I woke early, a common occurrence when I sleep in a bed that’s not my own. I wasn’t in any hurry, though, so I lay on my back and stared at the hotel room ceiling, waiting for the alarm clock to catch up to me. Bright sunlight slipped through the cracks between the window and the frilly shade. Still, it wasn’t the sunlight that caused me finally to go to the window and look out. It was the silence. Even in my residential neighborhood in St. Paul there was noise: the distant murmur of traffic; neighbors opening and closing doors to houses, garages, and cars; a dog yapping. Yet Libbie woke quietly. There were few vehicles on First Street and even fewer people, who all seemed to move on tiptoes as if they were afraid of disturbing the peace. For a moment, I flashed on the old SF movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Show emotion and you die. I quickly shook the image from my head.
“Get a grip, McKenzie,” I said aloud.
I decided to go for a walk. Usually I run in the morning, only this was more a journey of exploration than exercise. After putting myself together, I hurried down the three flights of steps and out the front entrance of the Pioneer. I hung a left and followed First, my back to the sun. On the other side of the hotel’s driveway, there was a shop that sold collectibles. It was next to a store that sold discount items—damned if I could tell the difference between the two. There was an American Family Insurance office and an H&R Block office with an alley between them that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Farther down the street was the Munoz Emporium I had visited on Monday, and next to that was a senior center. The senior center was actually open, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to visit, so I kept moving.
I followed First Street until I reached a sprawling grain elevator located at the western edge of the town. The name Miller was painted in black across a row of corrugated steel bins and on a sign over an office building in front of them. Beyond the elevator, there were green-brown fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. It was an impressive vista, just not something that could hold my attention for long. I preferred people in my landscapes.
I scanned the gravel parking lot. There were several cars, SUVs, and pickups but no drivers. I was about to walk away when a door marked authorized personnel only opened and Church stepped out. He was limping slightly, and his right hand was encased in a plaster cast except for his fingertips. He stopped, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. That’s when he saw me. I gave him what Victoria Dunston called a microwave—holding my hand up and moving my fingers a fraction of an inch. He abruptly turned for the door. He slipped on his bad leg, and I thought he would go down until he managed to catch the door handle and steady himself. He gave me a hard look, spit the cigarette onto the gravel, and stepped back inside the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Chief Gustafson’s words floated back to me. Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful.
I kept walking, heading north, until I discovered a set of railroad tracks that served the elevator. The tracks seemed to divide Libbie in half between north and south, and I wondered which side was the wrong side. There’s always a wrong side of the tracks.
After I crossed the tracks, I came upon a cemetery large enough to need three entrances. A block of large, well-kept houses bordered the cemetery, and I followed the sidewalk until I came across a man digging a grave, using a small, rubber-tracked excavator with a backfill blade on the front. I stopped to watch as he scooped out the dirt and deposited it into a bucket attached to the back of the machine. The gravedigger gave me a wave, and I waved back. There was something surreal about it all, and it made me think of the hours I’d spent in the trunk of the kidnappers’ car. There had been a few moments when I thought … Never mind what you thought, my inner voice told me. I turned and followed the road north.
The road ended where the cemetery ended, and I went east. There were more homes, some of them quite ambitious, a small park with playground equipment, and a high school surrounded by a football field, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a parking lot. The school building couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. As near as I could tell, it was closed for the summer, and I wondered, if you were a teacher in Libbie, South Dakota, what did you do when school was out? Probably what all teachers do, I told myself, although that still didn’t answer my question.
I kept moving east until I found a second cemetery. This one was considerably smaller than the first, yet its monuments seemed bigger and grander. There was a black iron fence surrounding it. The entrance was closed but not locked. The name Boucher Gardens was written in metal above it. A gated community, I thought. Out loud I said, “I bet people are just dying to get in here.” I laughed at the joke. Sometimes I crack myself up.
I went south, skirting the eastern edge of Libbie, recrossing the railroad tracks. The houses were smaller now, and less impressive. There was a retirement home that seemed a hundred years older than the high school. Next to that was a lot where a man in a small shack decorated with flags and streamers sold mobile homes, prefabs, and RVs built for people who wanted to be someplace but weren’t exactly sure where. Farther along I found Libbie’s sewage treatment plant.
