The big-box store where Ryan Hayes worked was all but deserted when I arrived. He had lingered at the entrance while his fellow employees filed out, telling them that he was waiting for a ride. “What’s her name?” some of them asked, and Ryan would look embarrassed like a teenager might; only he wasn’t embarrassed. He was frightened.
“McKenzie, I need this job,” he had told me over the phone.
He also said that a trio of older men had appeared at the customer service desk an hour earlier and asked for him. Thinking that they were just that—customers looking for service—the clerk directed them to the milling department. Only instead of going there, they asked when Ryan would be getting off. She told them what time the store closed, and the men left. She mentioned all this to Ryan when she saw him later. He contacted me, using the number on the card I had given him.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” he said. “The only friends I have are the people I work with, but if I keep bringing trouble into the store…”
I holstered the SIG Sauer to my hip—I had removed it when I went to see Bobby and Kayla—and drove to meet him.
The lights near the entrance were as bright as they had been when the store was open. Ryan stood beneath them while he waited for me, wearing a heavy coat, gloves, and a hat yet still rocking against the cold. He was clearly visible from a distance, which I thought was a good thing. I didn’t want the boys to become confused.
I pulled to a stop in front of the door. Ryan hesitated. I powered down the passenger window of the Mustang and called to him.
“Get in,” I said.
He hesitated some more but eventually opened the door, and slid inside.
“This is a really nice car,” he said.
“Thank you.” I gestured at the half-dozen other vehicles still in the parking lot. “Are any of these yours?”
“No, I take the bus.”
I put the car in gear and drove slowly toward the exit. One of the parked cars was started and began following behind us; it didn’t turn on its headlights until it reached the street.
“What are we going to do?” Ryan asked.
“I thought we’d let them follow us around for a bit and then ask them what they want.”
“You know who they are, right?”
“Like I told you over the phone, if I had to guess, I’d say it was Stuart Moore, Fred Herrman, and Ted Poyer.”
“My father’s friends.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How do you know them?”
“We had a lengthy conversation this afternoon.”
“About what?”
“The money.”
“That’s why they want to mess with me, too, isn’t it? The money.”
“If they had just wanted to say hello, they would have walked right up to you and said hello.”
“Bastards are as rotten as my old man.”
“I got that impression, although…” I told him what Poyer had told me at Everson’s Cozy Corner.
Ryan thought about it and said, “I don’t believe him.”
“It’s possible that they don’t mean you any harm whatsoever,” I said.
“What do you think?”
“Better to be safe than sorry. Are you hungry? I know where we can get some great tacos.”
Ryan stared at me as if he were trying to see inside my head.
“I could eat,” he said.
“My treat,” I told him.
When Ryan went to prison, Minnesota had about half a dozen breweries and no brewpubs; I’m not even sure they had been invented yet. Now there were more than one hundred and seventy, and while they were all happy to pour you a glass or a growler of craft beer in their taprooms, only a handful actually had kitchens. The rest made do by teaming up with an astonishing array of food trucks that served everything from soup to lutefisk in their parking lots or from the curbs outside their front doors. Some of them were so popular that customers tracked their movements on their smartphones. One of my favorites was called Street Legal Tacos.
The way I explained it to Ryan, when most people think tacos they envision crunchy hard corn shells or fluffy flour tortillas loaded with beans, cheese, veggies, and ground beef. Street Legal stuffed their smaller tortillas with breaded and fried tilapia or slow-cooked pork or grilled chicken or chopped sirloin and very little else. I ordered one of each plus a side of Mexican slaw. Ryan didn’t have a preference, so he ordered what I ordered.
He took a bite and said, “This is incredible.”
“Right?” I said.
Street Legal was parked in the lot next to a brewpub that had taken over an aging factory inside an industrial park located along the northern border of Minneapolis and St. Paul; I had no idea which city we were in. Because of the fourteen-degree temperature, most of the truck’s customers carried their food into the pub. Ryan and I were the only people sitting at one of the picnic tables arranged outside. That way I could carefully watch the car that had followed us there while pretending not to. It wasn’t difficult. The industrial park was virtually empty at that time of night; nearly all of the traffic was centered on the brewpub.
