“Two dead, three wounded,” Clayton Rask said sadly.
I winced at his accounting of the casualties.
“Did you hear that? Did you hear that, McKenzie? Because of you, McKenzie. Two dead, three wounded because of you!”
Thomas Thompson stalked the Homicide Unit’s conference room inside the Pink Palace. There were five others in the room—Bobby Dunston, Rask, an assistant Hennepin County attorney, an Assistant Ramsey County Attorney and a lieutenant wearing the uniform of the Minneapolis Police Department who wanted to know what story his chief should tell the media. Thompson was by far the most vocal. Bobby simply sat with his hands folded on the table before him, staring at nothing. Rask was pacing, too, but quietly.
“What should I have done differently?” I asked. The look on Bobby’s face, he knew the answer as well as I did—I should have called the cops.
Thompson threatened to send me to Oak Park Heights for ten thousand years.
The unidentified lieutenant said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Two dead and three wounded,” Thompson shouted. “He’s responsible.”
I felt like crying. Only what good would that do? It wasn’t going to bring back Bruder. Or the mother of three who had been standing next to him. It wasn’t going to heal the wounds of the businessman directly behind her, the one who caught it in the gut. Or the bicycle courier. Or the secretary.
“What do we know about these Family Boyz?” the lieutenant asked.
“They don’t exist!” Thompson shouted. “They’re a figment of McKenzie’s warped imagination.”
“My chief wants …”
“I don’t work for your chief.”
The lieutenant wasn’t impressed by Thompson’s outburst. Calmly, but firmly, he said, “You are a guest of the Minneapolis Police Department. You are in our house now. If you do not behave I will ask you to leave.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, Lieutenant?” Thompson said the word “lieutenant” like it was the medical term for a social disease.
The lieutenant rose from his place at the conference table and went to the closed door. He opened it. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Chief Thompson.”
Thompson didn’t say a word, nor did he make a move toward the open door. After a tense couple of moments the lieutenant shut the door firmly and returned to his seat.
“Tell us again what happened, Mr. McKenzie.”
I told my story for the fifth time.
“And you’re sure it was the Family Boyz?”
“I can’t identify the assailants,” I confessed. “I only saw the black van, but yeah, I’m sure. The machine gun …”
“We found shell casings,” Rask interjected. “Seven-point-ninety-two millimeter. Czechoslovakian made.”
“They carry a lot of heavy stuff,” I added.
“How does this tie into your investigation of Bruder?” This time it was the assistant Hennepin County attorney who asked the question. He was talking to Bobby.
“It doesn’t,” Thompson told him. “We believe this—assault—wasn’t meant for Bruder but for McKenzie.”
“Do you agree with that, Mr. McKenzie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Thompson snorted. “Our chief suspect in two brutal murders is dead and you don’t know.”
“I wonder,” Bobby said softly.
All eyes turned to him.
“Now that we have him, there are tests we can perform to determine whether or not Bruder did, in fact, kill his wife and Katherine Katzmark. What interests me is his reference to they. When McKenzie mentioned the Family Boyz, Bruder didn’t do the one thing everyone else has done.”
“Which is what?” Thompson wanted to know.
“He didn’t ask, ‘who?’”
“We may never know,” Thompson insisted. “Two dead and three wounded.” He said it just that once too often.
“Excuse me.” I was up and moving quickly toward the door. “I need to use the rest room.”
I squatted before the porcelain toilet, expecting to vomit. But the gesture alone seemed to quiet my stomach. After a few minutes of unproductive hacking, I left the stall. Rask was waiting for me.
“You better wash,” he said, gesturing to the dried blood on my hands and the red swipe on my forehead. I did what he suggested. The blood mixing with the liquid soap created a sickly pink color in the sink and again I felt like throwing up.
I dried my hands, looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw. The sight of my own drawn and haggard face made me back away until I was hard against the far wall. I slid down the wall until I was sitting at its base, my legs drawn up, and hugging my knees.
“God help me.”
Rask grinned. “Nothing like catastrophe to separate the true atheists from the whiners.”
“Do you believe in God, LT?”
“Yes.”
“After everything you’ve seen on the job?”
“Especially after what I’ve seen.”
“I stopped believing.”
“No you didn’t. You just found an excuse to stop praying.”
“I wasn’t looking for a sermon.”
“No, only absolution. Can’t help you there, my friend.”
