Blizzard Ball (22 page)

“I’m not. When my sister heard I was coming to Minnesota, she said my nephew was in a performance at the Guthrie and made me promise to take in the performance. She wants the full report on the little fag who couldn’t make it on the New York stage.”

“For a minute, I thought you’d gone cultural on me.”

“Let us get to the business,” Basarov said, leaning into Morty. “I don’t like being told there’s a problem. When you brought me the deal, Mr. Lottery Director, you said you had it teed up—a score so big you called it ‘fuck you’ money. You needed help to process your lottery equipment data. So, at considerable expense, I found the right guy for the job, a moonlighting professor in St. Petersburg with the computing power of God. Next, you needed a little mucking around in your ticket database to mess with the counts. Come the drawing, we hit on every number. When the professor tries to collect from the Canadian ticket brokers, he ends up dead meat. Next, I hear the deal’s been hijacked by some lowlife thieves who ripped off the winning lottery tickets we funded and are giving them away.”

Morty opened his mouth to speak.

“Enough!” Basarov slammed his drink on the table. The outburst brought frightened stares from two women seated at the next table. Basarov took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “You better get this thing cleaned up.” He jabbed a thick finger at Morty. “We all stand to make a boatload of money if we score the jackpot ticket. There will be consequences if we don’t. Comprehend?”

Morty did comprehend, all too well. He had met Basarov when they both lived in New York. Basarov came to him for accounting help in hopes of being bailed out from charges leveled by the feds over an illegal horse racing betting scheme. In the course of manipulating the books for Basarov, Morty witnessed firsthand what happened to those who crossed or failed Basarov, including the untimely disappearance of Basarov’s programmer who had been planted inside the New York City off-track betting operation. Morty’s inventive bookkeeping minimized Basarov’s legal trouble and created a big marker for Morty. When Morty was considering the possibilities for a venture partner for his lottery ploy, he looked no further than Basarov. Not only did Basarov understand the game, he had the necessary cash and technology contacts. He had hoped Basarov’s reputation for violence would be a non-issue.

“Relax,” Morty said with a forced smile that stretched his face like a rubber mask. “It’s under control. Just a trio of bungling local Mexican thieves. Two of them were flattened by a pig truck. The third bandit, a woman, is holding the winning jackpot ticket.”

“You sure?” Basarov pressed.

“I just came from the governor’s office,” Morty said, and sat back for the first time in the conversation, sensing Basarov had been momentarily pacified. “The woman’s scared, hiding out in southern Minnesota, near Albert Lea. She’s trying to leverage a back-door relationship with the governor for a get-out-of-jail card. And it appears the governor’s most willing to oblige. He’s up trying to clear a deal for her with the attorney general.” Morty hesitated. He hooked a finger under his chin and loosened his collar, not sure how to serve up the next piece of information. “There’s also a cop sniffing around, name’s Kirchner. He had the Mexican woman by the short hairs, but let her get away. I’m sure he’s pissed off. He could be trouble.”

The theater lights blinked, signaling the start of the performance.

“Screw the play,” Basarov said, tucking a playbill in his pocket. “Where’s Albert Lea?”

On the way to Albert Lea from the Twin Cities, Basarov stopped at Cabela’s, an outdoor outfitter on Interstate Highway 35. The display of animals momentarily took him off-task. He’d never seen so much taxidermy outside of a hunting lodge. He purchased snowshoes, white and gray winter camouflage coveralls, boots, a hat, a hunting knife, nylon rope, duct tape, a small backpack, and a flashlight. He looked at hunting rifles, but what caught his attention was the silent energy of a crossbow equipped with carbon arrows designed to travel at a terminal velocity of 343 feet per second.

Arriving in Albert Lea, Basarov went directly to the Casa Taco. At mid-afternoon, the place had a lazy feel to it. The staff was down to a single waitress and a cook. A group of women playing cards and a teenaged couple lingering over soft drinks were the only customers. He dropped into a booth.

A young ponytailed waitress shuffled up to his table and set down a menu.

“Burrito verde and a coffee, black,” Basarov promptly ordered, taking note of the waitress’s tattoo. “So, crop circles,” he noted.