The car was parked near the entrance to the parking lot a long way from the front door of the pub. The occupants remained inside while Ryan and I ate, their car running, its exhaust snatched away by the wind. They waited and waited and waited some more, and I began to wonder what they were waiting for. Did they think that once we were finished eating, Ryan and I would grab a couple of shovels and start digging?
Customers came and went, cars entered and left the parking lot, and still they waited. I sent Ryan inside the brewpub. Five minutes later, he returned with a couple of glasses of beer, which was illegal. The alcohol was supposed to be kept inside. No one said anything, though, so we sat at the table sipping our beverages. Ryan said the beer tasted better than the ones he had when the BOP first kicked him loose, yet he still wasn’t sure if he liked it. I told him my girlfriend wasn’t a beer drinker either, that she preferred European ciders. Ryan said he thought he might give one a try sometime.
After a few minutes, the doors of the parked car opened and three men slipped out. I couldn’t recognize them from that distance in the dark, but as they approached I realized that I had guessed right—Moore, Herrman, and Poyer. They approached in a semicircle as if they knew what they were doing.
A fourth man emerged from a car parked several spaces to the left of where the boys had parked. He came up from behind them. My first thought was that he was a brewpub patron. I changed my mind when I noticed that he kept pace with the boys, neither losing nor gaining ground on them.
“Anything happens, I want you to make a run for the brewpub,” I said. “Call for help.”
“Why?” Ryan asked. “Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”
“You just got out of the joint. Do you really want to deal with the cops?”
Ryan watched me watching the three men approaching us. I kept thinking of him as being much younger than he was. Probably that was a mistake.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Whatever is necessary,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I got this.”
Since when? my inner voice wanted to know.
Moore, Herrman, and Poyer halted well beyond striking distance yet close enough so that we could talk without shouting, the picnic table between us.
The fourth man halted twenty yards behind them, lingering in the shadows.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“We want to talk to Ryan,” Stuart said.
“Go ’head.”
“In private.”
“Ryan, do you want to talk to these guys in private?”
“No,” Ryan said.
“Don’t be like that,” Stuart said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”
“You say that like we’re friends,” Ryan said. “When were we ever friends?”
“We watched you grow up.”
“You watched my old man abuse me every day of my life and did nothing about it except sometimes you laughed.”
“Listen, kid—”
Ryan stood slowly.
“Who the fuck are you calling kid, you shriveled up old bitch?” he asked.
Herrman raised his hands like a man saying no to a second helping of pie. He did it so abruptly that my right hand sought the butt of the SIG Sauer. I released the gun when I was convinced that he meant nothing by it. Poyer saw me do it, though, and took a step backward.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ryan, for what happened to you. We should have looked out for you a little bit, and we didn’t. We should have come forward when you were arrested to tell the court what Leland was all about, and we didn’t. We’re sorry.”
“Yeah, we’re sorry,” Stuart said, although I didn’t believe him.
“I’m sorry,” Poyer said. “We didn’t come here to dredge up bad memories.”
“Why did you come looking for me?” Ryan asked.
“Cuz of the money, why else?” Stuart said.
“If I knew where it was, do you think I’d share it with you?”
“We were thinking if you didn’t know where it was that maybe we could, you know, compare notes,” Poyer said. “Try to figure it out. It would be good for everybody. You could take half; we’ll split the rest.”
The way their heads snapped toward him, I knew that neither Stuart nor Herrman had agreed to Poyer’s plan for dividing the wealth, yet they didn’t debate the issue.
“In that case, why don’t you grab something to eat and join us?” I said. “They have a steak taco with lime and cilantro—”
“If I wanted spic food I woulda stayed on the East Side,” Stuart said.
“That’s why you have so many friends, Moore. Why your neighbors are so happy whenever they see you. You bring joy wherever you go.”
“Fuck you, McKenzie.”
Ryan edged past me and circled the picnic table. It took him three long strides to reach Stuart. Stuart started to speak but was unable to get a word out before Ryan slapped him hard across the face.