I didn’t suppose he could. After a few more minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I used the wall to climb onto my unsteady legs.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“You didn’t do anything illegal, McKenzie. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Two dead and three wounded,” I said. “And the child still missing.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like my fault. I had to be a hero. I had to show everyone how clever I was.”
“C’mon,” he said, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Thompson will think you’re making a break for it.”
Suddenly, there were ten people in the conference room, including the Minneapolis police chief. None of them were sitting. Instead they were gathered in a knot at the far end of the room around a tall man wearing a dark blue suit with black hair slicked back like the movie star Alec Baldwin. Standing next to him was a smaller man—thin, grizzled, brown suit—who looked like he’d lived three lifetimes already and was working on his fourth. He reminded me of Harry Dean Stanton, one of my favorite character actors. Alec was doing most of the talking, with Harry adding the occasional comment.
Bobby excused himself from the group and approached us as if he had been waiting impatiently for our arrival. “They want you,” he told Rask. I made a move to join the group but Dunston put a hand on my chest to keep me in place.
“Who are those guys, Bobby?”
“Tall man in blue is ATF. Small man in brown is FBI.”
“What’s going on?”
“Listen to me. Are you listening to me, McKenzie? Don’t say a word, not to anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just go home.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go home.”
“Just like that?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Bobby?”
“I can’t tell you anything. In a couple of days, maybe. Right now you have to leave.”
“By whose order? The Department of Justice?”
“Remember what I said Saturday night? About you being the best
friend I’ll ever have? Well, right now I’m the best friend you’ll ever have. Do what I say. Don’t make a fuss. Just go home.”
I looked past him at the knot of men, picking out Thompson’s face. The way he glared at me, it was like he was daring me to do something, anything.
“Ever have the feeling you’ve been invited for drinks but everyone else is staying for dinner?”
“Frequently,” Bobby told me.
I turned to leave. Bobby laid a gentle hand on my arm. “When you get home, stay there.”
“Why?”
“Because honest to God, McKenzie, you’re in way over your head this time and you’re probably going to get yourself killed.”
Several hours later the chief of the Minneapolis Police Department, dressed in full regalia, stood before a phalanx of reporters, Thomas Thompson at his side. He calmly told them that David Christopher Bruder, a suspect in the brutal murders of two women in St. Paul, had been shot and killed in downtown Minneapolis earlier that afternoon by persons or person unknown, along with a Golden Valley woman who was unfortunate enough to be standing next to him at the stoplight. Three others were wounded, he added, one in critical condition at the Hennepin County Medical Center, names were being withheld pending notification of family members. A full-scale investigation into the shooting had been mounted and certain suspects had been identified, although the chief declined to identify them at this time. As for the Bruder murder investigation, additional information, such as the whereabouts of Bruder’s infant son, Thomas Christopher, would be released by the St. Paul Police Department as soon as it was confirmed.
A reporter asked if the shooting was gang related.
The chief would not speculate at this time.
The reporter persisted, suggesting that “a drive-by shooting” would seem to indicate gang violence.
Again the chief refused to speculate.
What other possibilities existed?
The chief wouldn’t say.
Next it was Thompson’s turn, acting for the St. Paul Police Department. Only one station carried the news conference live but Thompson acted as if he had an audience of millions. There were a lot of “I”s in his address. Yet despite the fact that his statement was twice as long, in the end he had nothing more to add to what the chief had already said. The only favorable comment I could make about his performance was that he didn’t once mention my name.
I lay on my sofa and listened as Cecilia Bartoli sang eighteenth-century Italian songs. Cecilia’s magnificent voice climbed to a ridiculously high note, danced on top of it for a while, and then slid effortlessly down the other side. One song in particular—a simple, straightforward aria by Alessandro Parisotti—aroused my interest enough to check the English translation in the liner notes:
I no longer feel
the sparkle of youth in my heart
“Ain’t that the truth,” I told the empty room.
I closed my eyes.
A sense of unfinished business fell about me like a heavy shroud that provides no warmth. It had been a long, emotionally exhausting day. I just wanted it to end. I should have been so lucky. At seven-thirty-five p.m. the telephone rang.
“The eagle has landed,” a woman said.
“Excuse me?” I was groggy from my nap and the reference went right over my head.
“This is Nina.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Hester is here.”
That woke me up.
“Is she?”
“Yes, and if you want to catch her you’d better hurry. She and her date have already ordered dinner and I suspect they’ll be going somewhere else for dessert.”
It took me fifteen minutes to reach Rickie’s. Nina was starting down the staircase as I was starting up. We met in the middle and she took my arm, leading me to the downstairs bar. She was excited.
