Monkeewrench (31 page)

Langer walked away, disgusted with the media, disgusted with the kind of society that had created the media, and mostly disgusted with himself for letting it get to him.

“Langer?”

He keyed his shoulder radio and turned his mouth to talk into it. “Right here.”

“We’ve got your deck covered if you want to break for lunch.”

“Where are you?”

“Turn around.”

He did, and saw one of the unmarkeds pulling up beside him, Detective Peterson grinning behind the wheel. He’d been assigned as one of the floaters who covered sectors for the rest of them when they took a break. “How’re they hanging, guy?”

“They aren’t hanging. They’re shriveled up and tucked up and hiding from this damn cold.” He stamped his feet to get the blood moving and looked around. There was more foot traffic now, probably morning shoppers heading back to their cars to miss the afternoon rush hour. “It’s getting busy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll wait awhile till it slows down.”

“It ain’t gonna slow down. From here on in it’s just busy, busy, busy. Now you got the lunch crowd leaving, and when that’s done the after-school crowd gets here, then the after-work crowd …” Peterson pulled into a handicapped spot and got out of the car. “Besides, I think I can handle it. I’m a detective, just like you. Wanna see my badge?”

“All right, all right.” Langer smiled a little. “But you parked in a handicapped spot.”

“Up yours, Langer.” Peterson’s eyes were busy, scanning the area with an acuity that made Langer feel better about heading inside where it was warm. “And haven’t you noticed?
There are no handicapped people here today. That’s the one and only contingent that had enough brains to stay home.”

At that moment a wheelchair emerged from the walkway to Nordstrom, making him a liar.

Peterson glared at the sad little mini-procession as if they’d intentionally timed their appearance to make him look bad. “Okay, I take it back. That makes nobody in this state who had the brains to stay away from here today. There’s about fifty million kids down in Camp Snoopy, can you believe that? You know what it reminds me of? Public hangings. Witch burnings. That place in Rome where everybody went to see gladiators kill each other …”

“The Coloseum,” Langer said distantly, staring at the occupant of the wheelchair, trapped in a time warp he visited occasionally to torture himself. The woman was carefully bundled up against the cold, bowed over by age, and even from a distance he could see the trademark empty gaze of Alzheimer’s. He shivered inside his coat, looking at that old woman and seeing his mother before the disease had finally relented and let her die last year.

“Yeah, the Coloseum,” Peterson was saying. “I didn’t think anybody was going to show up here today, and now the mall people say they’ve broken every attendance record in the book. Either all these people are just flat-out stupid, or they’ve got some kind of a bloodlust thing going, like they came here just because they heard something horrible was going to happen. Almost creeps me out more than the killings.”

“Minnesota nice,” Langer mumbled, finally tearing his eyes away from the woman in the chair, hating himself for staring.

He’d been on the other end of that morbid, curious stare times beyond counting, whenever he’d wheeled his mother
out of the nursing home, patting himself on the back for being such a good son, such a dutiful son, taking his mother to the park or the mall or the McDonald’s on the corner, just as if she were still a real person. He would push the chair and look at the back of her head, which looked pretty much the same as it always had, and pretend that she was still in there.

But the people who looked at the front knew better, and their stares said the awful emperor-has-no-clothes truth: ‘Excuse me, sir, but did you know your mother is drooling, urinating, having a bowel movement right here in the middle of McDonald’s?’ Those noisy, talkative, cruel stares had awakened the coward that had always been in him, and that coward found a million reasons not to visit his mother today, or this week, or this month, until eventually, she curled up like a pea in a pod and died on the night shift when the only nurse was busy.

“Langer? You okay?”

Oh, Jesus. Stop looking at her.

“Yeah. Fine.” He turned to Peterson and startled the man with his pathetic attempt at a smile. “Just tired. And cold.”

“Well, get inside, man. Get something hot to eat.”

“Right. Thanks.”

