Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (13 page)

Without ever breaking eye contact, Jorgensen picked up the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the nearby trash can. Ben smiled.

“I kept a copy, Chief. I’ll note the time and date of delivery.”

At the door, Ben stopped and looked back at the chief of police.

“By the way. McKenzie didn’t show up today and he’s not answering his department cell. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

“How would I know? You expect me to keep tabs on him?”

Ben sauntered toward the door, talking over his shoulder as he left. “I heard there was an opening for Chief’s Boy. Word has it McKenzie got the job.”

SEVENTEEN

McKenzie sat in the jailhouse hallway and tapped his open hand against the slender flask that hung heavy inside his coat pocket. He resisted the temptation to pull it out for a quick fix of bourbon, a little something to steady his nerves. It wasn’t fear. Hell, no. More like anticipation. The energy of the assignment. If anything, he needed to quell the rush he was feeling from the opportunity Jorgensen had laid out.

The two-hundred-sixty-mile drive to the Chippewa County Jail had given McKenzie plenty of time to think things over. A few months back he had been taxing petty dope dealers for chump change. Then old man Norgaard went down and Jorgensen stepped in. All restrictions had been lifted. McKenzie could do the math. Pretty soon he’d be closing in on six figures a month. And there’s no doubt, he told himself, Jorgensen’s got interests way beyond Newberg. Big interests. Profitable interests. If McKenzie could navigate this shit storm, whatever it entailed, and bring Jorgensen out unscathed on the other end, the chief might start to see him as partner material.

One thing was clear: Something about this Harlan Lee worried the new chief. Left him exposed. That knowledge could give McKenzie an advantage. Not now, but someday. The task at hand was to get as much out of Lipinski as possible. Find out what had Jorgensen concerned about Harlan Lee. Then make sure no one else got a damn thing out of Henry Lipinski.

“Yo, Doyle.” The deputy poked his head out of an open doorway. “Down here, man.”

McKenzie rose from the bench and looked up and down the long corridor. His boot heels echoed on the hard floor as he strode along. He shook the deputy’s extended hand and spoke in a low tone.

“We good, Billy? This shit has got to happen today.” McKenzie put the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills into the deputy’s outstretched hand. “There’s half now. The other half after the job is done.”

The deputy looked at the money. McKenzie picked up on the man’s hesitation.

“Believe me, Billy,” Doyle said, “this is gonna be good for both of us. I’m talking long-term good, brother.”

The money disappeared into a pants pocket and the deputy in the tan and green looked down the hallway one last time before shutting the door to the anteroom where he and McKenzie stood.

“Listen, Doyle. I don’t give two shits about some ex-cop who’s got a thing for kiddie porn, but this is going to raise a lot of eyebrows. They got this guy hooked up on a dozen federal charges. The FBI is coming in on Monday and probably transferring him to federal lockup in Saint Paul. Not to mention he’s got one prick of a lawyer. You sure you can handle the fallout on this?”

Doyle tapped the man, who appeared to be about ten years his junior, lightly on the chest with an open hand.

“We’ll be all right, you’ll see. I just need a few minutes with him. Then it’s on you.”

McKenzie paused for effect and was pleased to see the man swallow hard. McKenzie knew he had his attention.

“I told you when you came on that we’d be getting into some high-stakes poker. Don’t go folding on me now, you hear?”

“We got forty-five minutes before the next shift shows up,” the deputy said. “If you want to be sure this gets done right, you can have five of it. The lieutenant could stroll through here anytime, so get at it.”

The officer opened another door and motioned McKenzie through. In the next room, Henry Lipinski sat at a table, dressed in orange, his hands cuffed to the front. A guard hovered nearby.

McKenzie hadn’t seen Lipinski in a while. When he’d first hired on at Newberg, Lipinski had been in his second term as Florence County sheriff. Now he was just a frumpy old man, white hair going in a hundred directions and three days of gray stubble on his bloated chin. His lips were too red and his skin too pale. Guilty or not, McKenzie thought, the son of a bitch sure looks the part of a child molester.

Lipinski’s eyes fell on McKenzie, and he half stood in shock. The guard pushed on his shoulder, keeping him in the chair.

“Hey, Henry,” McKenzie said, enjoying the moment of surprise and superiority. “It’s been a lot of years.”

