrancing. She glanced away, looked back.
“Try me.”
I think maybe we should start seeing other people. It seemed to me I heard someone say that not too long ago.
“Ms. Truhler, I would be delighted if …”
“Call me Nina.”
“Nina, I would be … Damn!”
Napoleon Cook was coming down the staircase.
I pretended I was a photograph on the wall. Nina did an interesting thing. She positioned her body to conceal me from Cook as Cook swept the room with his eyes. How could I not like her?
When Cook reached the bottom step, he shot an impatient glance upward. Hester had halted halfway down the staircase and leaned against the shiny brass railing, posing like a model in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, looking just as alluring, just as inviting as any of the women you’ll find there. Cook watched her. I watched her. Nina watched her. The bartender watched her. So did everyone else. Now I know what is meant when they say, “A hush fell …”
Hester’s hair was long and black, blacker than Nina’s if that was possible. Her eyes were the color of flawless jade. She wore an oriental-style jacket, carefully fitted at the waist, with a floral tapestry on a hunter green background, a high mandarin collar, antique gold buttons, and slightly raised shoulder pads. Below the jacket was a very short, very tight black skirt—it could have been painted on—and black hose and heels. The ensemble didn’t look like something you ordered from Spiegel.
Hester glided—I’m not exaggerating—to the bottom of the staircase. Cook said something to her. She grinned at him. Cook moved to
the door. I swear she winked at the room before following him out. I waited a few beats and followed, too. I covered half the distance before turning back. Impulsively, I told Nina, “I’ll call you when I can.”
“Please do.”
The way she said that made me blush.
Cook and Hester went to Cook’s Porsche. I headed for the Jeep Cherokee. Cook didn’t notice me two rows back. I guessed he had something else on his mind. He started the Porsche, went west out of the parking lot. I gave him a reasonable head start.
I began to think about the woman. I placed her in the midtwenties, five feet eight or nine inches tall, one hundred twenty pounds, with the kind of face and figure usually featured on the cover of women’s magazines found at supermarket checkout lines. The way she had moved—if Merci Cole could move like that she’d be rich.
The Porsche went north on Dale to I-94, followed the freeway west two miles, took the Snelling Avenue exit and headed north again. I followed, punching it through the yellow on University Avenue to keep up. We went north past Hamline University, past Midway Stadium where the St. Paul Saints play, past the state fairgrounds, to a low-slung motel with green neon flashing the name PARADISE between two pink flamingos. The Paradise was what they used to call a “motor lodge,” with a dozen or more rooms each facing an asphalt parking lot. A man in shirtsleeves was busy hosing down the driveway. He waved as the Porsche passed him and parked at the far side of the lot in front of the last room. I hid my face as I drove past, stopping down the street.
Cook left the car and walked toward the office—walked like he was trying hard not to run. Hester waited in the Porsche. Shirtsleeves decided he had given the asphalt enough water, shut off the hose, pulled it to the side and, wiping his hands on his trousers, followed Cook into the office. A few minutes later, Cook worked the lock of the room
directly in front of the Porsche. Hester stayed in the car until the door was opened. The light did not go on until both were safely inside. It stayed on for only a few moments.
I glanced at my watch. Seven-thirty-three.
I flipped a U and parked the SUV in the street next to the motel parking lot. I turned on the radio and worked the tuner until I found WCCO-AM, joining the game in progress. The Rangers were shredding the Minnesota Twins’ pitching staff, knocking out a long reliever I hadn’t even heard of with three singles, a double, and back-to-back dingers justlikethat. The Twins were forced to bring in a third pitcher and it was only the bottom of the second. Damn. It looked like the eight-game winning streak was about to end. Still, the team had a sixteen-game lead over the Chicago White Sox in the American League Central and were cruising into the playoffs. It was just like the glory days of Puckett, Hrbek, Gagne, Gladden, Bush, Newman, and Larkin—the seven players who were on both the 1987 and ’91 World Series championship teams. I found myself humming the Twins’ fight song.
In the top of the fourth the door to Cook’s room swung open. He and Hester stepped out, looking no worse for wear. They wasted little time climbing into the Porsche. I glanced at my watch. Eight-oh-two? You’re kidding me? They had been in the room only twenty-nine minutes? I guess passion does burn fast.
The Porsche went south on Snelling. So did I. They made me almost immediately. Cook sped up and slowed down and sped up again. He watched his mirror. Hester turned around to look at me twice. At University Avenue they hung a left, Cook accelerating through the turn. I went straight, hoping he and Hester now felt silly over their unfounded suspicions. I caught I-94 again, exited at Dale and about a mile later parked on the street across from Rickie’s parking lot. I didn’t have to
wait long. The Porsche, coming from the opposite direction, soon pulled into the lot and sat idling, its headlights on.
Hester’s door opened. By the interior light I could see her smile seductively at Cook as she slid her fingers across his cheek. She leaned toward him like she was going to kiss him, but didn’t, laughing in his face instead and swinging her legs up and out of the Porsche. She yanked down the hem of her short skirt, then extended her hands high above and behind her head, stretching like she had just awakened from an afternoon nap. The silhouette she created was inviting indeed. In fact, I found the entire performance quite exciting. I especially liked the part where she closed the car door with a bump of her hip—I gave it two thumbs up. Cook apparently disagreed, burning a couple of inches of rubber as he drove off, leaving Hester standing alone in the parking lot. He didn’t even bother to wait until she had unlocked the door to her silver Audi and was safely inside. Miss Manners would have been appalled.
I stayed with Cook. He must have assumed I was a figment of his guilty imagination because he was paying no attention now to what was behind him. He went north on Dale again and west on I-94, crossing the Mississippi River and driving toward downtown Minneapolis. He caught the Fifth Street exit, but stopped midway on the ramp, swinging off into an “accident reduction area,” a kind of wayside rest where accident victims can threaten each other with lawyers without blocking freeway traffic. I was forced to drive past him. Fortunately, there was a meter at the bottom of the ramp and I parked there. My first thought was that Cook had made me again. After a few minutes I realized he was waiting for someone. Perhaps that was why he had been in such a hurry at the motel—he was late for an appointment.
At exactly eight-thirty a black Chevy van pulled up next to Cook’s Porsche. It was identical to the pair parked next to the apartment building the Family Boyz were renting from David Bruder.
What was it Bobby told me? You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. Right.
Neither driver got out. The vehicles stayed side by side for about five minutes and then the van departed, driving the rest of the way down the ramp. I ducked when the van sped past me. I was tempted to follow it. Instead, I stayed with Cook. He fired up the Porsche and followed 5th Street around the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. After a succession of rights and lefts, he pulled into the underground garage of a thirty-floor tower of apartments and condos overlooking the Mississippi River. I parked on the street and made my way into the well-lit foyer. According to the directory, Cook had a place on the twenty-seventh floor.
I thought of returning to Rickie’s, but decided against it. I’d had enough excitement for the day.