If he’d been half a man, half a decent person, he would have gone over to help with the familiar struggle of loading into a car the uncoordinated, unresponsive collection of mindless body parts that Alzheimer’s makes of a perfectly good human being. Lord knew he’d done it enough times to have it down. But the coward still prevailed, and now that he’d finally managed to look away, he found it almost impossible to look back. Just a quick glance as he passed even with the wheelchair, several rows to his right. Just a quick jerk of the eyes to see that all had been accomplished without him.

He trotted across the deck to the mall entrance, and once
inside, he covered the considerable distance from Nordstrom to Macy’s very quickly, a man chased by ghosts. By the time he’d passed the shoe department, his mind had quieted enough to prod him gently with what he had really seen in that quick glance back in the parking ramp, in that quick jerk of the eyes. He froze in midstride, never feeling the angry shopper who ran into his back, or hearing the muttered expletive.

“Jesus Christ.” He said it very quietly, no offense, and then he turned and started running back the way he had come, head turned sideways to shout instructions into the radio for Peterson, sick with the knowledge that the person who had been pushing the wheelchair loaded the old woman into one car,
and then got into the one next to it and drove away.

He tried to tell himself it was only a coincidence; just another caretaker beaten down by frustration, finally shrugging off a burden that had become to heavy to carry. But he didn’t believe it.

Langer was running hard, having a hard time dodging all the shoppers, partly because there were so goddamned many of them, partly because his eyes were watering, making it hard to see.

Or maybe he was crying, because sometimes people with Alzheimer’s looked like they were dead, and sometimes people who were dead looked like they had Alzheimer’s.

T
hey’d lost daylight saving time last Saturday night, and by 5:30 Halloran’s office was gloomy with that oppressive kind of half-light that settles when the sunlight weakens, like an old lightbulb fading away before it blows out completely.

He sighed and snapped on the green-shaded desk lamp, postponing the need for the sterile glare of the overhead fluorescents. He’d never noticed the buzzing until Sharon had mentioned it. Ever since, it had been driving him crazy, especially at times like these, when the day tour had left and the building was quiet.

He perked up at the sound of Bonar’s voice in the outer office, and raised his brows when his friend’s considerable bulk filled the doorway. He’d apparently showered in the locker room downstairs, and had exchanged his uniform for slacks with an honest-to-God crease, a turtleneck sweater, and a sport coat. Halloran could smell Old Spice all the way across the room.

“You look very handsome.”

“I already have a date.”

“You taking Marjorie to dinner?”

“That was the original plan. Out to dinner, and then back to her place where I suspect I would have been forced to lay waste to the woman.” He tossed his overcoat on the couch in disgust.

“Did I hear past tense?”

“Actually, I think it might have been future perfect. Did Minneapolis call you back yet?”

Halloran tossed his pen on the desk. “No, the arrogant asshole from Minneapolis did not call me back.”

Bonar clucked his tongue in a scold. “You have to talk nicely to the big policemen in the big city or they won’t share.”

“Damn it, I’ve left three messages for this man. You can’t tell me he hasn’t had five minutes sometime in the past six hours to make a courtesy call to another department.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Bonar glanced at the dark screen of the television in the corner. “You didn’t watch the news, did you?”

“Hell, no. I’ve been having too much fun writing a report for the commissioners, who want very badly for us to arrest someone for the Kleinfeldts’ murders, preferably someone from very far away who has no connection with our county at all. A Colombian drug lord passing through on his way back to Bogotá would be ideal.”

Bonar’s smile was grim. “Well, they had the TV on down in Dispatch. I caught a piece of it on my way up here. Magozzi was the name of that detective, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, he happens to be the lucky lead on those murders in Minneapolis, and another went down this afternoon. At the Mall of America, no less. The whole city’s going nuts.”

Halloran frowned. “You mean the computer game thing?”

Bonar nodded. “And before you make the quantum leap and pretend you thought of it first, I’ve already been there.
His call to the school had something to do with computers, and since chances are pretty slim he’s working anything but this case right now, that means the school is somehow connected to the computer game murders.”

Halloran straightened in his chair. “Jesus.”

