Highway 61 (16 page)

On the other hand, I had no idea how else to deal with them. I couldn’t prove that they planted dope on my car in Canada, that they broke into my garage, that they jumped me at Rickie’s, or that they were the ones who shot up my Audi. At the same time, it was obvious that Truhler had no intention of bringing charges against them. He was either afraid or concerned that his own involvement in drugs would be discovered or he simply didn’t want to lose his connection, take your pick. That left the cops out of it.

On yet another hand, I couldn’t just sit back and wait for them to come after me, either.

What to do, what to do?

In the meantime …

*   *   *

It took nearly an hour to negotiate the morning rush hour traffic, not a pretty sight in the Twin Cities, working my way from Falcon Heights to the Eden Prairie Police Department. The department was located on the first floor of the Eden Prairie City Center, a building with all the charm of a dental clinic. Before going inside, I hid the Beretta under the seat of my Jeep Cherokee for fear it would cause a ruckus with the building’s metal detectors. Besides, there was a sign attached to the front door—
THE CITY OF EDEN PRAIRIE BANS GUNS FROM THESE PREMISES
—and you know me, I’m not one to challenge authority.

The cop sitting behind the bulletproof glass partition gave me a hard look when I asked to see John Brehmer, maybe because I failed to say Officer Brehmer or Sergeant Brehmer or Detective Brehmer. I would have except I never did get his official title.

“Does he know what this is regarding?” he asked.

“Tell him it’s McKenzie. He’ll know.”

The cop made a call. A couple of minutes later the secured door leading into the cop shop opened. Brehmer stood on the far side of the threshold, holding the door open and chuckling as if I were a sight gag in a TV sitcom.

“I’m surprised to see you, McKenzie,” he said.

“I don’t know why. It’s like you said, I owe you one.”

“Come on back.”

Brehmer released the door after I passed him, and it shut of its own accord. I followed him to an island made from four desks shoved together. We found a couple of chairs.

“Seems you’ve put on weight since I saw you last night,” he said.

“What can I say? I’m a glutton for mini-donuts.”

“I thought it might be the body armor you’re wearing. You are wearing body armor under that bulky sweater, aren’t you?”

“You’re a lot more observant than I remember.”

“Talk to me, McKenzie.”

“The two men who roughed up Jason Truhler last night, they’re called Big Joe and Little Joe. I don’t have last names.”

“I know them.”

“Yeah?”

“Couple of North Side asswipes who decided to export their bullshit to the suburbs—Big Joe Stippel, Little Joe Stippel.”

“They have the same name?”

“They’re brothers. Their old man thought he was quite the comedian; called himself True Joe Stippel. He named his eldest son Joe Two. The kid got whacked by some bikers during a drug deal gone sour a while back. The Joes had terrorized North Minneapolis for years. They were into everything—drugs, guns, armed robbery. Their biggest claim to fame, though, they had a real estate business, if you want to call it that. What they’d do, they’d force people out of their homes, buy the property cheap or acquire it through a quitclaim deed, no money changing hands at all, then resell it at a profit or, more often than not, burn it down for the insurance money. If you’re dealing with them, you’re smart to be wearing body armor.”

“What are they doing in your jurisdiction?”

“According to my contacts, the Joes had partners, a couple of hard-core pyromaniacs named Backdraft and Bug, short for Firebug, who did all the heavy lifting. Apparently the Joes stiffed them on a job. Backdraft called them out in the parking lot of a bar, and True Joe beat him with a claw hammer and then he and his sons pissed on him. Backdraft was beat so badly that he couldn’t feed himself anymore, couldn’t dress himself. This didn’t sit well with Bug, but before he could express his outrage, the MPD grabbed True Joe up for assault with arson as an aggravating factor. Apparently he attempted to cut out the middleman and set fire to a house while someone was inside it. The courts sentenced him to twenty-seven months in Oak Park Heights. He served three days before he was shanked.

“Meanwhile, True Joe’s boys fortified their house with four-by-eight-foot steel sheets weighing five hundred pounds each so they could get a night’s sleep. Two days after their old man bought it, someone tried to blow a hole through the armored house with C4. That’s when his boys decided they needed a change of scenery. Unfortunately, they picked us. Do you know how Eden Prairie got its name? An East Coast writer, back in eighteen fifty-something, called it the garden spot of the territory. Get it? Garden of Eden? Hasn’t been that for a long time. Could be, though, if we could get rid of pricks like the Joes.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said.