“Doyle McKenzie? What the hell are you doing here? You got something to do with this bullshit?” The old man’s voice rose. “You running a con on my ass? Because if you are, you better know I can still reach out and make bad things happen. Very bad things, Doyle.”

McKenzie ignored the threat and look toward the guard. “Give us a few minutes in private, will ya, deputy?”

When the man hesitated, McKenzie went on. “Don’t worry. Henry and I go way back. We’ll be fine. Ain’t that right, Henry?”

Lipinski remained silent. McKenzie winked at the guard. “We’ll be fine. Really.”

The guard left the room, and when they were alone, McKenzie turned his attention to Lipinski.

“Damn, Henry.” McKenzie kept his voice low. “You need to calm down. I’m here to help. Walter Jorgensen sends his regards.”

At the mention of the chief’s name, Lipinski’s attitude abruptly changed.

“Jorgensen? Walter sent you? Look, whatever he thinks, I’m telling you, I’m out of the game. I sell junk-ass cars to shit-kicker farmers. I got nothing going on that would concern Walter Jorgensen.”

McKenzie sat in the chair on his side of the table, the disheveled heap before him.

“Henry, Walter wants to help. He sent me to try to get to the bottom of this. Hell, man. He knows you ain’t no pedophile.”

Lipinski’s chin quivered and his eyes began to swim.

“You gotta believe me, Doyle, I got no clue how any of that shit got on my computer. Jesus. They say they got pictures of kids doing all kinds of nasty stuff; they got records of files going all over the country. Hell, man. I can’t hardly send a damn e-mail. I got an entire geek squad that handles all that shit.”

McKenzie looked at his watch. Time was running out. He didn’t need Lipinski carrying on about his innocence.

“Listen, Henry, Walter wanted me to tell you something. An old associate of yours, Harlan Lee, was released a few weeks back. He got out and fell right off the planet. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

Lipinski’s face went from pale to ghost white. McKenzie thought the man was going to throw up.

After several seconds, he spoke, the words coming slow. “Jesus. Lee is out? Why didn’t I get a call, for Christ sake? Seems to me that one of you active-duty sons of bitches oughta have been on top of this.”

McKenzie lit a cigarette and offered one to Lipinski, who took it eagerly with a shaking hand. McKenzie pulled on the flask but kept it to himself even when Lipinski’s mouth seemed to water at the sight. The old man settled for a deep drag off a non-filtered smoke, while McKenzie answered the hanging question.

“You didn’t get a call, Henry, because, what did you just say? You’re ‘out of the game’? You walked off and no one minded the store,” McKenzie said. “Now he’s out.”

Lipinski’s voice took on a tone of desperation. “It’s him, Doyle. This is Lee.”

“That’s what Walter sent me to find out,” McKenzie lied. He wanted to see what he could get out of Lipinski that might be of use to him.

“All I know is that hayseed little bastard pled guilty. He got twenty-five to life. Shit, they could’ve kept him another ten years.” Lipinski said. “I swear, the pussy liberals are ruining this state.”

“You have any contact with him after he got locked up?” McKenzie asked.

“Not with him, but I kept his old man under my thumb. Old Jed never made another dime after that day that I know of. Lived like a goddamn pauper in that old shack of his until he died, ten or twelve years ago. That was the whole idea. Take him out of the game.”

“So you’re telling me…” McKenzie stopped and corrected himself. “Or more important, you’re telling Walter Jorgensen you’re straight-up innocent of all this kiddie-porn shit? You’re saying someone put the hex on your ass?”

“Hell, yeah. I told you. I got no interest in any of that perverted shit, financial or otherwise. I’m a car salesman. That’s it. This shit has got Harlan Lee written all over it.”

“Tell me this, Henry.” McKenzie spoke slowly. “How much did Lee figure out about the Newberg connections? I mean, you handled the case and all that shit up in Florence. How much came out at trial?”

“There wasn’t a trial. Just the preliminary hearing, and it went right by the numbers. Not even a ripple in the water. That pencil-neck district attorney … uh … Petite, that was it. With the gun arrest coming out of Newberg, the case was rock solid and he didn’t bat an eye. Just like we thought. Walter put that straitlaced Boy Scout on it. You know? What was his name?”

McKenzie remembered the arrest report. “Norgaard.”

“Yeah. That was it. Petite put Norgaard on the stand at the prelim, and he stuck it to Harlan. Kid had no choice but to plead. After that we all moved on.”