Bonar shoved his hands in his pants pockets and started pacing. “So the Minneapolis murders are connected to a Catholic school in upstate New York, and our murders are connected to that same school, or at least they are if the kid did it, which makes you want to believe our murders are connected to their murders, right?”

“Wrong. I don’t want to believe that at all.”

“Me neither. And maybe they aren’t, because he’s looking for a current e-mail address, and we’re looking for a kid who lived there years ago before they even had computers. All the way up here I’ve been trying to figure out how a computer game killer in Minneapolis jibes with a family killing in Calumet, and there’s nothing there except a coincidence that makes your head hurt.” He sighed and eased down on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. “I’m getting Sharon’s bad feeling about this.”

Halloran put his elbows on the desk and stared straight ahead, thinking hard. After a few minutes, he decided it was a futile exercise. He needed more information, and he wasn’t even sure that would help.

“I’ve got to call Marjorie and cancel,” Bonar said, standing abruptly.

“And do what?”

Bonar looked blank. “I don’t know. Wait for Magozzi to call, I guess. This thing’s driving me nuts.”

“Go,” Halloran said. “Take your cell, and if I get through to him, I’ll call you.”

C
harlie was totally confused. His ordered doggy world was upside down. Yes, he was sitting in the Adirondack chair next to his mistress, normally his favorite place in the world, but it was the wrong time of day, she wasn’t in her sitting-in-the-chair clothes, and there was no water running out of the long snake under the tree.

He was brave for as long as he could stand it, then he clambered off his chair, climbed up onto her lap, and started licking her face, whining, demanding an explanation.

Grace put her arms around him and pressed her head against his, giving comfort, and taking it. “Oh, Charlie, I killed another one,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Your fault, Grace. All your fault.

The news about the Megamall murder had flashed over the Internet less than an hour ago. She’d been alone in the loft then, still working on tracing the e-mails long after everyone else had left.

For a long time, she simply sat there, numb, reading the bulletin over and over.

Harley, Annie, and Roadrunner had called moments later, all worried about her, and Mitch had called from his car soon
after that. He was running between client meetings, trying to put out the fires that were consuming the company, and he’d heard the news over the radio. Grace reassured them all that she was fine, even as she staggered under the burden of this new blame, added to the old one she’d been carrying for ten years.

Your fault then, and your fault now. Your game, your idea, your fault.

She’d left the loft immediately, wanting more than anything else to be alone in the house that fear had built, with the dog that fear had created, because it was only there she felt properly punished.

A scrambling sound on the north wall of the fence pricked Charlie’s ears and sent Grace’s hand immediately to her shoulder holster. She almost smiled to see the gun in her hand, pointed toward the sound, because she hadn’t realized that she still wanted to live that badly, and part of her wondered why.

Two small black hands appeared at the top of the fence, followed by a small black face. Dark eyes widened at the sight of the gun. “Jeez, Grace, don’t shoot me.”

She relaxed and put the Sig back in the holster. “What are you doing here, Jackson?”

He swung one leg over the fence and slid down into the backyard, then strolled over as if scaling an eight-foot fence to pay a visit was a normal course of events. “I saw you drive in. You never come home this early. Figured something was up.” He stopped in front of her, tipped his head, and frowned. “You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Now that was funny. To her partners, who had known and loved her for years, she lied like crazy, telling them she was fine. To this annoying kid she’d met only twice, her traitorous mouth had decided to tell the truth.

Jackson dropped to a cross-legged position on the drying grass, holding out a hand for Charlie to lick. “What happened?”

“There was another murder today.”

“Yeah, at the mall. Bad juju. The Monkeewrench Killer strikes again. Victim number four in the game.”

Grace looked away from him, over at the magnolia, troubled by the way he’d said it; that murder could be such a casual thing to a nine-year-old. “Well, I’m Monkeewrench.” Confession to a kid-priest. “I designed that game.”

A slow smile spread over the dark young face. “No shit? Man, that is so cool. I love that game.”