“Same table in the corner. Hester is wearing mallard blue tonight. The gentleman is wearing tweed—a little more tony than her usual date. They asked for their check as soon as dinner was served. Good Lord, you look worse than you did this morning.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“Is that blood?” she asked, noticing the stain on my sleeve—I had changed my jacket but not my shirt.
I nodded.
“You might find this hard to believe since I’m a saloon keeper, but I never encourage customers to drink alcohol. However, in your case …”
“I could use a drink,” I admitted.
She poured one for me on the house. Booker’s neat. The shot was like a cold shower, it jolted my senses, making me more alert. Or maybe it was Nina’s brilliant silver-blue eyes, the way they kind of flickered at me, demanding my attention. The second shot she poured had nearly
the opposite effect, quieting my nerves, warming me like the blaze from a fireplace. A feeling of perfect comfort and ease settled over me—the way it does when you unexpectedly find yourself somewhere familiar and safe. But again, I don’t think it was the high-priced bourbon, as delicious as it was. It was Nina. There was an expression of concern on her face that went well beyond caring about my appearance. Suddenly, inexplicably, I felt as if I had known her since the beginning of time.
I asked for a third shot.
Nina refused. “Two ounces of alcohol acts as a stimulant, three is a depressant.”
She would know, I decided. After all, she was a professional.
“How are you doing, McKenzie?” she asked with all sincerity.
“I am so glad to see you,” I blurted out.
“Where did that come from?” The smile on her face told me she didn’t mind my declaration at all.
“This has been one of the hardest days of my life. Yet seeing you tonight makes it all seem—easy.”
“That might be the finest compliment anyone has ever given me. Must be the bourbon talking.”
“It’s not, Nina. Truly it’s not. Believe me, please.”
“I do, McKenzie. Thank you. It’s just that I’m thirty-seven years old now and when I hear a compliment I tend to look to see what’s beneath it.”
“We’ll have to work on that,” I told her.
“First we’ll have to work on your timing.” She moved to shield me from view. I peeked around her at the staircase. Now I knew what mallard blue looked like.
Hester was wearing an ankle-length silk dress that clung to her devious curves like plastic wrap. It was the bluest blue I had ever seen and if the dress had a button, zipper, or snap, I couldn’t find it anywhere—and believe me, I looked hard. Nina gave me a “Hrumph” as I slid off my stool.
“Strictly business,” I promised her.
I feared that Hester might be more alert than Cook had been and search for a tail so I decided to make my move before she and her date made theirs. I brushed past them just outside the door. I gave Hester a hard look but she must have been used to stares from strange men and didn’t acknowledge it. Her date didn’t notice me, either. I went to the Cherokee, which I had parked in the stall directly behind her Audi—her license plate number was already in my notebook. I was on my way to the Paradise Motel before they unlocked the doors of Mr. Tweed’s Volvo.
I parked in the Paradise Motel lot in front of Bungalow Seven and waited. I didn’t wait long. Less than five minutes after I arrived, the Volvo turned in and drove directly to the stall in front of number sixteen. Mr. Tweed walked across the lot to the office. I watched him as he went past. About thirty-five. Sandy-blond hair. Carried himself like he had done this sort of thing before. I waited until they were both inside the bungalow and then jotted down the Volvo’s license plate number. Twelve minutes later I was in the parking lot adjacent to Rickie’s.
I thought about going in for another Booker’s but decided Nina would be too much of a distraction. Besides, I was afraid of bumping into young, beautiful, and smart as hell Jeannie. Nina had promised to call her. Instead I turned on my CD player and listened to some early Johnny Cash while I waited. I should have gone inside. It was almost ninety minutes before Hester and her date returned. Well, at least this one got his money’s worth.
Mr. Tweed opened the passenger door for Hester, walked her to the Audi, borrowed her keys to unlock it, then held the door open as she slid inside. He leaned in and kissed her. She smiled at him. He closed the door, waved as he went back to his car. He started up, but didn’t leave the lot until Hester was under way. Chivalry lives, I told myself.
They both drove west on Selby Avenue but at Dale Hester went north toward the freeway while Mr. Tweed turned south. I followed
Hester. A few blocks later she caught I-94 and headed west toward Minneapolis. I replaced the Man in Black with the Brian Setzer Orchestra on the CD player and cranked the volume—a little traveling music.
