Blizzard Ball (23 page)

Brian’s eyes darted like a spooked fish, the chords on his neck bulged with palpable fear. “I told him we don’t have it,” Brian spit out, “couldn’t find it in the FedEx boxes, your apartment or your car. If we had it, we’d give the damn thing up. I’ll make you the winning ticket.” Brian’s heart hammered. Lines of sweat rolled down his arms and dripped onto the floor. “It will be perfect. I’ll even redeem it for you.”

“Not what I want to hear.” Basarov turned on the stove’s gas burner. Brian’s long hair ignited like a dry Christmas tree. He shook his head wildly and screamed, surged against the restraints, rattling the chair against the floor. Alita, stunned by the flash of fire, froze. The shock pressed down on her like a millstone. She heard the sizzle of twisting burnt hair and her nostrils were filled with the foul smell of sulfur. Throwing off the horror, she pulled the chair back from the burner, stripped off her towel, and padded out the fire.

Alita collapsed to the foot of the chair, hugging Brian’s waist. “I’m sorry, Brian.” Her words came in gushes and sobs. “I got you into this. I got Rafie and Eduardo into this. I’m to blame.” She looked up. Brian only moaned. Blisters had formed on his forehead. “Let him go. He needs help. We don’t have your fucking lottery ticket!” Alita screamed. The rage in her fired like a rocket. She charged blindly in a flailing attack on Basarov.

Basarov met her with an open hand that spun her across the room like a playful kitten. She tried to brace herself as he came after her with a raised fist, but his strike was interrupted by the swing of the kitchen door. Alita heard the thump of a bow followed by the sickening crack of shattered bone. The arrow struck Basarov in the upper thigh. He staggered, dropped to one knee, and gripped the arrow with both hands; blood leaked down his leg and pooled on the floor. Carlos suddenly appeared and shouted orders in Spanish. The farmhouse kitchen quickly filled with Mexican workers, some of whom Alita recognized. Two men grabbed Basarov underneath the arms and another attended to Brian. Carlos stripped the slipcover off the sofa and wrapped it around Alita. She stared without a drop of sympathy at the twisted, anguished face of her tormentor as he was led out.

Carlos had found his daughter sitting outside the restaurant at closing time, hanging out. He could sense she was waiting for someone. After some stern coaxing, Francisca had confided in him about the stranger with the tattoo. It was nothing more than curiosity, she assured him. Repeated calls to both Brian and Alita went unanswered. Carlos knew something was wrong, so he drove by the migrant housing camp and gathered up some reinforcements. They walked in from the road and found some of Basarov’s gear in the barn where he had taken Brian captive.

With Brian and Alita attended to, Carlos stepped outside and instructed his men to take the intruder’s wallet and car keys. He pointed to Basarov’s snowshoes and singled out one of the men to retrace the tracks back to Basarov’s car and drive it to a chop shop, where the parts would be broadcast all the way to California.

“What about him?” one of Carlos’ posse members asked.

“Find out who he’s working with and take him over to Glazier’s place.”

“Cerdo?” The man hesitated. He looked to Carlos for confirmation.

“You heard me, expedir.”

Old man Glazier owned a small hog operation. His hogs were known to be opportunistic eaters.

Carlos watched the men load Basarov, who was showing obvious signs of shock, into a pickup truck. He then went to the barn and torched it.

Kirchner met the local sheriff and two deputies in Albert Lea. It hadn’t taken much investigative work to determine where Alita was staying. Any uncertainty about how to get to Brian Hutton’s farm was short-lived as the flames snapping at the night sky drew them in like nocturnal insects.

Alita had dressed and was attending to Brian’s burns in the kitchen.

“Police!” the sheriff yelled, in the company of Kirchner, as they came through the back door, guns drawn. Two deputies likewise entered through the front door.

Kirchner spotted Alita with an injured man. “On the floor!” the sheriff shouted. Alita and Brian dropped to their knees in Basarov’s bloody tracks. Kirchner met Alita’s eyes. “You all right?”

“Yes, but Brian needs attention. He’s badly burned.”

“We’ll call in the paramedics,” Kirchner said evenly. To show sympathy would undermine an unfolding situation that he needed to keep as tight as a gallows noose.

A deputy herded Carlos from the living room into the kitchen with Alita and Brian. Carlos was holding a phone. The deputy ordered him to drop it and get down.

