Dead Boyfriends (15 page)

A heavy hand fell on my shoulder as Tuseman's supporters erupted into even louder applause.

“Well, it was nice chatting with you,” I said, but Tuseman didn't hear me. The microphone had been switched off.

I turned. City of Anoka Police Officer Boyd Baumbach was smiling at me.

“This way,” he said.

 

Baumbach hustled me out of the banquet hall, out of the clubhouse, and into the parking lot as if he had done it a dozen times before. He was pushing me forcefully toward his police cruiser when I broke his grip and spun him around.

“We going somewhere?” I asked.

“Resisting arrest,” he told me. “You're in for it now.”

“Arrest for what?”

“Trespassing. Disorderly conduct.”

“Really? I thought I was exercising my right to free speech. Or are you as dumb about the Constitution as you are about the law?”

Baumbach smiled like a kid with a secret. “We can make all this go away,” he said. “Isn't that what you told me the other day?”

“I was trying to do you a favor.”

“Now I'm trying to do a favor for you. If you promise to shuddup about what happened . . .”

“Have I signed a complaint? Have I gone to IAD? Have I done any of that shit?”

“You told the sarge, and now he's on me.”

“I hope he fires your ass.”

“That's it. You're going to jail for keeps this time. Now we can do this the easy way”—Baumbach held his cuffs out for me to see—“or we can do it the hard way.” He slid his sixteen-inch-long flashlight out of the loop on his belt and tapped the tip of his shoulder with it. “You choose.”

“Let me guess. You're a manly man who does manly things in a manly way.”

“Choose.”

I surprised him by stepping in close.

He raised his flashlight over his head.

I hit him with two left-hand jabs and at least six straight rights, the last two as he was falling to the asphalt.

Baumbach wasn't unconscious, yet he might as well have been. He opened his mouth, but no sounds came out, and his eyes wouldn't focus. I grabbed the handcuffs from where they had fallen and clamped them on his wrists. I took the flashlight and reattached it to his belt.

An older gentleman pulling his golf clubs in a three-wheel cart across the parking lot stopped to watch.

“How you doing?” I asked him.

“He's a police officer,” he told me.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

I grabbed Baumbach by the collar of his thick shirt and dragged him across the asphalt to his car. It was hard work in oppressive heat. By the time I reached the police cruiser, the back of my own shirt was saturated. I propped Baumbach against the front tire and wiped sweat out of my eyes.

“Boyd.” I slapped him gently on both cheeks. “Boyd. Hey, Boyd. Are you still with me?”

“What are you going to do?” There was genuine fear in his voice. I liked that.

“What's your call sign?”

“My what?”

“Your handle. What's your handle?”

“Bravo-three. What do you—”

I leaned in and activated the microphone attached to the epaulet of his shirt.

“Bravo-three,” I said.

“Bravo-three, go.”

“Bravo-three requires a supervisor at the parking lot of the Green-haven Golf Course. Is Sergeant Moorhead available?”

“Bravo-three. Boyd, you sound funny.”

“Bravo-three. Let's pretend that we're a professional police organization, shall we? Is Sergeant Moorhead available?”

“Bravo-three. Yes, but—”

“Dispatch him to the parking lot of the Greenhaven Golf Course immediately. Bravo-three, out.”

I straightened up and gazed toward the private road that led to the golf course, half expecting to see Moorhead racing toward me.

“You're in trouble,” Baumbach said, yet there wasn't much vigor in his words.

“One of us is,” I said.

 

Sergeant Moorhead's hand was resting on the butt of his gun when he slipped out of his cruiser. I held up my empty hands and turned slowly, proving that I was unarmed. He moved closer.

“Do you want to hear my story first, or his?” I asked.

Moorhead used his thumb to direct me toward his cruiser. I went and stood next to the driver's door while he lifted Baumbach to his feet and uncuffed his hands. Baumbach was talking earnestly. I couldn't hear what he had to say, and quite frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn. Instead, I was debating which lawyer to call and wondering how much it would cost me—no way I was going back to jail. Not for thirty-six hours. Not for thirty-six minutes.