“I’m listening.”

“The Joes are smuggling coke across the Canadian border. Some of it was lost in transit. That’s what prompted their disagreement with Truhler.”

“Truhler is dealing?” Brehmer asked.

“Let’s say he is being forcefully encouraged to participate.”

“Is that true?”

“It could be.”

Brehmer studied me carefully.

“Are you here to make a deal for Truhler?” he asked.

“I am not authorized to do so, but here’s the thing, John—I might be able to get Truhler to come forward if someone else came forward with him.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire,
my inner voice said.

Brehmer studied me some more.

“Whom do you have in mind?” he asked.

“Caitlin Brooks,” I said. “She was there when Truhler was attacked. She can identify the Joes.”

“Why would she?”

“Caitlin is a working girl.”

“That’s my impression as well.”

“Perhaps we can offer her an incentive.”

Brehmer clucked at the idea.

“If the Joes have any gifts at all, it’s in witness intimidation,” he said. “Last March, Big Joe knifed a gangbanger in the parking lot of the Eden Prairie Center. There were twenty witnesses. None of them came forward, including the guy who got knifed. There’s a reason for that. Three months earlier they robbed a Christmas drug party, got away with product and cash. Afterward they went to the homes of each and every one of the witnesses; showed up in the middle of the night and threatened to kill anyone who talked and their families. What could I possibly offer a little girl in return for standing up to that? A walk on a ninety-day misdemeanor? C’mon.”

“I might be able to convince her.”

Brehmer smiled and nodded his head. “Okay,” he said. “Now I get it. Now I understand. You didn’t come here to deal for Truhler. You came to get the girl’s address.”

“Yeah,” I said. I saw no reason to lie to Brehmer any further—he saw right through me. “Are you going to give it up?”

Brehmer considered the question for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Do you want to know why? Because as far as Eden Prairie is concerned, no crime has been committed, not by the Joes, not by Truhler, certainly not by Caitlin. There’s nothing I can do but sit here and twiddle my thumbs, and I hate that, hate not being able to put away pricks like the Joes. You, on the other hand, have a knack for disrupting the status quo, and like the man once said, in confusion there is opportunity. Just remember, you owe me.”

*   *   *

Caitlin Brooks lived in a tastefully decorated two-thousand-dollar-a-month apartment less than five minutes away from the Eden Prairie cop shop. She greeted me at the door wearing a pink sweatsuit that made her look so young I nearly asked for her mother. I told her so when she let me in.

“That’s my fortune,” she said. She spoke with her mouth full of English muffin smeared with grape jelly. “Looking young enough that old men can pretend they’re screwing their grandchildren. It’s why I get top dollar. Do you want some breakfast?”

I thanked her for the offer but declined.

“I’m sorry I look like crap,” she said. “I was just about to go for a run.”

I told her that she looked just fine.

“You’re a nice man,” she said. “Your face looks much better. Can’t hardly see any scratches.”

I thanked her for noticing.

“So, why are you here, McKenzie? Change your mind about the hundred dollars? Want to get your money’s worth?”

“Caitlin with a
C,
” I said. She smiled broadly. “I need your help.”

Caitlin circled a glass coffee table and sat on a sofa that looked like it cost as much as her monthly rent, tucking her feet beneath her. There was a copy of Brian Freeman’s latest thriller on top of the table.

“I bet it’s the Joes,” she said.

“You knew who they were when they came to Truhler’s last night,” I said.

“Oh sure. A couple of psychos. They used to work for Roberta until she discovered that they were scaring the clientele. Didn’t help that they were dealing drugs, either. Roberta hates drugs.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police who they were?”

“I didn’t think Jason would like that. I know Roberta wouldn’t have. It’s one of her rules—no police intervention.”

“Roberta is your employer?”

“She’s more like a facilitator. She puts people together, kinda like a matchmaker.”

“For how much?”

“A third.”

“That seems like a lot.”

