CHAPTER

1

MINNEAPOLIS DETECTIVE LEO Magozzi was relishing the early-morning peace of an empty homicide pen. On the days he didn’t hitch a ride with his partner Gino, he always made a point of getting to City Hall before anyone else. He’d brew a fresh pot of coffee, check in with any stragglers who were still in-house after pulling all-nighters on a case, then enjoy the solitude and the view of the street from his desk.

When you weren’t tangled up in it, there was something oddly restful about watching downtown’s morning rush-hour. Vehicles, pedestrians, and light rail trains all swirled together in a chaotic, graceless dance, careening around each other as they forged ahead to their destinations. No matter how messy your mind was, the scene unfolding outside the window was a lot messier, and it brought some perspective that cleared your head. His was already clear this morning, so the view wasn’t therapeutic, it was theater, but equally enjoyable to watch. Especially this morning, because he wasn’t outside anymore, battling the subzero temperature and congested streets.

A thin veil of snow was blowing over the city, more an ominous mist than proper winter precipitation. The snowflakes weren’t the plump, intricately lacy kind that floated happily down from a warmer sky—they were the bitter, constipated pellets that accompanied ungodly cold temperatures.

In elementary school, Magozzi had always been fascinated by textbook photographs of magnified snowflakes, so dazzling in their beauty and diversity. He imagined that if he looked at one of these pseudo-flakes under a microscope he would see a contorted, angry emoticon with fangs and demonic red eyes.

“It’s supposed to be too cold to snow,” his partner Gino Rolseth groused, as he walked into their cubicle, carrying the outdoor chill with him. He was mummified in a huge parka with a funnel hood that was suitable for an Antarctic expedition.

“That’s a myth. It’s never too cold to snow.”

“Obviously.” He began the long process of shedding his layers.

“That’s it?” Magozzi asked with disappointment.

“What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”

“I mean, where’s the fuming tirade over winter in Minnesota? At this point in January, you’re usually gnashing your teeth and tipping over desks. You speak for millions of Minnesotans and we count on you to give voice to our grievances.”

Gino rubbed his cheeks, trying to thaw them. “This is what acceptance looks like, Leo. There comes a time when every warrior must lay down his sword. It’s like struggling with a terminal illness—you fight like hell even when you don’t have the juice for it, and then you keep fighting some more. And one day it finally settles in, the fact that your destiny is no longer in your control. I’ve been defeated by Mother Nature and I’m at peace with that.”

Magozzi tapped his pen thoughtfully on his desk. “It’s supposed to be seventeen below tonight,” he goaded him.

“Really? I didn’t hear. I stopped watching the weather.”

“We might not go above zero for the next seven days.”

Gino took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then slammed his fist on his desk. “Goddamnit, Leo! Why did you have to shatter my happy place?”

“Because it hurts me deeply to see you vanquished.”

Detective Johnny McLaren walked into the office in a smart tweed overcoat. It wasn’t appropriate for the weather and it definitely wasn’t appropriate for McLaren, who could come into work wearing a polka-dot sharkskin suit or a garbage bag without anybody giving him a second glance. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold and clashed horribly with his carrot-colored hair. “Who’s vanquished?”

“Gino. He gave up bitching about the weather.”

“Who hasn’t? There’s no point—plus dwelling on it just pisses you off more than you already are.”

“You are looking straight-up debonair this morning,” Gino praised him. “Did you get kidnapped by a stylist or did Gloria finally convince you to stop Dumpster-diving for your wardrobe?”

“Funny, Rolseth, but the joke’s on you. There’s a live wire waiting to zap you.” He whistled and twirled his finger around his ear. “Nutters. Some self-proclaimed psychic who says she’s here to report a homicide that hasn’t happened yet. She won’t talk to anybody but you and Leo. Apparently you two have a lot of street cred with crazy people.”

“How the hell do you know this? You just walked in.”

“Gloria told me. It’ll be coming down the pipeline any minute, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

Magozzi thought of their administrator, a big, bold, gorgeous African-American woman who kept Homicide tuned like a Formula One Ferrari and McLaren in a perpetual state of lovesickness. She was the perfect combination of street fighter and benevolent despot, and there was nothing that didn’t go through her first. “Gloria doesn’t cotton to bullshit of any kind. Why didn’t she kick her out?”

“She desperately wanted to, but the new department regs are cramping her slash-and-burn approach. The lady’s ID checked out and she’s an upstanding, tax-paying citizen with a successful fortune-telling business downtown, a few blocks from here. And where would we be if we didn’t take premonitions seriously?”

“In front of a judge, being gutted by a lawyer from the American Civil Liberties Union and getting the Minneapolis Police Department sued into insolvency for prejudice against charlatans,” Gino snarked.

Magozzi nodded. “If we don’t talk to her, we’ll be on Death Row by nightfall. So did you end up getting a new furnace, McLaren?”

“Yeah, and it cost me a bundle. But since you took ten grand off the house’s list price, I actually made five off the deal. Better than a night of poker.”

“That kind of pisses me off, you cheap bastard, but you’re welcome. When’s the house-warming party so I can drink all your beer and revel in the fact that I don’t own it anymore?”

“Next month sometime, but you don’t have to bring anything, Leo, you already covered that in spades. Rolseth, you’re still on the hook. Top-shelf booze is good, in case you’re struggling to come up with the perfect gift.”

Gino grunted. “I’m not struggling, I have a six-pack of malt liquor freezing in my trunk right now with your name on it. I just have to go down to my basement and dig some ribbon and a bow out of Angela’s Christmas stash.”

McLaren gave him an appreciative smile. “Don’t worry about the ribbon or the bow.”

“Are you sure? It would be the most expensive part of the gift.”