“Who’s in charge?” Carlos asked, standing firm.

“I’m Agent Kirchner of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Kirchner said, extending an unwarranted courtesy. “Now do as the deputy says.”

“Then this call is for you,” Carlos said, setting the phone on the kitchen counter and clicking on the speaker button. Kirchner looked at the phone cautiously, fearing it could be an explosive device.

“This is the governor of the State of Minnesota,” said the phone, “Agent Kirchner, pick up.” Kirchner gave Carlos a studied look and picked it up. “I want the three suspects at hand to be released on their own recognizance until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, when they and you will meet in my Capitol office.”

The governor’s secretary escorted Kirchner into the governor’s office.

“We got lucky,” the governor said, pointing Kirchner to a chair. “It could have been worse.” He gave a slight nod toward Alita. She removed her large glam sunglasses.

In the light of day, Kirchner could see the bruises on her forehead and blackened eye. Sitting next to her was Brian, his head bandaged like a mummy, and Carlos the one-armed man.

At the governor’s prompting, Alita related her involvement in the convenience store robbery, the subsequent accidental death of the Irishman who stormed her apartment, Brian’s counterfeiting, and her encounter with Roddy and Gisele from the Canadian lottery operation. Carlos added that the assailant who attacked Alita and Brian in Albert Lea professed to be part of Morty’s lottery swindle. How Carlos specifically came by this information or the whereabouts of the aggressive Russian visitor was unclear. Alita, however, denied her cousins were responsible for the Cash and Dash owner’s murder.

The governor requested immunity for Alita and her friend Brian. Kirchner knew he was holding a weak investigative hand. Alita’s relatives, the alleged robbers and murderers of the convenience store operator, were dead. The counterfeiting operation had been reduced to smoldering cinders. Plus it did not reflect well on his police work that he had not identified Alita earlier from the AA meeting, and that he had failed to scoop her up at

the clinic prior to her being terrorized in Albert Lea.

“The attorney general’s on board,” the governor said.

Kirchner understood that the immunity deal was virtually done, by way of chain of command. Any objections he might have would be quickly snuffed out. The BCA had been formed by the state legislature and placed under the Office of the Attorney General.

Kirchner could take a pass on Alita and company; his thoughts were on the scheme’s architect. Morty had set an ill wind in motion, resulting in a chain reaction of dead bodies. The Pakistani, the Irishman, Alita’s cousins, the Lottery office bomb blast victims. He had manipulated the Lottery database to generate the jackpot run-up, used third party agents to traffic tickets, and tampered with the drawing. But none of these actions could be pinned directly on him. Testifying sources were either killed in the bomb blast or, in the case of Alita’s attacker, Morty’s accomplice, presumed to be permanently unavailable. Morty was no-stick Teflon. Guys like him never fried and were an affront to Kirchner’s need for closure. Kirchner never left a crossword puzzle undone or a debt unpaid. All scores had to be settled.

The governor followed Kirchner out of the meeting into the reception area. “Make this problem go away.” The governor held a firm hand on Kirchner’s upper arm and paused, making sure Kirchner understood the full meaning of his request. “A long-drawn-out legal investigation and more bad press will only compound the public’s sagging faith in the Lottery and this office.”

Kirchner understood the governor perfectly. “Morty’s going down,” he grumbled, brushing past the governor’s tenacious secretary on the way out.

Kirchner had Morty on the phone. “Look out your window,” he said. “I’m in the navy-blue Crown Vic. My lights are flashing.”

Kirchner’s car sat in the parking lot of the BlizzardBall Lottery headquarters next to a dumpster filled with debris from the explosion. The area of the building damaged by the blast had been boarded up. Otherwise it looked like business as usual.

“Yeah, I see you.”

“Let’s meet.”

“No can do. I’m jammed with meetings.”

“Either I come up to your office and shove my foot up your ass and drag you out in handcuffs, or you walk out of your own accord and meet me at the Cash and Dash in fifteen minutes.”

Twenty minutes later, Morty drove up in front of the closed Cash and Dash. Kirchner stood alone in front of the building. He signaled Morty to open the car door, dropped into the passenger side seat, and shut the door with his gloved hand.

“What’s this all about?” Morty asked, gripping the steering

wheel. “Where do you think the winning ticket is?” Kirchner said. “How the hell do I know? You’re the investigative genius.