I stayed five car lengths behind her as she sped past the downtown exits, drove through the Lowry Hill Tunnel, crossed over to I-394, and left the city behind. We stayed on the freeway for over twenty miles, cruising through Golden Valley, St. Louis Park, Hopkins, and Minnetonka, passing such landmarks as Theodore Wirth Park, General Mills, Ridgedale Shopping Mall, and the Carlson Companies’ twin office towers, as well as a dozen strip malls featuring generic restaurants and shoe box theaters. The farther west we traveled, the more exclusive the neighborhoods became until we crossed over into Wayzata. Hester left the highway and led me through a maze of twisting streets with barely enough room for two cars to pass, streets with names that ended in Pointe, Wood, View, and Dale. I lost track of the names. It was all I could do to keep up with her. She drove like she had just stolen the car.
We were circling Lake Minnetonka now. The lake is the semi-exclusive province of bankers, corporate raiders, department store owners, and professional athletes with guaranteed contracts. I say semi-exclusive because on any given day the public landings are choked with all manner of pleasure craft brought in by less than well-to-do boat owners who, for an afternoon at least, can get a taste of the good life, their Lund Americans bobbing in the wake of yachts and cigarettes. The swells who actually reside on the lake once demanded an ordinance that would limit access. They wanted to restrict the number of “nonresident” boats allowed, citing noise pollution among other things. The result was a flood of letters to newspapers and local politicians, protest marches, signs that read, “Lake Minnetonka—Please Wipe Your Feet,” and even more boats. Personally, I didn’t see the attraction. There’s no fish in the damn thing.
Finally, we reached a stand of ten mailboxes at the mouth of a gravel road. Hester turned onto the road. A sign just inside warned, DEAD END.
I took a chance and kept following. We passed nine driveways. A brick and metal arch spanned the entrance to the tenth. There was a name written in the metalwork across the top of the arch that I couldn’t read in the dark. Hester swung the Audi under it, setting off a succession of motion detectors as she went—spotlights flicked on one by one, following her all the way to a four-car garage about seventy-five yards from the gravel. I went straight, stopping my car at a black-and-white striped traffic barrier. Real inconspicuous. A concerned citizen probably had started dialing 911 before I turned the engine off. “Officer, there’s a strange vehicle on my private road and I’m sure it’s more than two years old.” I ran back up the road, gravel crunching under my Nikes. The moon was hidden behind a bank of slow-moving clouds but with all the lights, it could have been Yankee Stadium. I watched Hester move to the front door. More lights went on. She unlocked the door and went quickly inside, leaving the door open. It took a few seconds before she returned to close it. Must’ve punched a code into an alarm system, I reasoned. An inside light went on. And off. I waited a few moments and ran across the lawn toward the house. I gambled that anyone alerted by the lights would have stopped watching once they had identified Hester.
Just as I reached the structure, still another indoor light flicked on. I moved toward it. The moth and the flame. The light shone through a kitchen window. I peeked above the sill. Large kitchen—white walls, counters, cabinets, appliances, and tile floor. Hester was standing at the center island, a brilliant blue flame surrounded by all that whiteness, her profile to me, removing silver earrings. Suddenly, a man appeared, darkness behind him—I have no idea where he came from. The man was dressed in pale green briefs and nothing more. He was tall and strong, muscles rippled as he moved. I ducked down. He didn’t see me, but then, he only had eyes for Hester.
The man came up behind her. She didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t acknowledge his presence at all until he wrapped his powerful arms
around her, cupping her breasts through the silk of her dress. Hester arched her back and he kissed her neck as he slowly worked the dress up and off her. Her lace brassiere was the color of her dress and barely contained her. Her matching panties had less material than my handkerchief. He popped her breasts out of the cups and caressed them with one hand. With the other he firmly stroked the front of her panties. She turned in his arms and kissed him hard, opening her mouth to him. He held her tight, but not so tight that she couldn’t wriggle free and kiss his neck, his chest, his stomach, his waist. She lowered herself to the floor and, kneeling before him, hooked her fingers over the elastic of his briefs while he played with her hair. I could hear their sharp, erratic breathing through the closed window as the briefs came down. Or maybe it was my own breathing.
The yard lights behind me flicked off one by one. I couldn’t tell you how long they had been set for. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been three days. I had lost all track of time as I squatted at the windowsill. I felt considerably safer spying on Hester from the darkness, yet it also made me feel creepy. Time to leave, I decided. If I wanted to see more I could always surf the Internet. I turned my back to the window and dashed across the lawn, setting off the lights again as I made my way to the SUV. I doubted Hester and her friend noticed.