Wondering what Napoleon Cook and the Family Boyz had to discuss kept me up much of the night. However, the next morning the answer seemed clear. They were talking about me. I came to this conclusion because the black van Cook had met was now outside my house, parked across the street and one block down with an unobstructed view of my front door. I noticed it when I bopped outside to get my newspapers.
Bradley Young, Merci Cole, and now this. Why do so many people know where I live? Foolish question. In the computer age, nothing is private.
I was so pumped with adrenaline I could have beaten Carl Lewis in the sprint of his choice, yet I forced myself to stroll—stroll, dammit!—back into my house. Once inside, I locked the door. Like that was going to keep me safe. Like the ordnance the Boyz packed couldn’t reduce my place to a box of toothpicks.
“Okay, okay. Relax. They came at you before and things worked
out. So, relax, wouldja! Besides, they had plenty of chances to kill you already and they haven’t. Which means they have something else in mind. What would that be? How the hell should I know? I don’t even know why they wanted to kill me in the first place. Okay, relax. Think. You could ask them what they want. Sure. Just walk up and say, ‘Hi, guys.’ Where do you get these ideas, anyway? HBO? Think. What do they want? They want to watch me, follow me, find out where I go and who I talk to. Why? How the hell should I know why? Think …”
It’s a bad sign when you start talking out loud to yourself.
While I was talking, I went upstairs and took the Beretta from the table next to my bed. Gun in hand, I went through every room in my sparsely furnished house—including rooms I hadn’t entered in months—peeking through window blinds and around curtains, my CD player off so I could listen for any unusual noises. There were plenty of them in that old house. I found myself jumping at every creak. I really should renovate. Maybe put in bulletproof glass and armor plate.
“This is ridiculous,” I told myself as I descended the staircase for the third time. “Show a little backbone, geez.”
It’s easier to be calm when you have a plan, so I sat on my soft leather sofa and made one up. After a few deep breathing exercises—I think I might have cleansed my karma, too—I picked up the phone and punched 911.
“I need the police. Yes, it’s an emergency. There’s a van parked outside my house. A black van. And there’s a, a, a Negro sitting in it. Maybe a whole bunch of, of Negroes. They’ve been there for hours. Maybe all night. No, I don’t know who they are. I think they’re criminals, why else would Negroes be in a white neighborhood. I want protection. That’s what we’re paying you people for.” I gave the operator the street location but not the address. “My name? I don’t want to get involved.”
I hung up the phone, watched and waited. I felt kind of crummy about the Negro BS and declared to the ceiling that I wasn’t a racist, I
only play one on the telephone. It didn’t help, but you have to admit, these days anything with racial connotations gets immediate action. Four minutes, count ’em, four minutes after I called, two squad cars painted navy blue and gray bracketed the van like parentheses, one front, one back.
I strolled—strolled, mind you—to my garage, started up the Jeep Cherokee and drove away, using a remote control to close the garage door behind me. The cops had two black men, one sporting a mustache, leaning on the hood of the van when I shot past, picking up speed, although I had nowhere important to go.
“Napoleon Cook is dead,” Bobby Dunston said.
“Someone killed him Friday night,” Clayton Rask added.
“Whoever it was threw him off the balcony of his apartment in downtown Minneapolis,” Bobby continued.
“Twenty-seven floors,” said Rask.
“Straight down,” Bobby added.
They were beginning to sound like a vaudeville team.
“Perhaps he jumped,” I offered.
“If he did, he cut off his genitals first and stuffed them in his mouth.”
“Ouch.”
So that’s why two homicide cops were standing in my living room on a Saturday evening. Uninvited. When their knock first sounded on my front door I jumped three feet, instantly flashing on the black van. I had searched carefully when I arrived home—trust me on this—only it was not to be found, neither the van nor any other out-of-place vehicles. Beretta in hand, I carefully made my way to the door. Some might have accused me of being paranoid.
“Can I offer you anything?” I asked them. “Coffee? A beer?”
They shook their heads. Rask glanced around the living room. It
contained only two chairs and Bobby slumped into one of them. I had eight rooms excluding bathrooms, but only four were furnished—my bedroom, the room my father slept in, my kitchen and the “family room,” which contained my large-screen TV and about a hundred video tapes and DVDs, my CD player with over six hundred discs, and my PC. Months earlier Shelby had toured the place. “Congratulations, Mac,” she had told me then. “You’ve taken a three-hundred-thousand-dollar house and turned it into an efficiency apartment.”
