Dead Run (7 page)

Bonar leaned back and folded his arms across what he could still find of his chest. "I'd really like to keep riding you about Sharon, but if it'll make you happy, I'll listen to your idea first."

IT WAS THE THIRD YEAR the Minneapolis Police Department had sponsored a Fun Fair for the Youth in Crisis Program, and this one promised to be the most successful yet. It was nearly four o'clock already, but the park was still jammed with parents and kids, and most of the cops who weren't on duty were either volunteering at one of the booths or enjoying the festivities with their own children in tow.

Detective Leo Magozzi had just finished his volunteer stint selling hot dogs in the food tent, and now it was time for some real fun. He bought three tickets for the dunk tank from a new hire out of Fraud, politely laughed at his lame"drunk tank" crack, then got in line under the bright August sun with about twenty other people, including Chief Malcherson. Tall, light-haired, and icy-eyed, the man looked far too Nordic to carry off summer wear. It was the first time Magozzi had ever seen the painfully genteel man in anything other than a very expensive suit, and it was a little unsettling. Even the Chief himself seemed slightly at odds in his alien skin of lightweight shirt and slacks, his hand straying every now and then to his tieless collar, as if searching for a missing body part.

"Afternoon, sir. I'm glad you could make it today," Magozzi greeted him.

Malcherson gave him just a hint of a droll smile. "I'm happy to be here, Detective. Although I must admit I'm feeling slightly guilty about standing in this line, planning to willfully contribute to the discomfort of one of our own."

"You're in good company, sir."

"I see that. And itis for a good cause."

"That's exactly right, sir, and if it makes you feel any better, I know for a fact that Detective Rolseth is delighted for the opportunity to make such a substantial contribution."

That, of course, was bullshit, and everybody, including Chief Malcherson, knew it. Gino Rolseth, Magozzi's partner and best friend, was mad as hell to be the main attraction today, but he really hadn't had much say in the matter. Earlier in the week, an anonymous donor had offered to match this year's Fun Fair proceeds, but only under the condition that Gino take the perch above the dunk tank.

Gino had immediately thrown a world-class fit, refusing flat-out, but once word got out in Homicide, everybody was quick to remind him that his refusal would be tantamount to ripping food from the mouths of needy children in danger of turning to the streets, et cetera, et cetera.

Nobody knew who was behind it-they all had their theories- but one thing was certain: It would be the only case Gino would be working until he figured it out.

Magozzi and Malcherson both cringed a little when they heard a loud salvo of hoots and hollers coming from the front of the line. A few minutes later, skinny little carrot-haired Detective Johnny McLaren was practically jigging toward them, a bright blue snow-cone smile plastered on his sun-pinkened face.

"Man, was that great! You should have seen the expression on his face when the ball connected and he went down. Glad I'm on vacation next week, is all I have to say." He turned toward Malcherson. "Come on, Chief, you've gotta know who's behind this. You took the call, right?"

Chief Malcherson's expression was stone. "I truly have no idea, Detective. I was hardly in a position to press the matter of identity, given this very generous individual's adamant wish to remain unnamed."

McLaren smirked a little and rocked back and forth on his feet, trying to decide whether or not to believe him. "Okay, sure, Chief. The whole gift horse thing. Well, good luck, guys. I'm going to go buy myself another ticket."

"I CANNOT frigging believe that you, of all people, my own partner for Christ's sake, actually participated in this travesty." Gino was sitting morosely at a sunny picnic table with Magozzi, slurping the sticky remains of a snow cone out of its limp paper holder. He'd exchanged his soaked swimming trunks and T-shirt for jeans and a vintage bowling shirt that had seen better days, probably sometime during the Korean War.

Magozzi did his best to look contrite. "The Chief and I were actually having second thoughts there for a while, but when we saw your own daughter dunk you, that pretty much nailed it for us."

"Yeah, but I've got an avenue of remuneration for that little traitor-Helen's going to be fifty before I let her get her learner's permit. Damnit, I knew I should never have let her go out for Softball."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. Hell, I had no idea I could still throw like that."