“Wow, you really know your tats.” The waitress’s vacant expression brightened and opened to an eager smile, revealing colored braces bonded to her teeth. She extended her forearm to display a design resembling an unexplained geometric pattern

found in flattened crop fields that had made its way into skin art.

“That’s not really a tattoo, is it?”

“No, it’s henna. But in another year I’ll be eighteen, old enough to get a permanent tattoo.”

Basarov rolled up his sleeve to reveal an intricate vine pattern with a red-tongued snake intertwined. He indicated that the tattoo extended into a full scene on his back.

“Holy shit, that’s amazing,” the young waitress said in a too-loud voice. “Oops.” She covered her mouth and looked at the card-playing ladies to see if she had offended them. There was no reaction, so she continued softly, “Who did that?”

“Pavel.” Basarov clenched his fist, pumping up his forearm and withering the snake. “Have you heard of him?”

“No way! Pavel’s famous. He’s all over the Internet.”

“Got lucky, I guess.” Basarov shared that he had simply admired Pavel Arefiev’s work, with little sense that the Moscow tattoo artist would gain worldwide acclaim.

“Like, so, you’re from Russia? You don’t sound like anybody around here. I mean your accent and all.”

“What’s your name?”

“Francisca.”

“You related to the owner?”

“Yeah, Carlos, he’s my papa, but he’s not here right now.” Francisca slipped into the booth and sat across from Basarov, admiring his tattoo.

“Well, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a friend of your papa’s, a young woman, her name’s Alita.” Basarov leaned in, softened his voice, reeling her into his confidence. “I’m an insurance adjuster and I have a check to deliver on account of her cousin’s car accident. Need her to sign for it. Tragedy.”

“Yeah, those guys were always in trouble. I know Alita’s pretty torn up about it. She’s staying out with Brian. I think they’re serious. He’s an artist.” Francisca pointed to the paintings hung throughout the restaurant. “Lives out about seven miles on Route 23.”

“I’m not supposed to be talking to anyone about people’s insurance business, so I’d appreciate if you kept our conversation secret.” He dropped a twenty-dollar tip on the table.

“Your food!” Francisca slapped her forehead and slid out of the booth. ”Sorry, I’ll put a rush on it.”

“No worry. I’ll stop back after my business. Maybe I’ll show you the rest of my tattoo.”

Basarov passed Brian’s farmhouse and drove on another two miles before doubling back to a white clapboard steepled church he had passed about a half a mile from the farm. The plowed parking lot wrapped around to the rear of the church and provided an opportunity to conceal his car. Donning the Cabela’s gear and snowshoes, he laid down long strides of waffled tracks. A windrow of conifers provided concealment as well as respite from a biting northwest wind. In the distance, Brian’s yellow yard light shone like a Cyclops eye into the night. Basarov picked up on it and kept on point.

As he neared the farmhouse, he crested a knoll that provided an elevated view of the property. A dog bounded up the slight incline to the outermost perimeter of the yard light and barked into the night. Basarov tossed a beef jerky into the snow just beyond the reach of the light. The dog moved cautiously into the black night, head down, sniffing. Basarov set an arrow into the crossbow’s channel, cocked the weapon, and took aim at the dog. The dog circled, pawed at the ground, and dug the jerky out of the snow. The back door of the farmhouse opened halfway. A woman called for the dog, waited, called again, and gave up. Basarov lowered the bow, leaving the dog to chew on the treat.

From the shadows, Basarov saw the upper torso of a man periodically pass by a window at the hayloft level of the barn. An owl hooted, turning Basarov’s attention to the brilliant night sky. He traced Ursa Major to the top end of the dipper. Under those stars sat the farmhouse, the barn structure, and unsuspecting people. Cold breath steamed from Basarov’s nostrils as he considered his choices: take out the man or the woman first?

Kirchner sat in his office at the BCA feeling marooned. There was no antique car calendar on the wall, bowling trophy on the filing cabinet, or family pictures on his desk, the things that personalized the offices around him. Kirchner wasn’t into office nesting and avoided the headquarters and the politics as much as possible. He leaned back in his chair, his head tilted toward the ceiling, and thought about his wife. If he had stayed with her the carjacker would not have ripped her out of his life. He felt responsible for Bonnie too, failing to rescue her from the hands of a crazed miner. He picked up the photo of Alita Torres off his desk, her dark eyes seemed to be following him. He had been in contact with her twice, and each time he had screwed up. He always seemed to be out of step when he was needed most. He couldn’t bear the thought of adding another ghost to haunt him.

