Pretty Girl Gone (27 page)

“Don’t mind me, kids,” I said. “I’m just standing here.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?” asked Tapia.

“Señor Tapia,”
I said.

“Sí.”

“Last Friday night, during your anniversary celebration, did you happen to keep a guest book?”

“Sí.”

“That you encouraged people to sign?”

“Of course.”

“May I see it?”

“Do you think the person who sent the e-mail is in the book?”

“The e-mail was sent at 6:57
P.M.
You said that you closed down at about five so you could throw a party for your regular customers. That means one of those people sent the e-mail. I’m just hoping that they signed the guest register.”

“Would you know who just by looking at the name?”

“Probably not.”

“I’ll get the book.”

“Gracias.”

“So you’re still looking for that person who sent the e-mail, the one R.T. told me about,” Jace said while Tapia slipped into his office.

“I take it you two tell each other everything.”

“We have no secrets, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Should we have secrets?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

I didn’t blame her.

Tapia returned, carrying a leather-bound book with a spiral binding. “I want to thank you for breaking Brian Reif’s hand,” he said as he gave me the book.

“It was my pleasure.”

I began flipping pages slowly. I was looking for a name, any name that I might recognize.

“Breaking his hand isn’t going to make him any less of a racist,” Jace told me.

“I didn’t break it because he was a racist. I broke it because he was a stupid racist. It was the stupid part that got him hurt.”

“There are a lot of stupid racists here,” Jace said.

“Sometimes it feels that way,” Tapia said. “But I’m not so sure. That group of Reif’s, the Nicholas County Coalition for Immigration Reduction he calls it—it has only a dozen members. There are many more people like Mr. Axelrod than Reif.”

“It’s a good town,” Jace said.

“Yes, it is a good town,” Tapia agreed.

I found Tapia’s eyes. He was looking at Jace so I looked at her, too.
For stony limits cannot hold love out; And what love can do, that dares love attempt,
Shakespeare wrote. Reif didn’t live in the same world as these two kids. When all was said and done, I suppose I didn’t, either. What a pity.

I went back to the book, studying each signature. Many were illegible, but then my handwriting wasn’t so hot, either. Tapia took care of his customers while I studied the book, first the women, then the older man. His employee dropped a carton on top of the counter.

“Want me to take these across the street?” he asked.

Tapia told him he’d take care of it.

“These are nice,” Jace said. The box was sealed, but a single printed sheet was taped to the top—the zodiac place mats meant for the Rainbow Cafe.

I went through the entire book, then started again. It was a long
shot—worse than a long shot. It was impossible. Still, I kept at it until I discovered a name that I recognized, one that I had missed before.

“Troy Donovan.”
I’ll be a sonuvabitch!
“Troy Donovan was here?”

“Mr. Donovan?” said Tapia. “Yes, he was. Do you know him?”

“We spoke last Monday. How do you know him? Why was he here?”

“We’re partners.”

“Partners?”

“Yes. We have been for over a year.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Fit to Print is a franchise, Mr. McKenzie. I have only one of seventeen stores. I bought the rights to operate Fit to Print in Victoria from the Donovan Printing Corporation. They’re the franchiser. Mr. Donovan owns the company. It’s his plan to put a Fit to Print in every small town in Minnesota.”

“He came here to help you celebrate your first anniversary?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Mr. Donovan is very hands-on. He visits all the stores a couple of times a year. I’m sure he’ll return for our next anniversary.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said aloud. Inside my private voice was chanting,
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I knew Donovan was franchising Kinko’s-like print stores in Minnesota. I read it on the Internet when I was researching him and the Brotherhood, but I was too damn lazy to dig deeper.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.

“I bet Donovan used one of your PCs,” I said.

“Just a minute,” Tapia said. “You’re not saying that Mr. Donovan is responsible for sending the e-mail you’re talking about?”

Jace swung her head from Tapia to me and back to Tapia again, sensing trouble.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not,” I said. “I’m just surprised to see his name in your book.”