“How ’bout a sno-cone?” I asked.
“Sno-cone?” said Bobby.
“Nobody wants a damn sno-cone,” Rask barked. He would have said more but he was distracted by the music on my speakers—I had at least two in every room.
“What is that?”
“The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos.”
“It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Who asked you?”
“Have you done something that’s tugging on your conscience, McKenzie? Is that why you’re listening to this crap?”
“Do you think I killed Cook?” I asked.
“If I could prove it, you’d be in cuffs.”
“Then why are you here?”
“You followed Cook to Rickie’s last night,” Bobby reminded me. “You followed him when he left.”
Nina, I told myself. And after all we’ve meant to each other.
“We have video taken by a security camera of you checking Cook’s address in the foyer of his building,” Rask added. “Nice, crisp images.”
“Doesn’t mean I did it.”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t,” Rask replied.
Bobby said, “You’ve been known to manufacture a little justice of your own from time to time, Mac.”
“Not like that.”
“So you say,” Rask told me.
“Screw you.”
“Now, Mac …”
“You too, Bobby. You guys come into my house accusing me of murder—I offered you sno-cones!”
Rask took a small, thin plastic bag from his suit pocket. Inside the bag was a business card. My business card. With my cell number written on back. He waved it under my nose and my first thought was that he shouldn’t be handling evidence that way—the bag should have been logged in at the cop shop.
“Talk to me, McKenzie. Talk fast.”
I told when and where I met Cook and I told him what he spoke about. I omitted the part about slamming his face into the wall.
“You followed him,” Bobby said sharply. “Why?”
“To see where he went and who he talked to, why’d you think?”
“Why would he go anywhere or talk to anyone that would interest you?”
I didn’t answer.
Rask crossed his arms and shook his head like he was disappointed in me. “Keep talking.”
“I can’t believe you guys are accusing me of murder.”
“No one’s accusing you,” Bobby assured me.
“Keep talking,” said Rask.
“The last time I saw Cook was around nine last night when he drove his car into the underground garage of his apartment building. Just before that, at exactly eight-thirty, he met with some people in a black van. It was the same van I saw parked outside David Bruder’s apartment building in Richfield. The one he’s renting to the Family Boyz.”
“Who are the Family Boyz?” Rask asked.
“Not that again,” said Bobby.
I told Rask everything I knew about the Boyz, then I spun around to face Bobby.
“Did you get a search warrant like I suggested?”
“Tommy Thompson killed the request.”
“Well, gee whiz!”
“Any other startling news you’d care to impart at this time?” Rask asked, sounding like a wise guy.
“Yeah. I never gave Cook my business card.” I pointed at the plastic bag he still held in his hand. “That’s the card I gave Jamie Bruder.”
There were many more questions. Most centered around the relationship between the Family Boyz, Bruder, and Cook, and their possible involvement in Jamie Carlson’s death. They were questions without answers. Rask wasn’t satisfied until I announced, “You now know everything I know.”
“Isn’t that a pity. We’ll be speaking, again.” He went for the door, reached it, spun toward me. “McKenzie, your fingerprints are on dead bodies all over the Twin Cities.” It was a statement of fact, yet sounded like a threat just the same.
After Rask left, Bobby relaxed his head against the back cushion of the soft leather chair and closed his eyes the way people do when they’re trying hard not to fall asleep. He looked tired and I told him so.
“I am tired.”
“Tired people make mistakes.”
He didn’t reply.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and said, “I don’t think you killed Cook, just in case you’re wondering. When I learned he was dead I called Rask and told him Cook might be connected to my case and one thing led to another.”
“How did you know I followed Cook to Rickie’s Friday night?”
“The owner told us.”
“How did you know to ask?”
“Jeannie went there to check on Bruder—oh, you’ll love this. I said before that Bruder seemed to be having an affair. He was. With his wife.”
“Jamie?”
“They would meet at hotels and out-of-the-way restaurants. Meet like lovers instead of married people. Sometimes couples that have just had children do stuff like that. It’s kinda romantic when you think about it.”
“Did you and Shelby ever do anything like that?”
“No.”
“Romantic love. Doesn’t exactly fit the profile of a serial killer, does it?”
“Maybe, maybe not. His absolute last credit card purchase was for dinner at Rickie’s on the evening Jamie was killed. He dined with a woman who was obviously not his wife.”
“Who?”
“The woman Nina Truhler calls Hester Prynne.”
“The same woman who met Napoleon Cook.”
“We’re going to have to find her.”