Gino glared at him. "Yeah, right, and neither did the Chief, who I just found out was an all-star frigging pitcher at the U of M. I'll tell you what-you find out who the comedian is who set me up and maybe I'll think about forgiving you."

"The Chief doesn't even know who it is."

Gino scowled and scrubbed at his blond brush of wet hair. "Yeah, right. You know what I think? I think this whole thing was a departmental conspiracy, and ten bucks says McLaren was the mastermind, the little Irish rat. I bet there isn't any anonymous donor, and you guys are all busting a gut right now."

"Nope. I saw the wire-transfer number on Malcherson's desk the other day. Looked legit to me."

"No kidding? Did you check it out?"

"Hey, I'd step in the line of fire any day for you, buddy, but I'm not willing to lose my job over this." Magozzi paused for a meaningful moment and then grinned. "I did give it to Grace, though."

Gino's scowl melted faster than his snow cone had. "You are officially off my shit list, buddy."

"Glad to hear it."

"Okay, so spill it-justice awaits."

"I don't know anything yet. Grace didn't have time to check it out before she left for Green Bay."

"Damn, I forgot about that. When's she coming back?"

"In a couple days."

"Oh, man, I can't wait that long." Gino brooded over his predicament for a few moments, then looked at Magozzi triumphantly. "Hey, what about Harley and Roadrunner? They can run the number just as easily as Grace can, and I bet they're bored out of their skulls without two high-maintenance women in their hair. We can take them out for beer and burgers later for their trouble."

"It's Saturday night. Don't you have a hot date with the wife and kids'"

"The wife and kids are deserting me for a pizza party for Helen's softball team."

"You're passing up pizza?"

"It's at one of those hideous theme restaurants where they let toddlers run amok and wallpaper with pepperoni. I have standards, you know. Besides, it's an all-girl thing."

"What about the Accident? Isn't his manhood going to be adversely affected by going to an all-girls thing?"

"Gender discrimination doesn't start until age five."

Magozzi shrugged. "I'll give Harley a call."

Gino beamed at him. "You're the man. Hey, buy me a hot dog, I'm starving."

As Magozzi reached for his wallet, his cell phone chirped. "Go on," he said, passing over a twenty. "Gotta get this." He was foolishly hoping that perhaps Grace MacBride had been overwhelmed with the sudden need to hear his voice. This had never happened before, but sometimes you just had to hold on to the dream.

He was hanging up as Gino wandered back to the picnic table, loaded with three footlongs, two bags of mini-donuts, and an unidentifiable deep-fried thing on a stick.

Gino handed over two dollars in change.

"That'sit?"

"Hey, it's for a good cause, that's what you kept telling me. Was that Grace?"

"Nope. Our old buddy Mike Halloran."

It took Gino a couple of seconds to place the name. "No kidding?Howthe hell's life in the Cheese Belt?"

"Pretty interesting, as of this morning."

"Yeah? What's up?"

"They pulled three bodies out of a swimming hole this morning, figured them for drownings. But when they laid them out, they saw a whole lot of holes that shouldn't have been there. Somebody took a swipe at them with an automatic, the coroner thought maybe anM16."

"Now that's something you don't see every day."

"Not outside a third-world country, anyhow. All the shots lined up, too, execution-style."

Gino took a monstrous bite out of a mustard-and-onion-slathered dog. "Jesus. What a way to spend a Saturday. But why did he call you? Does he think there's a Minneapolis connection or what?"

Magozzi shrugged. "They don't know where to start, because they can't ID the bodies-totally nude, no identifying marks, and no hits on the fingerprints. Halloran was hoping Grace would run the morgue shots through her facial-recognition software, see if anything popped that way."

"So why didn't he just call Sharon? They're practically driving past his front door." Gino polished off his first dog and started in on the second one.

"Because Halloran had no clue Sharon was on her way to Green Bay with Grace and Annie."

Gino's brows lifted. "I thought those two were a hot item."

"It's hard to date when you live two hundred miles apart."

"What's wrong with phone sex?"

"I didn't ask."

"Christ, I hope she didn't dump him for a suit."

"We didn't get into particulars."

"Did you call Grace?"