Of course, he sent the e-mail. He probably guessed someone would trace it to Victoria, as well—the scene of the crime. I bet he’s also responsible for
placing the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. He’s been handling me from the very beginning, manipulating me to come down here and prove Jack Barrett killed Elizabeth Rogers. The incident in the skyway and the parking lot of International Market Square, the telephone call—reverse psychology at its finest. I know why he did it, too. It all makes perfect sense.

“Mr. Donovan is an important man,” Tapia said.

I stared at Donovan’s signature. I wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about it.

Such a small thing, writing his name down in a book. On the other hand, they caught Ted Bundy because of a broken taillight. On still another hand, if I had known about his connection to Fit to Print, I wouldn’t have needed Donovan’s signature.

“He’s been very good to me,” Tapia said.

I bet the Brotherhood doesn’t know Donovan is trying to sabotage Governor Barrett. I wonder what they’ll do when I tell them.

“This is so wrong,” Jace said. She was no longer interested in us. Instead, she was reading the place mat taped to the top of the carton. “This is a mistake.”

“What? What is a mistake?” Tapia immediately moved to her side, forgetting me altogether.

“This horoscope. It says we’re incompatible.”

“No lo creo,”
he cried, which my high school Spanish translated into “I don’t believe it.”

“It says Sagittarius and Capricorn are opposites.”

“Oh, my, Judith Catherine.” Tapia put his hand over his heart. “I thought you found a typo or something. I thought I was going to have to reprint the job.” He circled her shoulder with his arm and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“You should reprint these mats,” Jace said. “Look at this. It says, ‘When Sagittarius and Capricorn join together they may feel that they don’t have much to gain from one another.’ Are you sure you were born in November?”

“November 30,” Tapia said.

The same birthday as John Allen Barrett,
my inner voice reminded me.

“ ‘Sagittarius and Capricorn may not be able to see beyond each other’s faults.’ ”

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

“Do you believe it, McKenzie?” Jace asked.

“I do not believe it.”

“Neither do I.”

Donovan, you bastard. Who’s the schnook now?

I had not expected violence. There was a time back with the cops when that wouldn’t have mattered. I would have responded quickly and efficiently just like one of those guys on TV who know exactly which way to roll when the bad guy leaps out with a lug wrench. Only not this time. This time I went into vapor lock. Norman probably thought I looked like a deer in the headlights when he pointed the Charter Arms .38 at me as we left Fit to Print. Only this time I knew Norman hadn’t come to kidnap me. This wasn’t a test.

Jace had stepped outside first; I had held the door for her. I offered to hold the door open for Tapia, too. He insisted I go next, even though he was carrying the carton filled with place mats for the Rainbow Cafe.

And there he was in the parking lot—Norman—dressed in his gray trench coat and black wingtips that were being ruined by the pool of slush he stood in.

This is not good, I told myself.

I had my gun. I had been carrying the Beretta in the inside pocket of my bomber jacket since my last meeting with Schroeder. Except my jacket was zipped halfway up. Why wouldn’t it be?

Norman was holding his gun with one hand.
What a show-off,
I thought. He aimed at my head. He smiled. An amateur to the end, coming
at me in such a public way. He did something you only see in movies and bad cop shows, too. He started talking. He said, “I’m going to enjoy this.” That is what it took to kick-start me into action. His big mouth.

I seized Jace by the arm and shoulder and pulled her with me as I dove to my right behind the bumper of my Audi, parked in front of the building.

Norman fired twice. The bullets missed me and hit Tapia, catching him in the exact center of the carton he was toting. He staggered backward, hit the glass wall of his business, and slid into a sitting position on the sidewalk, still holding the carton in front of him, his eyes closed.

Jace screamed his name with such profound anguish, but at that moment it was merely noise to me. I pushed her down under the bumper and said, “Don’t move,” even as I unzipped my coat and found my gun.

I don’t know if Norman was surprised that he missed me or that he hit an innocent bystander, yet for a precious moment he just stood there, looking down on Tapia, as paralyzed as I had been.