“Well, now I know which is the wrong side of the tracks,” I said.
I went west again, moving past a small, relatively new industrial complex that seemed to be bustling with energy. There were plenty of vehicles driving in and out of parking lots, plenty of people walking in and out of doorways, going about their business. No one paid any attention to me. Why would they?
A coffeehouse named Supreme Bean was located on the corner, and I went inside. Along with coffee it sold assorted bakery goods, sandwiches, and soup, but I settled for a sixteen-ounce hazelnut, no cream, no sugar. While I waited, I noticed a high school boy sitting at a small table. A high school girl sat across from him. She was wearing the uniform of a waitress but didn’t work there. If she wasn’t the Libbie High School homecoming queen, it could not have been for lack of effort. What is it with this town and its women? I wondered. She had to frown before I recognized her—Miller’s daughter, Saranne, the girl he slapped at the Libbie cop shop. She didn’t notice me, probably because she only had eyes for the boy. She twisted her long red-brown hair and fluttered the lids of her blue-green eyes, only the boy didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy talking about himself. I felt like slapping him upside the head and shouting, “The girl is interested in you, dummy. Pay attention to her.” Instead, I snapped a lid over my drink and stepped outside. After all, I had learned the hard way what it took to impress women; why not him?
I was nearly to the street when I heard a voice calling after me, “Hey, hey.” I stopped and turned. Saranne moved to within a few yards of me and no closer. Her eyes were wide and thoughtful and a little sad; she shielded them from the rising sun. Her smile was as fragile as a china cup.
“You’re McKenzie,” she said. “The real one.”
“Yes.”
“The one I saw at the jail.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re here to find Rush, aren’t you, like they want.”
“I’m going to give it a try.”
“Why? What good will it do? Do you think it’ll change anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“People have to live with their mistakes.”
“Only the ones they can’t fix.”
She gave it a moment before answering. “Only an adult would say that.” When she said adult, she meant old.
“Sometimes you have to be an adult before you figure it out,” I said.
She gave that a moment, too.
“Whatever,” she said.
I watched as she spun about and walked back into the coffeehouse.
Off in the distance, I could see the shining towers of the grain elevator—they had never been entirely out of sight—and I followed the road until I reached them. Once on First Street again, I hung a right and moved toward the hotel. When I reached the front entrance, I glanced at my watch. I had walked the entire perimeter of Libbie. It had taken me just over two hours. I didn’t think it was possible to walk around the Mall of America in that short a time.
Tracie Blake was not happy. She was standing in the lobby of the Pioneer when I arrived, and she started barking before I was halfway through the door.
“McKenzie,” Tracie said. “Where have you been?”
Sharren Nuffer was behind the reception desk. She seemed more concerned than angry.
“We didn’t know where you were,” she said. “You left without telling anyone.”
“Ladies,” I said.
“Well?” Tracie said. “Where were you?”
“I was taking a walk around town.”
“You said you wanted to meet for breakfast.”
“I said I wanted to meet after breakfast. What’s the big deal?”
“We were worried,” Sharren said.
Tracie looked at her as if the remark caught her by surprise.
“Worried?” I said.
“Rush, the first McKenzie, he disappeared, too,” Sharren said. “Just walked away and never came back.”
“He didn’t walk,” Tracie said. “He ran.”
Sharren shrugged as if she didn’t appreciate the difference.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
“Well?” Tracie said again, this time with a fist planted on each hip. “What are we going to do now?”
“Are you always this cranky in the morning?” I said.
Behind Tracie’s back, Sharren made a gesture with her thumb and four curled fingers that was meant to mimic someone taking a drink. Tracie caught me watching Sharren and quickly glanced behind her. Sharren suddenly found something very important on the reception desk to occupy her attention.
“I don’t need this,” Tracie said.
She headed for the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. Before the door could close, she spun around, grabbed the handle, held the door open, and spoke to me across the threshold.
“Well, are you coming?”
“Sure,” I said.
I felt the heat on my face and arms as I stepped outside. The temperature seemed to have risen dramatically during the few minutes I had been inside the hotel. From the spot in front of the hotel I could see several blocks up the street to the electronic display of First Integrity State Bank of Libbie alternating between time and temperature. 87° F.
“Is it always this hot?” I said.