He wasn’t wearing gloves, and the sound of skin striking skin was so loud that the guys in the food truck forty yards away looked up.
Stuart glared at Ryan with such anger that I knew if he had a weapon he would have killed him.
“Just so you know, my best friend is Hispanic,” Ryan said. “Mexican, actually. His family is from Juárez.”
“I don’t give a fuck who—”
Stuart was interrupted when Ryan slapped him again, this time with the back of his hand. He stumbled backward. The expression on his face changed from anger to something else. From where I was standing, it looked a lot like fear.
“You were about to say something,” Ryan said. “Go ’head.”
“If you think—”
Ryan slapped him a third time. Stuart crumbled to his knees and cradled his face. He went into another one of his coughing fits.
“I can do this all day,” Ryan said. “How ’bout you?”
Stuart shook his head. There were tears in his eyes.
Ryan turned and retreated to his place at the picnic table. He winked as he passed me.
Okay, not a kid. Not even close.
“Guys,” I said. “You know, it takes a lot longer to heal when we get older. I play hockey—”
“Do you really?” Ryan said.
“When I was a kid I’d take a hit and get up the next morning like nothing happened. I take the same hit today and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. So instead of slapping each other around, whaddaya say we talk it over?”
Apparently Stuart didn’t like the idea. He stood slowly, turned, and stumbled back toward the car; he looked as if he might die before he got there. The way he kept coughing, I was willing to take bets.
Herrman turned his gaze to Stuart, to Ryan, and back to Stuart again before he followed after.
They both passed the fourth man, who simply stood in the parking lot, his arms folded over his chest like a theatergoer wondering if this was it, if this was what he bought a ticket for.
I know you, my inner voice said.
Poyer, on the other hand, walked right up to the picnic table where Ryan and I were standing, the table between us.
“Aren’t you afraid your friends will leave without you?” I asked.
He patted his jacket pocket where his keys were.
“My car,” he said. “Ryan, I am sorry. I’m as big an asshole as you think I am. I wish I could go back and change that, but you can never go back, can you? I am sorry, though. As for the money—we didn’t have anything to offer you. No ideas at all. The only thing we could think of was that Leland stashed it at your house, but the FBI searched that, didn’t they?”
Ryan nodded.
“We were hoping you knew about secret panels or some shit,” Poyer added.
“I don’t,” Ryan said.
“Yeah. We figured you were more likely to help us than we were to help you. I’m sorry. I know I keep repeating myself, but I don’t know what else to say. I hope you have a good life for the rest of your life.” Poyer offered his hand. “I hope you’re happy.”
Ryan shook Poyer’s hand. “You, too,” he said.
Poyer turned and walked back toward his car. Ryan and I watched him go. The fourth man waited until Poyer passed him before walking toward us.
“C’mon, McKenzie,” Ryan said. “I’ll buy you a beer.”
We went inside the brewpub. It was loud and filled mostly with people who were fifteen to twenty years younger than we were. We found an unoccupied table, and Ryan ordered a beer made with puréed blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries, which he claimed was the best thing he ever drank. Hell, maybe it was. I had a pint of pale ale that was nothing special.
It was brighter inside, and it gave me a chance to study Ryan’s face under the lights without him noticing, especially his eyes, mouth, and chin.
Jesus, my inner voice said. He does look a little like Jackson Cane. Could they really be half brothers?
Should I tell him? I asked myself. Tell him about Jackson?
Hell no. Of all the things that are none of your damn business, this has to be number one on the list.
“So what happens next?” Ryan asked.
“I’m sure the boys will keep their distance from now on. Especially Stuart. I doubt you’ll ever see them again.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I gestured toward the door. Ryan turned, and together we watched Karl Anderson glancing right and left as if he were searching for his friends. Instead he found us, smiled, and moved toward our table.
There was a tinge of concern in Ryan’s voice when he asked, “Who’s that?”
By then Anderson had reached the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I got tired of waiting. It’s cold outside, you know?”
“Ryan,” I said. “This is Karl Anderson. He’s a private investigator working for Hannah Braaten.”
“The psychic babe?”
“You know what?” I said. “That’s what they should call the TV show. Not Model Medium.”