“No, it’s fair,” Caitlin said. “She runs the Web site, screens the clients, collects the money. That limits our exposure, you know? If no cash changes hands, then the cops can’t call it solicitation, can they? They have to call it voluntary relationships. Plus, she takes care of us, protects us, makes sure we have health care, that we’re always being checked for STDs. I have no complaints.”

“How long have you been working for her?”

“Since the day after my eighteenth birthday. That’s another one of Roberta’s rules. All the girls, we might look like kids, but no one works for her who isn’t at least eighteen. I had to show her my birth certificate. It’s about the law, I guess. Soliciting for prostitution of a minor is serious business. You can go to jail for twenty years. For someone who’s not a minor, eighteen or over, a good lawyer can get that down to a gross misdemeanor, and Roberta has good lawyers.”

I bet,
my inner voice said.

“Where did you meet her?” I asked aloud.

“Mall of America. I was sitting there by myself, being angry at the world, I don’t even remember why, and she sat down and started talking, made me laugh. If she had been a guy I would have bolted right away because that’s what they do, guys, they cheer you up, they schmooze you, tell you how misunderstood you are, how beautiful you are, they buy you clothes, dinner. Pretty soon they love you, they need you, they can’t live without you. Next thing you know, they’re turning you out because they need this, they need that, and only you can help them. You end up doing lousy twenty-dollar tricks in an alley somewhere.”

“How is Roberta different from them?”

“With Roberta I can get anywhere from six thousand to seventy-two hundred a week depending on how many dates I go on, and I keep two-thirds. With some pimp, I might not be able to keep any. Plus, I’ve been in the nicest hotels and some of the nicest homes in Minnesota, once even on a yacht on Lake Minnetonka. She makes it clear anytime you want to call it quits, just let her know and she’ll take you off the Web site, no questions asked. In fact, she’s always telling us, save your money, have a plan, go to school, start a business, get married cuz you can’t do this forever. Like I said, I’ve got no complaints.”

“If you don’t mind the work,” I said.

“It’s not so bad. For a while I thought I might give adult films a try, but that’s brutal. There’s no money in it anymore. You can’t make a living because of all the amateur stuff on the Internet, all the pirating. They pay what? A thousand to eighteen hundred a sex scene, yet you only get a couple of scenes in a film and only a couple of films a month, if you’re lucky. You don’t get to say who you’ll have sex with, either. This is much better. With Roberta I make four thousand dollars for fifteen hours of work and I don’t have to sleep with anyone I don’t want to. You know, it’s funny they call it that—sleeping. No one ever sleeps. Not ever. That’s not the information you wanted to know, though, is it? You want to know about the Joes.”

“I want to know about Vicki Walsh.”

Caitlin flinched.

“Vicki,” she said. “How do you know Vicki?”

“I don’t. I want to, though. You seem surprised.”

“It’s just that, Vicki Walsh, that’s a name out of the past.”

“You know her?”

“Well, sure. She was one of the girls, for a couple of months, anyway. I didn’t know her well. I don’t know any of the girls well. We worked a couple of parties together in June, though. She seemed nice.”

“What happened to her?”

“She quit. She had a gig somewhere up in Canada, and when she came back she quit. That’s what Roberta said. I hadn’t actually seen her since just before she left. Sometime before the Fourth of July. I know Roberta was upset. She liked Vicki a lot. At least that’s the impression I got. I know she kept Vicki’s profile up on the Web site a lot longer than she had for anyone else who retired.”

“That’s surprising, isn’t it? That Vicki would retire so soon?”

“It’s not for everyone, what we do,” Caitlin said. “This is a choice for us. The prostitutes who work the streets, most of them are being forced into it, you know? Some guy is making them do it, or they need money for drugs, or whatever. It’s a bad situation. It’s not the same with call girls—I suppose that’s the category you’d put us in. People say we’re being exploited, but call girls are partners in the exploitation. It’s just a way for us to make a lot of money in a hurry. In olden days they called us courtesans, and no one thought it was particularly immoral. Madame de Pompadour was a courtesan, you know. So was Theodora, who was empress of the Byzantine Empire. There’s this economics professor at the University of Chicago who said hiring call girls is like renting trophy wives by the hour. That’s no different than what Louis the Fifteenth did, or Justinian the First.”