“In the summer,” Tracie said. “It’s not unusual to have a string of hundred-plus days for weeks at a time. Usually, though, the temperature drops to around sixty degrees at night, which makes it comfortable.”
“If you say so.”
“Well,” she said—I wished she would stop saying that word. “Do you have a plan? Last night you said you had a plan.”
“There’s an old saying,” I said. “When in doubt—”
“Yes?”
“Follow the money.”
Red velvet and gold lamé wallpaper and a thick red carpet greeted us when we entered the First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. An L-shaped teller cage of deep red wood and etched glass stood facing the front doors. Behind the cage, an enormous brass door stood open to reveal a small vault holding perhaps a hundred bronze safe deposit boxes. There was an inner room that, I assumed, contained a safe where the cash and coin were stored. A huge crystal chandelier hung from the center of the lobby. Arrayed beneath the chandelier were a cotton sofa, wicker chairs, and a low, highly polished table with coffee and rolls that were free to customers.
“Jon Kampa owns the bank,” Tracie said. “It’s been in his family for almost a hundred years.”
“Well, if things don’t work out, he could always turn the place into a bordello,” I said.
Only five people worked there, including a man sitting behind a large desk made of the same wood as the teller cage. He was wearing a charcoal suit and a red tie that he adjusted as he came over to greet us.
“Tracie,” he said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“Jon,” Tracie said.
Kampa extended his hand toward me. “And you, sir?”
“My name is McKenzie.”
“Ahh, yes. Mr. McKenzie. Well, well, well…”
“Well,” I said. Now you’re doing it, my inner voice told me. “Nice little bank you have here.”
Kampa seemed to bristle at the remark.
“Hardly little,” he said. “We have twenty-eight-point-five million dollars in assets. Given our charter, we feel that is plenty big enough.”
“What is your charter?”
“To serve the good people of Libbie and Perkins County. Now, sir, what can I do for you?”
“Tell me about the Imposter,” I said.
“There is very little information I can provide. Rush—Mr. McKenzie—how shall we refer to him? The Imposter, you said. He talked the city into opening an escrow account with us. The city poured money into it, and so did many of our leading citizens.”
“How much money?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Oh, c’mon. Can’t you give me a hint?”
Kampa glanced at Tracie. Tracie shrugged.
“No, sir,” he said. “I do not believe that I can.”
“More than a million?”
“Not so much.”
“A half million?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
I had the distinct impression that he was a man prone to saying too much if you pressed him, but I didn’t.
“How did the Imposter manage to steal the money?” I said.
Again, Kampa looked to Tracie.
“McKenzie is trying to help us get it back,” she said.
“Good luck with that,” he said. “The money was transferred to a financial institution in the Cayman Islands, and from there God knows where it was sent. That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it—hiding money in the Caymans—yet that’s what he did.”
“Is there any way to trace the money?”
“Only to its first destination. After that—I suppose the FBI could do it if you convinced them that it was an act of terrorism. They seem more interested these days in chasing shadows than in solving actual crimes.”
“How did the Imposter loot the account?”
“It was easy. The city set up an escrow account and transferred money into it from its general operating fund. Terms and conditions of the trust allowed the Imposter to access the account online. After that it was simply a matter of punching in account numbers. He could have made the transfer in less than a minute, anytime day or night.”
“Why would you give him access to the account?”
“I didn’t,” Kampa insisted.
“He wanted to monitor account activity,” Tracie said. “He wanted to know when funds were deposited, when checks cleared, etcetera.”
“There were safeguards in place,” Kampa said. “He shouldn’t have been able to withdraw or redesignate funds without permission of the city.”
“What safeguards?” I asked.
“A password was required. A password generated by the city and known only to designated city officials.”
I turned toward Tracie. “Who knew the password?”
“The mayor, the other four of us on the city council, and the city manager and director of economic development,” she said.
“Seven people.”
“Six. The city manager and director of economic development are the same person.”
“Okay. Now we have a place to start. Just out of curiosity, what was the password?”
“It needed to be twelve characters long with at least four of them being numbers. We wanted something everyone would remember.”
“And…?”
“L - I - B - B - I - E - S - D - 1 - 8 - 8 - 4.”
“You picked your name and birthday? Seriously? A name and birthday that’s on every sign leading into this town?”