Tyler rolled into his office and sat down with the crime scene investigation report taken from Alita Torres’s apartment.

“We got a match on the ballistics between the shotgun blast at the Cash and Dash and the discharge in the apartment,” Tyler said. “Three different blood types were found. And from the volume of blood spilled, it’s guaranteed somebody didn’t make it out alive.”

Kirchner sat passively looking at Alita’s photo, listening for a clue that would help him locate her.

“Fingerprints matched the two deceased Mexicans who got crushed with the stolen lottery tickets near Luverne. The lottery ticket fragments were definitely from the BlizzardBall Lottery. Paper checks out. Not counterfeits. And here’s a blast from the past, Superman. Apparently you and Ms. Alita Torres flew off the side of a building together.”

“What?” Kirchner shot straight up in his chair.

“Yep, got the records from the child protection agency. She had a different last name back then, something about her mother’s multiple partners.”

“Holy shit,” he dropped the photo on the desk. How could he have missed the connection? Sure she was only seven at the time but he should have trusted his gut, those eyes, the feeling that only comes with sharing a traumatic experience.

“Damn,” he said, disgusted with himself, feeling a heightened sense of urgency to protect her. If only he coud get lucky again on her behalf.

“Tigers,” Tyler said.

“What?”

“We played them in the high school football sectional.” Tyler tapped the photo on Kirchner’s desk. “Their linemen weighed 250 pounds. Real hogs, bone crushers. Our team was down four points and pinned back on our ten with a minute left. We drove down and scored the winning touchdown just as time ran out. People in Albert Lea are still complaining it was the longest minute of football ever played.

“Albert Lea, as in the town?”

“Yeah,” Tyler turned the photo toward Kirchner. “See the Tiger hanging from the mortarboard tassel, and the colors, blue and red, not to mention the hicks she’s standing with. Absolutely Albert Lea.”

“How far is it from here?”

“Normally, an hour and a half, but got some snow moving in.”

“Call the highway patrol, let ’em know I’m running 35W hot with my lights on. Then get ahold of the local county sheriff and have him locate the whereabouts of Alita Torres. They are not to move in or apprehend without me. Tell them I’m on my way.”

Kirchner grabbed his coat and headed for the door, then hesitated. “What position did you play?

“I ran the scoreboard clock,” Tyler said.

Alita shouted through the closed bathroom door toward the sound of footsteps in the second floor hallway. “Brian, I’m in the bathtub.” She was soaking her ribs, still sore from the fight in her apartment. “Dog’s still out. Could you let him in?”

She could see that the light under the door was broken by someone standing there. The door handle turned, the door opened, and a dark figure filled the opening. Before Alita’s fear could fully register, Basarov reached the claw-foot bath tub. A hand snagged her by the hair and plunged her head under water. Shock and soapy water filled her throat and trapped her voice. She thrashed and fought for air. Basarov dragged her over the edge of the tub onto the bathroom floor. He slid her naked body like a wet seal out into the hallway, tossing her headfirst down the stairs. Family photos loosened from the wall crashed to the stairway and cartwheeled into her. Alita tried to move, protect herself, but could only muster enough strength to maneuver into a fetal ball. “Get up, punta.” Basarov threw her a towel and stagger-walked her into the kitchen, then twisted her arm until she was in a kneeling position. Brian was tied to a kitchen chair, his hands and feet bound. A wide piece of gray duct tape covered his mouth. His right eye was bruised and swollen.

“Ready to have a little chat?” Basarov ripped the duct tape off Brian. Patches of facial hair came with the tug. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Blood and spittle seeped from the corner of his mouth.

Basarov clamped a hand on Brian’s head and turned his bruised face toward Alita. “As the farm boy here knows, I am on a singular mission—to reclaim the lottery tickets you ripped off from me. And I don’t want any counterfeit shit. I’ve seen your little attic operation. I’m also aware, for whatever fucked-up reason, that you’ve given a bunch of our tickets away. But I am assuming you retained the jackpot ticket, and you’ll be prudent enough to surrender it.” He tipped Brian’s chair back on two legs against the stove.