“Does the ME have a firm time of death?”
“Between eight and midnight. We know Bruder was at Rickie’s at seven forty-five. That’s the time that was recorded on his receipt. But we don’t know where he went after that. That’s why we would need to find the woman.”
“So, it’s possible that Bruder not only killed Jamie, he cheated on her, too.”
“We don’t know for sure that he was cheating.”
“I’ve seen the woman. He was cheating.”
“If you say so.”
Bobby closed his eyes again. While his eyes were closed, he said, “I wish you hadn’t given your keys to Shelby.”
“To my lake home? Why wouldn’t I?”
He didn’t reply.
“Bobby?”
He still didn’t answer and in a flash it all seemed perfectly clear to me.
“You sonuvabitch.”
That got him to open his eyes.
“You weren’t going to take Shelby up north. You were going to take someone else. Who?”
“Mac …”
“Your young, beautiful, and smart as hell partner? Dammit, Bobby. You were going to cheat on your wife—on Shelby—at my lake home.”
“You’re obsessed with cheating, you know that? You have cheating on the brain.”
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“It’s not true.”
“Don’t lie to me, you sonuvabitch.”
“McKenzie, you don’t know anything about it.”
“Go ’head. Enlighten me.”
“I’ve been married for twelve years. Twelve years with the same woman, while you were always with somebody different.”
“Somebody, but never someone.”
“Oh, please. Make me feel sorry for you. Poor little rich boy. You don’t have a clue, McKenzie. You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know this. You’re going to ruin your life because you’re bored. Why don’t you do what Bruder did if you want adventure. Meet Shelby in hotels and out of the way restaurants. Have sex on the fifth hole of the Como Park golf course like you did with what’s-her-name when we were kids.”
“That wasn’t me,” Bobby shouted. “That was you! It was always you. You talk about adventures, but they’re your adventures.”
“And now you want to know what you’re missing.”
“Something like that.”
“Give me back my keys.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re going to do what you want to do and I’m not going to stop you or dime you out to Shelby, either. Only I’m not going to help. So, give me my keys back.”
“Fine,” he said, but I noticed he didn’t reach into his pocket.
“I’ll tell you something else. When this goes bad, and it will, and I have to choose between friends, I’m going with Shelby and the girls.”
“Oh, I’ve never doubted that. Not for a second.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“C’mon, McKenzie. You’ve been in love with Shelby since the day you met her. Do you think I don’t know that?”
“So, I’m in love with Shelby. You have a problem with that?”
“You’re damn right I have a problem with that. She’s my wife!”
“That’s right. She’s your wife. She chose you. She could have had me. She chose you. She married you. She had your children. She keeps your house. She loves you. Not me. She wouldn’t go near me to save her life. Or any other man. It’s you. It’s always been you. And now you’re going to cheat on her if you haven’t already.”
“I haven’t and I never said I was going to.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“There’s thinking and there’s doing.”
“Well, don’t do it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.”
“Happy now, McKenzie?”
“You want a sno-cone?”
“You really have a sno-cone machine?”
“Sure.”
“Where did you get a sno-cone machine?”
“Remember Tommy Baumgartner from high school?”
“Kid who broke his collarbone playing basketball?”
“He owns a bunch of sno-cone concessions at the Minnesota State Fair now. He helped me get one.”
And so we had sno-cones. The machine was probably too big—it was designed for amusement parks and will shave over five hundred pounds of ice in an hour, but I liked its antique charm. Bobby watched intently as I loaded the machine with about two and a half pounds of ice cubes and shaved enough of it for two large cones. I flavored mine with cherry syrup. He took grape.
“This is pretty good,” he told me. “But about that music …”
I replaced the monks with The Very Best of Aretha Franklin, Vol. 1.
Bobby liked the first sno-cone so much he had a second. While he was eating it he said, “You’re the best friend I’ll ever have.”
“You don’t get out much at all, do you?” I told him, keeping it light.
“Where in hell is Bruder?”
The Sunday newspapers speculated that Good Deal Dave was no longer in the state. I know I wouldn’t be. ’Course, there are plenty of places in the Twin Cities where a man could hide. Places that deal in cash only, where they don’t want to know who you are or see a credit card or a personal check or any form of ID, where they don’t want to know what kind of car you drive or what your license plate number is. The question was, how would a yuppie from Highland Park know where to find those places?
And another question.
“How did Cook get my business card?”
“It’s a mystery to me,” Bobby said.
When he left a short time later, we shook hands.