Tracie found a spot on the carpet that demanded her attention. Kampa sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.
“You people deserved to be robbed,” I said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Kampa said.
“Was the bank hurt by the fraud?”
He waggled his hand.
“First Integrity doesn’t normally do much commercial lending, and when we do it tends to be on a small scale,” Kampa said. “Unfortunately, in addition to the city, several of our commercial customers insisted on investing in the mall despite our strenuous recommendations against it. There was a growing consensus that most of the town’s retail businesses would move there, and those that didn’t would experience difficulty, and we”—Kampa paused as if merely speaking the next few words gave him pain—“we loaned them the money. Now, because of their losses, a few customers might have a difficult time meeting their obligations. That doesn’t help our loan portfolio. However, we’ll work something out. Like I said, this is a community bank. We’re here to serve.”
“Where are your assets invested?”
“About thirty-five percent is in agriculture and ranching. The rest is in residential lending.”
“Mortgages?”
“Mortgages and loans to developers.”
“The housing market has taken an awful beating lately.”
“That’s true. Certainly we’re not immune to that. However, our loan-loss provisions are substantial enough to cover our losses.”
“Even with this setback?”
“Yes, even with this setback.”
“When did the FDIC last examine your books?”
“Fifteen months ago. They gave us a two rating. What’s the matter, McKenzie? You don’t believe me?”
“Fifteen months. You’re about due for another audit, aren’t you?”
“Early next month. Why don’t you come back then? Bring your pocket calculator with you.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
The expression on his face suggested that he didn’t believe me.
“You said your customers invested in the mall against your advice,” I said.
Kampa was looking directly at Tracie when he said, “I was one of the few people in town who advised caution.”
“Why didn’t they listen?”
“People never listen to the man who tells them they are not going to make money. They only listen to the guy who promises to make them rich.”
The sign was flashing 90° F. by the time we left the bank.
“The weatherman said we might break one hundred,” Tracie said.
“Geez.”
I might have said more, except my cell phone began playing the old George Gershwin tune “Summertime.” The caller ID said Nina Truhler was on the line.
“Hi,” I said.
“You’re up,” she said.
Tracie and I passed under the bank sign, heading back toward the hotel. 9:57 A.M., it read. To most people, it was midmorning. To those of us who were rich, unemployed and spending late evenings in the company of women who owned jazz clubs, it was early.
“Libbie is an exciting, twenty-four-hour town, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it,” I said. “A little early for you, too, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I’m still in bed.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making a nuisance of myself.”
“You do that so well.”
“Practice, practice, practice.”
“Any progress?”
“I just started.”
“Let me know what happens. You know how I love your adventures.”
That made me chuckle. “You say it, but we both know it’s not altogether true.”
“Is Tracie what’s-her-name with you?” Nina asked.
“Yep.”
“Do you love me?”
“What?”
“Do. You. Love. Me?”
“Of course.”
“Say it.”
“I love you.”
“Did she hear?”
I glanced at Tracie. She continued walking with measured, graceful strides, looking straight ahead, her face without expression.
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay,” Nina said. “Have a nice day. I’ll talk to you soon.”
After Nina hung up, I slipped the cell phone back into my pocket.
“Was that your girlfriend?” Tracie said.
“Yes.”
“Nina?”
“Yes.”
“She sounds needy.”
“Does she? I hadn’t noticed.”
We were nearly back to the hotel before Tracie spoke again. “Now what?”
“The mayor first, I think. Eventually we’ll get to everyone who knew the password.”
“They’re all suspects?”
“Yep.”
“Including me?”
“Yep.”
“Why would I help Rush steal our money?”
“When does your ex-husband get out of stir? Eighteen months? What happens to your allowance then?”
“It’ll go to him.”
“What will you do? Go back to modeling?”
“I’m a little old for that.”
“Exactly.”
“My God, McKenzie, you’ve got a suspicious mind.”
“Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”
I drove. Tracie directed us west out of town and then north until we came to the intersection of Highways 20 and 73. She said the southwest corner was where the Imposter proposed building the outlet mall. A combination gas station and convenience store called Miller Big Stop occupied the northeast corner. A restaurant with a bar called Grandma Miller’s was next to it. A new and used auto dealership that seemed to specialize in pickup trucks called Miller Ford was next to that.