But if you like, I’ll narrow it down for you. Maybe vaporized along with those Mexicans killed by the cattle truck, or sent out anonymously and discarded as junk mail. Maybe it found its way into Canada along with other illegal shipments of lottery tickets. Or someone’s using it as a bookmark until they’re good and ready to come forward.” Morty looked at his watch. “Now, I suggest if you have a point to make, you get to it. I’ve got a full plate today.”

Kirchner withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and fanned it in Morty’s face. “The charges are conspiracy to commit fraud, interstate gambling violations, party to first degree assault, and attempted murder.” Kirchner knew the charges wouldn’t stand up, but it was an opportunity to see which way Morty wiggled. “My math could be off by a decade or two, but I think it adds up to about 120 years.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Kirchner slammed a sharp elbow into Morty’s side, catching him just below the rib cage and knocking the wind out of him. “Sorry, Mort, old habit, never did take kindly to being cussed at.”

With only a vague notion on how it would play out, Kirchner commanded Morty to drive. He pointed Morty northbound away from St. Paul onto Highway 61. He checked his side mirror to make sure Tyler was following. Morty held one hand to the wheel and the other clutched to his gut. Twenty minutes from the Cash and Dash, Kirchner directed Morty to pull into a deserted park on the shore of White Bear Lake. Kirchner had a fondness for the 2,400-acre lake that supported an amazing variety of fish. Along with bowling, he enjoyed dropping a line in the water as an escape from the rigors of the job.

“Kinda quiet here,” Kirchner said as he extracted a pint bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag from the deep pocket of his trench coat. He offered Morty a pull. “It’ll take the sting out of that ribbin’ I just gave ya,” Kirchner said. “Hey, you and me are going to be buddies. The paperwork on a government scam’s a bitch. Not to mention appeals, motions, and other lawyering shenanigans. We could be joined at the hip for another couple of years. Bad timing though. See, I was planning on retiring at the end of the year. Got my eye on a bowling alley near Leech Lake.

“This charade won’t hold up, so pack your bowling shoes,” Morty said mockingly, and took a swig.

“Let’s take a walk.”

They exited the car and walked to the edge of the parking lot, Kirchner swinging the brown-bagged pint in his hand. The park sat at an elevation above the lake that provided a sweeping view of the area. The frozen, snow-capped lake with its network of snowmobile and cross-country ski tracks looked like a child’s scribble tablet. The low-angled winter sun struck Morty in the face, causing him to freeze and burn at the same time. His ribs ached and his head felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. Kirchner nudged Morty along a path away from the parking lot through the snow and out onto a stubby peninsula, where they sat at an isolated picnic table.

“Being that you’re from out East, you’re probably unaware that cabins surrounding White Bear Lake served as hideouts to some pretty famous gangsters.” Kirchner waved a hand toward the lake. “Ma Barker, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Al Capone are said to be among the Prohibition era gangsters who hung out here. Maybe I’ll add you to the list,” Kirchner snorted in a half-laugh.

“You got nothing on me; I got options.”

“Your options are about as good as those of an armless man hanging from a tree limb by his mouth, whose only way out is to call for help,” Kirchner said.

“A smart attorney doesn’t need to hear his client call for help.” Morty swiped at the drip from his nose like a pugilist.

“See if your attorney will give you five to one odds in favor of an acquittal.” Kirchner pulled out a Colt .38 service revolver from his shoulder holster and offered it to Morty.

Morty recoiled. “What the hell?”

“Just hold it.”

Morty cautiously took hold of the handle grip, surprised by how balanced the weapon felt. Kirchner explained that the handgun was a double-action revolver. The squeeze of the trigger cocked the hammer, advanced the cylinder, and released the hammer to strike the primer which fired the round. The cylinder swung out to the left side of the frame and could be loaded with six shots. Kirchner had taken the .38 off a drug runner a couple years ago. It was virtually untraceable.

“The revolver’s old-school. Everybody uses semi-automatics with magazine loads today.” Kirchner extended his pointer finger in the form of a gun and mimicked rapid gunfire. “Pow, pow, pow.” The outburst startled Morty. “Prison’s a hard place for a middle-aged white man,” Kirchner said as he retrieved the gun. “It’s a life of want and fear. Expect to have your teeth kicked in by someone looking for a smooth ride when they stick their cock in your face.”