The conversation lasted over five minutes. At no time did either officer raise his voice or look at me. It ended with Sergeant Moorhead putting his arm around Baumbach and leading him to the door of his car. He slapped his officer on the back. Baumbach slipped inside and started up the cruiser. He said something through the window, and Moorhead smiled. A moment later, Baumbach drove off. Moorhead watched him go. He didn't turn toward me until Baumbach was out of sight.

“Say something funny, McKenzie. Any smart-ass remark will do.”

“I'm innocent?”

“Fuck you.”

“So I take it we're not going out for coffee and donuts.”

“You mess with one of my officers, you're lucky I don't kick your ass up and down this parking lot and throw you in jail for a thousand years.”

“Why don't you?”

“I owe you a favor.”

“Not that big a favor.”

“Then let's say I'm doing it for Baumbach. Believe it or not, the kid has a chance to be a decent cop. The only blemish on his record was when he screwed up at the Davies's residence. If I had known about it at the time I would have fallen on him and that would have been the end of it, but he lied to me. That's two strikes against him, and he knows it. Ever since he's been trying to prove that he was justified for what he did. That's what this was all about. You resist a dis-con, he has to use his
light—it makes his story that you got rough with him before sound more plausible. Question is, now what?”

“That's a good question,” I told him.

“If we forget the whole thing, pretend it's a foul ball instead of strike three, I can extend his probation, give him a chance to grow into his badge. If I arrest your sorry ass—man, that'll give me a lot of personal pleasure, but Baumbach will probably lose his career.”

“He deserves to lose his career.”

“Yeah? You deserve to spend a year in the county workhouse. I don't give a damn about your time on the job. I don't care about your money. You are way out of line, McKenzie. I should take a club to you myself.”

“I was—”

“You were what? Trying to show a kid how smart you are? Give him the benefit of your years of experience? You're not a cop anymore. It wasn't your place.”

He had me there.

“So, what's it going to be?” Moorhead asked.

“Why the hell are you protecting this kid? He's a bad cop and you're not. You should flush his ass.”

“He's my nephew.”

“So what?”

“So, so . . . so maybe I owe him something. He always looked up to me when he was a kid. He wanted to be like me. And I encouraged him. I helped him get his law enforcement degree. I helped him get through the academy. I picked his field training officers, made sure they nursed him along. If he's not ready, if he doesn't know how to behave yet, that's on me.”

“Be that as it may . . .”

“Boyd just needs another chance.”

“Sarge, what if he screws up again?” I asked. “Next time it could be serious. Do you know what I mean by serious?”

“He'll be all right. I'll take care of him.”

“Sure you will.”

“So, what's it going to be, McKenzie?”

“I don't have a problem if you don't have a problem,” I said.

“Let's keep it that way, shall we?”

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes. Please go. Go as far away as possible.”

“I can't go too far. I'm kind of involved in this Merodie Davies thing.”

“So I've heard. I hate kibitzers, McKenzie.”

“I don't blame you. Listen, do I have any credit with you at all?”

“Are you serious?”

“About a year ago, you used to make a regular run to Merodie Davies's house because of noise complaints, I don't know what else, involving her and her boyfriend Richard something. What's Richard's last name? How can I find him?”

“You just don't know when to quit, do you? Look, McKenzie, this is way bigger than Merodie Davies. Way bigger. Let it go. Walk away while you still can.”

“I can't. I gave my word.”

“You think this is a fucking game? There's no place for playground honor out here. People are going to get hurt.”

“What people? What do you mean by way bigger?”

Moorhead shook his head as if he felt sorry for me. “I got nothing more to say to you.”

He brushed past me and moved to his cruiser, slid inside, started it up, and drove off without so much as a backward glance.