“Some people love the sound of their own names,” I said.
“Huh?” said Tracie.
“Never mind.”
We pulled into the lot outside the restaurant. The life-sized head of a bison hung above the door. I was surprised when it greeted us as we approached, its cartoon voice triggered by a motion detector.
“It’s awfully lonely hanging by a nail up here all day,” the bison said. “If it weren’t for you nice people stopping for a chat once in a while, I don’t know what I would do. If only I had a female buffalo to talk to.”
It started singing “Blue Moon,” switching the lyrics to lament that he didn’t have a dream in his heart or a bison of his own.
“Somewhere Rodgers and Hart are spinning in their graves,” I said.
“I think it’s cute,” Tracie said.
“I’m sure that’s what they were going for when they wrote the song.”
“You’re cynical, you know that, McKenzie?”
Cynical and suspicious, my inner voice said.
A sign just inside the restaurant door invited us to seat ourselves, and so we did, claiming a table in front of a large window with a view of the highway. The tables, chairs, and bar were all made of burnished redwood, yet they were covered by such a thick coating of polyurethane that they might as well have been plastic. A big-screen HD TV tuned to Fox News occupied each corner of the room. Thankfully, the volume was off.
I was watching what little traffic there was on the highway while paper place mats, silverware, and water glasses magically appeared before us. A young and pretty voice said, “We just closed our breakfast buffet, so you’ll have to order off the menu.” It was only then that I noticed our server and she recognized me.
“Small world,” I said.
Saranne Miller blinked hard. “Too small,” she said.
I took the menu from her outstretched hand. “How’d it go with the boyfriend this morning?”
“Boyfriend?” Her pretty lips curled into a slight grimace, as if she knew a painful secret she didn’t wish to share. “He had his chance. Why? Are you looking to take his place?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you different from every other man in this town?”
“I’m not from this town.”
“That’s the only thing about you I like.”
Across the table, Tracie’s intense eyes moved from Saranne to me and back again as if she were watching a tennis match. I opened the menu.
“What would you recommend?” I said.
“Eat at home.”
Tracie laughed, but the expression on Saranne’s face told me that she was perfectly serious.
The first item that caught my eye was Grandma Miller’s World-Famous Third-Pound Burger with Bleu Cheese, Lettuce, and Tomato, so I ordered that, staying with potato chips instead of paying extra for the fries. Tracie ordered a salad with cottage cheese on the side—once a model, always a model, I guessed.
“What was that all about?” she asked after Saranne left.
“I met her this morning,” I said. “She was flirting with a kid in a coffeehouse.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s becoming the town slut.”
“C’mon. She was flirting with a high school kid. What’s wrong with that? I did a lot of it myself.”
“I hope you were in high school at the time. No, it’s not that. It’s—she’s starting to get a reputation.”
“Because of her relationship with the Imposter?”
“They were lovers.”
“Miller says she was raped.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“How old is Saranne? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Sixteen.”
“Then she was raped.”
“I suppose.”
“In any case, there were a lot of people taken in that were much older and wiser than Saranne.” I looked Tracie straight in the eye when I spoke. “Why pick on her?”
“Convenience.”
Saranne returned a few minutes later. She managed to serve us both without uttering a word, then swiftly disappeared. I took a bite of Grandma Miller’s World-Famous Third-Pound Burger with Bleu Cheese, Lettuce, and Tomato and realized that her recommendation that I eat at home wasn’t rudeness. Saranne had been simply warning me. The beef patty was burned along the edges yet cold in the center. The bun was dry, the lettuce wilted, the tomato this side of ripe, and the cheese tasted like something you spread with a dipper.
“I didn’t think it was possible to screw up a cheeseburger,” I said.
“Why do you think I ordered salad?” Tracie said. “You really don’t want to eat here until the evening shift.”
“Then why did you bring me?”
The answer came in a loud, braying voice. “You’re back.” It was followed by Miller, who appeared next to our table as if by magic. A blue sports coat over a powder blue shirt and blue jeans covered his large frame, and he might have been considered casual chic if not for the brown farm boots with leather laces.
“That tells me something,” Miller said.
The expression on Miller’s weathered face made it clear that he expected me to ask what that something was. I didn’t. I’m not sure why. Lack of curiosity, I guess. He soon grew tired of waiting.