McKenzie didn’t care about Petite and Norgaard.

“So what about Jorgensen? Is he gonna be on Harlan’s hit list?”

“Shit, Doyle. Haven’t you learned anything? Jorgy knew better than to put his name on any shit like this.” Lipinski’s voice took on a tone of stubborn admiration. “Jorgy always was good at keeping his hands clean.”

McKenzie saw no reason to give Henry any more background. Shit, the old sheriff might have a coronary right on the spot if he found out Petite was locked up three counties to the north.

Lipinski suddenly grabbed McKenzie by the hand. His cuffed wrists scraped across the wooden table. The lit cigarette spilled ash.

“Doyle, this is Lee. It’s gotta be. You guys need to get me outta here. We can hunt his ass down. I still got plenty of muscle on the street. Hell, tell Walter if he’ll get me clear of this shit, I’ll take care of Lee myself. I know the boy. Eventually he’s going back to the homestead. Nobody knows that forest like I do.”

McKenzie had what he needed, and Lipinski’s desperation told him it was time to play the hole card. High-stakes poker. Time to step up.

“I got no issues with that, Henry. Really, I don’t.” The hesitation in his voice came through just as intended. “But it’s really not up to me. You know that.”

Lipinski’s face lit up with hope, his fish lips going strong.

“Listen, Doyle. I got over a million in inventory on my lots right now. One phone call and I can have a hundred grand. You want cash? Gold? You tell me. It’s done. I just gotta know you got my back on this. That you’ll get to Walter and tell him I’m good. Help figure a way to work me out of this shit, eh, Doyle?”

“Make a phone call, Henry?” McKenzie took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “That’s all you need to do?”

Lipinski tossed the smoke on the cement floor and snatched McKenzie’s phone with both hands. The cuffs made him clumsy, but he pushed the buttons with shaking fingers. The conversation took less than two minutes and sounded to McKenzie like a load of money was definitely getting moved around. When Lipinski got off the phone, he was direct and to the point.

“There’ll be a hundred large, cash, in room eight at the Chippewa Falls Motor Inn in an hour. A black case in the back of the closet. The key will be under the mat. Don’t take too long getting there. We good? You’ll talk to Walter for me?”

“Yeah, Henry. I’ll be sure to give Chief Jorgensen a full report.”

McKenzie stood and gave a sharp rap on the locked door. A moment later the door opened and the two guards came in, looking grim. McKenzie nodded his head at the deputy from the earlier hallway conversation.

“These fellas are going to take you back to your cell now, Henry.”

Lipinski looked at the guards leering back at him. He seemed to clue in on what had been finality in McKenzie’s voice.

“Son of a bitch. Come on, McKenzie,” Lipinski pleaded. “I ain’t going to talk to nobody. Hell, what would I say that wouldn’t make me sound like a crazy-ass cop trying to beat a porn rap?”

“It ain’t nothing personal, Henry. I always enjoyed our dealings.”

Lipinski stood up, his large frame quaking like a three-hundred-pound bowl of orange Jell-O. “Let me call my family. My kids. Just give me a few minutes on the phone.”

McKenzie thought about the money that was probably already on its way to the motel room. His money. He wasn’t going to risk Lipinski making any more phone calls.

McKenzie looked at the guard. “No calls, Billy. Straight back to his cell.”

Lipinski walked toward the guards, then turned back to McKenzie. When he spoke, it was without fear or submission.

“You should know, McKenzie, you’ve always been seen as nothing more than a kiss-ass punk. Hell, when you first came on and were trying to get in with Jorgy, man, he used to love to talk about you. He said he could probably whore you out on a street corner to the boys in Milwaukee and you’d take a dick right up the ass if it meant a buck in your pocket and an ‘atta boy’ thrown your way.”

McKenzie puffed on his cigarette and was ashamed to see that his hand trembled. He knew that everyone in the room picked up on it. Lipinski, a man who knew he was down to his last minutes on earth, managed a smile.

“Enjoy your time in the sun, Doyle. Something tells me it’s gonna be a short run.”

An hour later McKenzie was on the road to Newberg, a hundred thousand to the good. He enjoyed a long taste off his flask, Merle Haggard blaring. In the dying light of the day, he cruised along at eighty-five miles per hour, putting distance between himself and the words of Henry Lipinski. A jerk-off has-been who even now probably dangled from the end of a bedsheet.