"No answer on her cell. I left a message." Magozzi eyed Gino's deep-fried-thing-on-a-stick. "What the hell is that?"

"Dill pickle."

"That's disgusting."

"Like you would know."

WHEN GRACE FINISHED checking all the phone lines, she walked back to the street in front of the cafe and stood there for a moment, listening. The only sounds she heard were Annie's and Sharon's muffled voices coming from inside, but when she turned to look, the glare of the sun bouncing off the big plate-glass windows nearly blinded her.

They looked up when Grace pushed open the screen door. Annie and Sharon were sitting at the counter, sipping from soda cans taken from the glass-fronted cooler, Annie waving her cell phone, trying to find a signal. "This piece of crap is hopeless. Doesn't work outside, doesn't work inside. . . . You find anybody, darlin'?" She handed Grace a bottled water and tucked the useless phone back in her purse.

Grace shook her head, opened the bottle, and took a quick drink before she spoke. "Someone cut all the phone lines."

"What?"

"Right below the feeder boxes. On the cafe, the gas station, and the house."

All three were silent for a moment.

Sharon finally said, "Kids, maybe."

"Maybe."

Annie was watching Grace's face. "What are you thinking, Grace?"

"That we should get out of here."

Annie sighed, took a last drink from her soda can, and pushed herself up off the stool. She went over to the cooler, grabbed three bottles of water, and set one on the counter in front of Sharon.

"What's this for?"

"Tuck it in your bag, darlin'. It's mighty hot out there, and it appears we're going to be doing a little more walking."

"You're kidding, right? According to the map in the gas station, it's at least another ten miles to the next town, and that's after we hoof it all the way back to the truck. Can't a couple of techno-whizzes like you fix the phone lines?"

"It's a twenty-five-pair cable," Grace replied. "That's a lot of splicing. It might take a couple hours."

"By which time the people who live here will probably be back from wherever they went and will be happy to give us a ride. In the meantime, we've got food and drink and a place to get out of the sun. . . ."

Annie looked at Sharon as if she'd lost her mind, forgetting for a moment that not everyone in the free world knew that when Grace said "we should get out of here," it was like a Seeing Eye dog jerking a blind person out of the way of a runaway bus. "We should leave now."

"Okay," Sharon continued, trying to be reasonable. "How about this. You and Grace stay here, start working on the phones, and in the meantime, just to cover all our bets, I'll start walking, maybe get lucky and catch a ride. No offense, Annie, but it's over ninety out there, and I'm guessing aerobics isn't your . . ."

"Quiet." Grace had moved quickly, almost soundlessly, over to the screen door, where she stood with her eyes closed and her concentration focused in a cone of awareness that headed left past the gas station, around the curve that disappeared into the woods. What she'd heard had been nothing specific, nothing immediately identifiable- just a faint, muted roaring sound that didn't belong.

"Something's coming" was all she had time to say.

HAROLD WITTIG slammed the gearshift into park and draped his wrists over the pickup's steering wheel, his lips tightened in annoyance. He lifted one arm and wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve, promising himself for the hundredth time that he was going to junk this damn truck and get one of the big new Fords with an air conditioner that would turn a two-dollar whore frigid. Damn, it was hot, and the day had been one disaster after another.

First a flat tire on the way into Rockville this morning, then Fleet Farm hadn't had Tommy's birthday bike assembled and they'd had to wait two hours while a couple doofuses fumbled around with Allen wrenches and a forty-page instruction manual, then Jean got her period and made him run into the store to buy a box of Tampax and he thought he'd die right there at the checkout when the pretty young cashier had smiled sweetly and said, "Just the Tampax? Is that it?" and now this. Christ, what a day.

He glared out the dusty windshield at the empty jeep on the side of the road and the two orange-and-white sawhorses topped with blinking yellow lights, blocking both lanes. Two men stood in front of the roadblock, wearing camouflage and combat boots and the earnest expressions of little boys playing soldier. M16s that Harold dearly hoped weren't loaded with live rounds were slung over their shoulders. The way his luck was running today, one of them would probably walk up to the truck and shoot him in the head.