“I didn’t appreciate having to explain myself to your friends from the FBI,” Miller said.
I didn’t have anything to say to that, either. My silence seemed to frustrate him.
“Have a seat, Mr. Miller,” Tracie said. “McKenzie has a few questions.”
I do? my inner voice asked.
Tracie must have heard my inner voice, because she quickly added, “Mr. Miller is the mayor of Libbie.”
Yes, I do.
Still, I quickly recalled what he’d told me in the police station a few days earlier. Not I’m the mayor. Instead, he said, I own most of what’s worth owning around here.
“That tells me something,” I said aloud.
“Folks around here want someone running things that knows how to run things.” He chuckled lightly, as if he were relating the punch line of a private joke.
Miller settled into an unclaimed chair, but only after he quickly surveyed the restaurant and the lawn outside the window. Probably he was looking for some small children to chase off, I told myself. Over his shoulder, I saw Saranne emerge from the kitchen, take one look at him, and retreat back inside.
“First tell me,” Miller said. “Are you here to help catch the Imposter?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. I’ll answer your questions. Shoot.”
“What did he take you for?”
“Me? Not a dime.”
“I meant the town.”
“The town is fine.” Miller shook his head like a Boy Scout leader about to tell his troop the proper way to tie a knot. “You doom-and-gloomers. Libbie is going to be fine. Do you know why?”
“The people,” Tracie said. “The people in South Dakota, especially this part of South Dakota, are tough. If you want to live here you have to be tough. Tough and caring. People here are good neighbors. We take care of our own.”
Miller looked at Tracie as if she were from another planet.
“No,” he said slowly. “It’s because we’re the county seat. It happened back in 1921 after they carved up Harding and Butte counties. That was a few years before my time.”
Just barely, my inner voice said.
“The old man told me about it. He was in on it. See, there was a convention. On the train ride to the convention, the boys from Libbie offered liquor to delegates who promised to vote for Libbie—this was at the beginning of Prohibition, and booze was hard to come by. Anyway, delegates got whiskey if they promised to vote for Libbie. That’s how we got to be the county seat. Now the outlying towns are shrinking; their schools are closing, consolidating. Where do you think they are going to build the consolidated school? In the county seat. In ten years there are going to be only sixty-seven school districts in South Dakota. One for every county, plus an extra one for Sioux Falls. The same thing’s happening with health care, law enforcement, the courts, social services. Same with everything. A lot of people are unhappy about it. What are they going to do? One community gets consolidated; the other communities get smaller.”
Miller smiled. “I saw it coming,” he said. “Saw it coming years ago. The big grain and livestock operations requiring fewer and fewer folks to operate them, crowding out the family farms, the small towns disappearing because they no longer have a reason to exist. Yeah, I saw it coming. That’s why I wasn’t all that surprised when Rush said he wanted to build an outlet mall here. Where else was he going to build it?”
“Except there was no mall,” I said.
“We were taken, pure and simple.”
“You don’t seem too upset about it.”
Miller smiled some more. He leaned in and spoke quietly. “If I picked you up and threw you through the window, would that prove how angry I am?” I didn’t say if it would or wouldn’t. He leaned back. “I’m too old to waste time crying over spilled milk. If you’re asking if I hold a grudge, yeah, I hold a grudge. Anyone knows that, it should be you.”
“How did it happen?”
“You mean, how did he play us?”
“Yes.”
“The usual way. First he dazzled us with dollar signs, then he threatened to take them away. The rest is a little complicated.”
“Does it need to be?”
“The national range for what is rated a regional shopping center is three hundred thousand to nine hundred thousand square feet. The syndicate Rush represented was seeking approximately seven hundred and fifty thousand square feet with room to expand. Parking is generally figured at three times the estimated floor area of the facility, so we were talking about eighty acres, total. Randisi—he’s the one who owned the land.” Miller gestured out the window toward the farmland across the highway. “Randisi refused to sell, wouldn’t even consider it. Rush said he and his syndicate were prepared to go elsewhere. We insisted that we could acquire the land through eminent domain. He said he doubted his partners would be willing to wait while the case worked its way through the political system, maybe even the courts. Also, there was no guarantee that an arbitrator would fix the sales price at the amount he and his partners were willing to spend. And then there was the cost of infrastructure—sewers and the like—which was sure to escalate. To assure Rush and his partners that they would get the land at their price, we agreed to put funds matching the current cost per acre into an account in the Libbie bank and pay them the difference, if there was a difference.”