“I agree,” Anderson said. He gestured at an empty chair. “May I?”
I gestured at the chair, too, and Anderson sat.
“What TV show?” Ryan asked. “Wait? You work for Hannah? What are you doing here?”
“I followed you from the store. Actually, I followed the three men who were following you. For a second there, I thought I might have to step in, but you guys seemed to have the situation under control.”
“But why were you following us?”
“The money,” I said.
“Goddammit, I don’t know where the money is,” Ryan said. “Besides, why should you care?”
“Hannah—” Anderson said.
“The woman doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?” Ryan said.
“It’s because of the TV show,” I said.
“What TV show?” Ryan repeated.
“They’re hoping to make a TV show about Hannah’s life—”
“You mean like that woman in New York?”
“She thinks that finding the money would go a long way toward getting it on the air.”
“God, it’s like a curse,” Ryan said. “The curse of Leland Hayes. Forget TV. It should be a goddamn horror movie.”
Just then the waitress returned, and we ordered more beers, including an IPA for Anderson. Ryan wagged a finger at the detective.
“You’ve been spying on me,” he said. “Stop it.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ll tell Hannah and Esti tomorrow that this is a waste of man-hours,” Anderson said.
Ryan sipped more of his fruity beer and glanced around the brewpub as if he were at the Minnesota State Fair and this was the best people-watching he had ever encountered. Finally he turned back to Anderson.
“What should I do?” he asked.
Anderson shrugged.
Ryan turned his eyes on me. “McKenzie, what should I do?”
“I don’t know. I’m at the point now where I’m ready to ignore all this nonsense and hope it goes away.”
“Except now I really want to find all that money,” Ryan said. “I didn’t at first, but after everything that’s happened…” A girl walked past, and Ryan’s eyes followed her as if he had never seen one before. “I’d just like to put a period to it, you know? Slam the door on the first half of my life and get on with the rest, try to make it better. Finding the money and turning it in would help me do that.”
“I get that, I really do,” I said. “Only, I am fresh out of ideas.”
Ryan continued to watch the young men and women sitting and standing around us.
Eventually he said, “I have a thought.”
“Feel free to share,” Anderson told him.
“What would you do if the old man were still alive?”
“I’d probably conduct close surveillance,” I said. “Make sure there was nowhere he could go that I couldn’t follow. And then I’d do whatever I could to rattle his cage.”
“Why?”
“Leland wasn’t the trusting type. I don’t mean just trusting other people, I mean trusting the world. He’d want to stay close to the money. He’d want to be able to check on it every once in a while to make sure that it was still there. If you could agitate him enough, make him wonder enough, eventually he’d lead you straight to it.”
Anderson hoisted his beer. “I like it,” he said.
“Rattle his cage, then,” Ryan told me.
“The man’s been dead for twenty-some years. I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”
“There’s a show I watch on the Travel Channel,” Ryan said. “About ghost hunters. What they do, they set up their equipment at all these haunted hotels and asylums, whatever, and then they try to provoke the ghosts by insulting them, calling them names, questioning their manhood. ’Course, whenever they get a reaction, they start screaming like little girls. No—that’s not fair. Most little girls are way braver then those guys.”
“Do you think that Leland would respond to that kind of treatment?” I asked.
“He was a bully. I know bullies. Trust me on this, McKenzie. Most of the men I knew inside were bullies. They had to prove that they were tough every day of their lives. None of them could take an insult.”
“Do you think insulting him would rattle Leland’s cage?”
Ryan shook his head as if he weren’t sure of the answer.
The three of us sat drinking quietly for a few minutes. Ryan spent most of them watching the young people around him. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice the waitress approach and ask if he wanted another beer.
“Sir?” she said.
“Hmm?”
“Sir?” She pointed at his near-empty glass. “Another?”
“Umm, no, I’m good, thank you.”
The waitress moved away.
“I’m a ‘sir’ now,” Ryan said. “I’m nearly forty and I’ve never been twenty.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.
Ryan finished his beer and set the empty glass down on the table.
“Do you know what rattles my cage, McKenzie?” he asked. “Pretty girls.”