I circled to the rear of the Audi in a low crouch and brought my gun up.

“Norman.”

He pivoted toward me, firing on the move. I yanked my shot wide, missing him completely, before I dipped back under the bumper of the car. I don’t know where my shot went. Two of his slugs ripped into the body of the Audi.

I wished people would stop hurting my car.

Norman was on the run now. He dashed across the parking lot, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. I came up from behind the bumper and gave pursuit. Norman had about a thirty-yard lead and I wasn’t sure I could catch him, wasn’t sure I wanted to: He still had a shot left in his .38 and one was all it took. I was surprised when he decided to use it, when he brought his gun up to shoot over his shoulder.

I stopped chasing and went into a Weaver stance—a shooting stance with good balance. I brought the Beretta up with both hands, took two
quick, deep breaths, and sighted down the barrel with both eyes open. I took a third deep breath, let half out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

I fired one round.

It caught Norman high in the shoulder.

Yes!

The force of the bullet spun him in a complete circle and knocked him to the pavement. He rolled twice, yet managed to regain his feet. An amazing thing. He was staggering now instead of running, his pace much slower. I took aim, thought better of it. Norman was fifty yards away now and I didn’t want to take the chance on a wild shot.

I gave chase again. A black Park Avenue sedan rolled past me and down the street. I had seen the car before. It outraced me to Norman’s position. Norman cut across the boulevard to the curb. The car stopped and the passenger door flew open. Norman dove inside the car. The car sped off with as much acceleration as the tired sedan could muster.

I brought my gun up again, intent on getting off a few more rounds, but changed my mind. There were far too many people in the line of fire.

I watched as the car took a corner far too fast, nearly sideswiped an ancient station wagon, and kept going.

It’s partly your own fault,
my inner voice informed me.
If you had indicated that you could be bought or frightened when you first met Muehlenhaus, he might not have resorted to such extremes to get rid of you. Still, Norman got down here in one helluva hurry, didn’t he?

Tapia! I remembered.

I turned and began running back to Fit to Print, fumbling in my pocket for my cell phone as I went. I wanted to call emergency services. I had the phone in my hand, was bringing it to my ear by the time I reached the edge of the parking lot.

That’s when I heard Chief Mallinger’s voice.

“Halt, halt, do not move.”

She was standing thirty feet away, sighting on me with her Glock.

“Drop the gun.”

“Danny, it’s me.”

“Drop the gun. Drop it. Dammit, McKenzie, you drop that gun right now.”

There are few people who enjoy a good argument as much as I do, but just then didn’t seem like the time. Instead of protesting my innocence, I held the gun out in as nonthreatening a manner as I could mange and slowly lowered it to the ground. I set it gently on the asphalt and stood up, placing my hands behind my head, my right hand still holding the cell.

“Kick it away. Kick it away. Do it now, McKenzie.”

I nudged the gun ten yards across the lot with the side of my boot.

“Put your hands behind your head, McKenzie.”

“They are behind—”

“On your knees, on your knees.”

I sank slowly to my knees. My jeans were instantly soaked with slush.

Mallinger was behind me. She locked one wrist with a handcuff, brought it down behind my back, and wound the cuff around the second wrist. She pushed me forward, so that I was lying flat in the slush of the parking lot, the cell still in my hand.

“Don’t even think of moving,” she told me.

I fumbled in my head for a few lines that might appeal to Mallinger’s gentler nature. The best I could come up with was “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Shut up.”

“See about Tapia,” I said.

Mallinger rushed to the front door of Fit to Print. Jace was kneeling next to Tapia’s body, hugging his shoulders and weeping. He was still holding the carton on his lap.

Mallinger took the place mats out of Tapia’s hands and set them aside. She opened Tapia’s jacket to examine his wounds. Only there were no wounds.

I watched as Mallinger sat back on her heels and contemplated the
carton. She turned it in her hands. The bullets had gone in one side, but not out the other. She spun back to Tapia. She checked his pulse and smiled broadly. She began gently patting the back of his hands. Gradually, Tapia opened his eyes.