“How much?”
“The average value of nonirrigated cropland in South Dakota is thirteen hundred and seventy-five dollars an acre. Eighty acres—we put up one hundred and ten thousand dollars, plus an additional one hundred thousand for infrastructure.”
“That’s what he stole? I thought it would be more than that.”
“That’s what he stole from us. I have no idea what other people in town might have put in.”
“McKenzie,” Tracie said, “our yearly fiscal budget is set at five hundred and forty-two dollars per resident. With twelve hundred and twenty-one residents, that works out to six hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars.”
“You bet a third of your operating budget on a mall?”
“We weren’t betting anything,” Miller said. “We would have delivered the property at Rush’s price. We wouldn’t have lost a penny. Besides, do you have any idea how much income the mall would have generated for Libbie through property taxes? It would have funded most of our services. Hell, we would have been able to give folks free snowplowing.”
While he spoke, Saranne emerged from the kitchen and began wiping tables and checking ketchup bottles.
“I notice that the mall would have been built across from your own property,” I said.
“What of it?”
“Probably it would have increased traffic for your restaurant and service station and all the rest.”
“So?”
“Property tax aside, I was just wondering if you would have been as insistent about putting up the money if the mall had been built somewhere else.”
“Do you have something to say, McKenzie, or are you just talking?”
“I don’t want to call you greedy—”
“Then don’t.”
“Only I wonder if that’s why the Imposter picked this location. Because he knew he could count on your—let’s call it your strong entrepreneurial spirit—to make his plan work.”
“Are you saying I had something to do with this?”
Saranne moved closer to our table, obviously eavesdropping while pretending not to. I spoke a little louder for her benefit.
“If you had said no, Mr. Mayor, none of this would have happened.”
“I did what I thought was best for the town.”
“Everyone on the city council thought it was a good idea,” Tracie said.
“The Imposter was counting on that. I wonder how he knew that he could.”
When neither of them replied, I filled in the silence that followed.
“Miller, how much time did you spend with the Imposter?”
“I know where you’re going with this, McKenzie. Chief Gustafson told me you thought Rush had an accomplice. Someone from Libbie. It ain’t me.”
From now on, let’s not tell the chief any more than we have to, my inner voice told me.
“The Imposter needed a password to loot the escrow account. You’re one of six people who knew the password.”
“It ain’t me.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” I said aloud. “How much time—”
“Very little. I spent very little time with him.”
“Oh?”
“We spoke. We spoke a lot. It’s not like we were friends, though.”
“What did you speak about?”
“The mall.”
“What else?”
“Just the mall.”
“Did you ever have him over for dinner?”
“Yes. Once.”
“Did he meet the family?”
“Leave my family out of this.”
“What did you speak about then?”
“The mall.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Are you going to pay the town back for any of the money that they lost on this deal?”
“What? No. Why would I?”
“Could you pay it back if you had to?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“We live in uncertain economic times. Maybe you’re overextended. Maybe you need extra cash.”
“I told you—” Miller stopped himself and closed his eyes. I never saw anyone actually count to ten before. When he opened his eyes, he said, “I will not be provoked.”
I didn’t believe him.
Miller stood slowly. Saranne was several tables behind him. She abruptly turned her back and moved away.
“You’re looking for an accomplice,” Miller said. “That’s fine. You keep doing that. You’ll tell me when you find him.”
It was a command, not a question. Miller seemed surprised when I smiled disdainfully and shook my head.
“What’s the magic word?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“No, but it’s close.”
Miller’s eyes swept from me to Tracie and back again. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Here’s the thing, Miller,” I said. “I don’t work for you. I don’t like you. So either be polite, or fuck you.”
“McKenzie,” Tracie said.
“People don’t talk to me like that,” Miller said.
“Maybe if they did, their town wouldn’t be on the brink of bankruptcy.”
“McKenzie, please,” Tracie said.
“I changed my mind,” Miller said. “I think you should leave Libbie. The sooner the better.”