A few moments later I reached my own car. The brunch had finally broken up. David Tuseman was among the first to leave the clubhouse. I thought he might linger outside the door and hobnob with his supporters. Instead, he moved quickly toward two cars parked in the first
row of the parking lot, his staff fast on his heels. I threw him a wave. He didn't acknowledge it.

“I liked the way you handled the cops.”

The voice startled me, and I spun toward it.

A man I knew only as Norman stood ten feet away.

I immediately drew my hand to the place on my hip where I would have holstered my gun if I had thought to carry one. The last time I saw Norman, he was drilling holes into my Audi with a stainless steel Charter Arms .38 wheel gun. In return, I put a nine-millimeter slug into his shoulder. I was pretty sure he was still nursing a grudge.

“Norman,” I said.

“McKenzie.”

“How's the shoulder?”

“Hmm? Shoulder? It's fine. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

He was wearing a black sports jacket over a slate gray polo shirt. His hands were hidden behind his back. It worried me that I couldn't see them. I edged toward the Audi, trying to put it between us as I had during our last encounter.

Norman grinned. He brought his hands out slowly to show that they were empty.

“Our personal business can wait until another day,” he said.

My sentiments exactly.

“Mr. Muehlenhaus would like to see you.”

Seven words. That's all it took to convince me that Sergeant Moor-head was correct. This was bigger than Merodie Davies.

 

Mr. Muehlenhaus was sitting alone in the backseat of a black limousine, the car's engine running and the air-conditioning up full. He was so pale that I wondered if he survived on transfusions of milk.

Norman held the door open, and I slipped inside.

“Nice ride,” I said. “I didn't know you were a limo guy.”

“My granddaughter's idea,” he said. “I prefer my old Park Avenue.”

“Less ostentatious,” I said.

“Yes, but it doesn't have this.” Muehlenhaus leaned forward and opened a refrigerator built into the back of the driver's seat. There were several soft drinks and bottles of water there—Muehlenhaus was not a drinker. “May I offer you something?”

“Do you have ice?”

“Of course.”

Why wasn't I surprised? I declined a beverage, and Muehlenhaus closed the refrigerator.

“It seems, Mr. McKenzie, that once again we find ourselves on the same side.”

“I know I'm going to regret asking this, but what side would that be?”

“Should we give it a name? How about the Anti-David Tuseman League?”

“I have nothing against Tuseman.”

“Tuseman wants to prosecute Merodie Davies for murder to further his political ambitions. You wish to stop him from doing so.”

“How do you know?”

Muehlenhaus sat back in his seat, spread his hands wide, palms up, and said, “Mr. McKenzie. Please,” as if I should have known better than to ask. He was right. I should have known better.

To suggest that Muehlenhaus was a mover and a shaker would be belittling. He was more like the village wise man—if you think of greater Minnesota as a village. It was he who told people what to move, what to shake. He possessed immense wealth, power, and the desire to meddle in the lives of other people. Yet he was no zealot. From what I was able to observe, he had no desire to shape the world into one of his own liking. He had no agenda beyond proving that he was smarter than everyone else.

“Genevieve Bonalay,” I said. “She's one of yours.”

“A lovely young woman, not that it matters to a man my age.”

“Who's kidding who, Mr. Muehlenhaus?” He might have been on the other side of eighty, but he wasn't dead.

He grinned, and suddenly his face was transformed from the stoic puppet-master to the gregarious uncle that your parents didn't want you spending too much time with.

“What's your angle, Mr. Muehlenhaus?”

“Angle, Mr. McKenzie?”

“You juggle governors and U.S. senators. A state senator—that's beneath your notice.”

Muehlenhaus's grin broadened into a full-fledged smile.

“For decades now, the Democrats have controlled the Minnesota State Senate,” he said. “However, lately their margin has been thinning. A few wins in key districts in the coming election, and the Republicans might take over. If they do, they will have control of both houses of the state legislature as well as the executive branch for the first time in a generation. With that power, they can transform the state. That is decidedly not beneath my notice.”

“Check me if I'm wrong, but I thought Tuseman was a Republican.”