“I don’t care what you think,” I said.
Miller stared at me as if I were an accident alongside the road. After a few moments, he shook his head slightly. “I will not be provoked.” He turned and walked away.
“McKenzie, what are you doing?” Tracie wanted to know. “Mr. Miller is an important man in this town. Probably the most important.”
“Who says?”
“I say. What was the point of insulting him like that?”
“Patience,” I said.
Saranne didn’t return to the table until Miller was long gone. When she did, she immediately began retrieving plates.
“How was the burger?” she said.
“Lousy,” I told her.
“You really have to come in at night. The old man actually pays for a real cook then. He has specials, the cook. I get to sample them, so I can tell you what’s good. Otherwise, you’ll want to order the ribs. Our cook makes great ribs. Rush said they reminded him of the ribs you can get at Taste of Minnesota.”
“He said that?”
“Uh-huh. Rush said every year around the Fourth of July he would go to Grant Park for Taste of Minnesota, and he always made a point of eating the ribs. You’re from the Cities. Do you ever go to Taste of Minnesota?”
“Often.”
“Are the ribs good?”
“Yes, they are.”
“At least he told the truth about one thing.”
“Did you spend much time with Rush?”
“Not as much time as people say I did.” She glanced at Tracie. “Do you need anything else? Dessert?”
“Do you recommend dessert?” I said.
Saranne shook her head and smiled. “No.”
“Well, then…”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Saranne was just out of earshot when Tracie spoke. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she said. “That’s why you insulted Mr. Miller. To make an ally of his daughter.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
A few minutes later, Saranne returned with the bill. She set it in front of me. Tracie reached across the table and picked it up.
“I got it,” she said.
“Whatever,” Saranne said. “You know”—she was talking to me now—“you should be careful how you talk to the old man. He’s mean.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s so old.”
“How old is he?”
“Over seventy.”
“Must be tough for someone as young as you to have a father that old.”
“His age isn’t what makes it tough. It’s not his time anymore, and it pisses him off. He wishes Reagan was still president, arming the Contras in Nicaragua and firing air traffic controllers and scaring hell out of the Russians.”
“Long before you were born.”
“That, too. My mother says he was a good person back then. She says he was happy back then.”
“How well did he get along with Rush?” I said.
“The other McKenzie? I don’t think he liked him. Rush wore expensive suits and real cuff links, and the old man thought that was way too la-de-da for South Dakota. My mother liked him, though, even liked the cuff links. When he came over for dinner that one time, they talked up a storm, mostly about the Cities. Mom was from the Twin Cities. ’Course, that just made it worse as far as the old man was concerned, them liking each other. I gotta go. If you come back for dinner, make ’em seat you in my section, okay?”
“Okay.”
I watched as Saranne made her way back to the kitchen.
“How to win friends and influence people,” Tracie said. “You should give lessons.”
I left my chair and made my way to the restroom.
“Leave a generous tip,” I said over my shoulder.
I didn’t use the facilities, yet I washed my hands just the same. Afterward, I activated my cell phone and called a familiar number.
“Hello,” Shelby said.
“Hi, Shel.”
“McKenzie, where are you? Are you still in South Dakota?”
“I am.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad. Is Victoria around?”
“Upstairs.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Just a second.”
A minute later, Victoria was on the phone. She spoke as if I had forced her to put her life on pause. “What is it?”
“How would you like to make a quick fifty bucks?”
“Do I have to do anything illegal?”
“Of course not.”
“Dangerous?”
“No.”
“What’s the fun of that?”
“I want you to go online and find out if there are any high schools in Chicago that call their sports teams the Raiders.”
“Do you think the Imposter’s from Chicago?”
“You’ve been to Taste of Minnesota—”
“Where you can buy food from all those booths and they have free concerts.”
“Do you remember where is it?”
“Well, yeah. On Harriet Island, down by the river in St. Paul.”
“The Imposter said it was in Grant Park.”
“The place in Chicago where President Obama gave his victory speech after he won the election?”
“Correct.”
“I’m all over it.”
“That’s my girl. One more thing. What’s your computer password?”
“My password? I’m not going to tell you my password.”
“What I meant—if you wanted to hack into someone’s Facebook account or something, what password would you use?”
“I don’t know. Their name and birthday?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”