Pretty Girl Gone (28 page)

“What happened?” he said.

More statements. It seemed like I was making a lot of them lately, this time to Mallinger, an impossibly young county attorney, and a Nicholas County deputy with chevrons on his sleeve. With both Jace and Tapia backing me up, it was decided that I had probably not committed a crime, but I could be sure that all the parties involved would investigate thoroughly before they returned my gun. As Mallinger put it, “This used to be a nice, quiet town before you arrived, McKenzie.”

I carefully explained that the man who shot at us—whom I most likely shot in return, in case they wanted to check neighboring hospitals and emergency rooms—was named Norman—“I don’t know if that’s his first or last name”—and he was employed by Mr. Muehlenhaus of Minneapolis. Neither Mallinger nor the deputy tumbled to his name. But the eyes of the young county attorney grew wide and shiny. I knew phone calls would be made. I doubted that Norman would ever be found, much less arrested.

Kevin Salisbury, on the scene with his ubiquitous camera, had arrived before anyone else. He took photographs of Tapia, Fit to Print, the carton of place mats, Mallinger, the deputy and county attorney, assorted officers, me, and Jace—at least a half roll. Everyone gave him a statement but me. He was upset about that and reminded me that we had an agreement. I gave him a wink and a smile and brought my index finger to my lips in the universal sign of conspiracy. He whispered, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Eventually, Salisbury, the attorney, and the deputy left me alone in the parking lot of Fit to Print with Mallinger. The kids had been
whisked off to Nick’s by Axelrod, where, he assured Tapia, a cure for whatever ailed him could and would be found. I would have liked to go with them, but I wasn’t invited.

I was cold and wet with slush and Mallinger asked me, “Are you satisfied?”

“Satisfied?”

“Do you have what you came here for?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“So you’ll be leaving us soon.”

Mallinger allowed me to take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips. I kissed her middle knuckle.

“I’m sorry I complicated your life,” I said.

“I’m a big girl. I can deal.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“Who didn’t?”

“Barrett. He didn’t kill Elizabeth Rogers. Chief Bohlig and the Seven and the rest of Victoria—everyone jumped to a conclusion thirty years ago, and so did I this morning.”

“You think he’s innocent?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First, Jack didn’t have a car. How could he have dumped Elizabeth’s body along the county road if he didn’t have a car?”

“An accomplice?”

“That would suggest premeditation and we know there couldn’t have been.”

“That’s thin, McKenzie. What’s the second reason?”

“The second is a lot more conclusive. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you. Not unless it is absolutely essential and it isn’t because . . .”

“Because Barrett will never be charged, right?”

“Right.”

“You don’t want to embarrass the governor if you don’t have to.”

“That pretty much covers it.”

“Whatever it is that you know, it can’t possible be worse than the rumor that he killed a girl.”

“Sure it can.”

“How?”

“Because it’s not a rumor. Listen, I just wanted you to know that Barrett is innocent.”

“So it doesn’t haunt me that he got away with murder.”

“I like you, Danny.”

“I like you, too, McKenzie.”

“I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.”

“I’m not. At least not about everything.”

“I’d kiss you if we weren’t in public—a nice, long, noncomforting kiss, if you get my drift.”

“Maybe I should put the cuffs back on and drag you off to a holding cell.”

“Maybe you should.”

“McKenzie, if the governor didn’t kill Beth, who did?”

“I have some ideas about that.”

“Feel free to share.”

“What are you doing for dinner, tonight?”

“That depends. Am I going to be in uniform?”

“Personally, I prefer lace. A pretty girl in lace can sell me anything she wants.”

Mallinger fingered my soiled sweater.

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry, Chief. I clean up real good.”

“I’ll meet you at the motel,” she said.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m sorry I made you lie in the slush,” she said. But the way she was grinning at the memory of it, I didn’t believe her.

When I unlocked the door to my motel room, I found Lindsey Bauer Barrett waiting inside. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if Hillary Clinton had come calling.

Lindsey was sitting at the small table; her hands were folded neatly on top like a schoolgirl waiting for the principal. The drapes were opened and I could see the motel parking lot over her shoulder. She had to have seen me coming and this is the pose she had chosen to greet me with.

“Hello, Mac.”

“Zee.”

I didn’t bother to ask how she got in.

Zee gave me a quick inspection, wrinkling her nose at my appearance.

“What happened to you?”

“I was lying in a gutter. You should know something about that.”

“It’s going to be one of those conversations, isn’t it?”

I set the shopping bag on the bed and removed my jacket. I’ve had it for many years—bought it long before I came into my money—and I hoped a dry cleaner could restore it. I hung it in the small closet and pulled off my boots while Lindsey watched me. There was a look of expectation on her face.

“I want you to do two things,” I told her. “First, call your friend Muehlenhaus.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“I don’t give a damn what he is. Call him. Tell him there’s been a terrible mistake. Tell him that I can prove Jack Barrett didn’t kill anyone; I can prove it beyond a doubt, reasonable or otherwise. Tell him to stop trying to have me killed.”

Lindsey didn’t bat so much as an eyelash, which proved to me what I had suspected: She knew Muehlenhaus had sent Norman. She had probably been in cahoots with him since the very beginning.

“Second”—I pointed at the bucket near her elbow—“go down the hall and get some ice.”

I took my time in the shower. Took my time shaving and brushing my teeth and getting my hair just so for my date with Mallinger. I had purchased a pair of black Dockers and a blue dress shirt with a button-down collar and put them on. It was warm and damp in the tiny bathroom, so I waited until I was outside and had a chance to cool off before donning a black silk-blend sweater speckled with blue, red, and gold. I sat on the edge of the bed, quickly buffed my black leather boots with a towel and slipped them on.

“You look good,” Lindsey said.

She was still sitting at the table. The ice bucket was three-quarters full and she had made a sizable dent in the vodka.

“I made you a drink,” she told me.

I went to the table and picked up the short, squat glass that the motel provided. The drink was a bit stronger than I liked, but welcome nonetheless.

“Where’s your driver?” I asked.

“He’s around.” Lindsey gestured at my room. “Not exactly a Barrett Motel, is it?”

“Did you call Muehlenhaus?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Oops.’ ”

“You people.”

“I hope you don’t think that I—”

“You called him. You told him that I had information that might prove Jack killed his high school sweetheart. You probably asked him, ‘What should we do?’ What did you think his answer would be?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Fine, you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t. You must believe me, Mac. I only wanted to protect Jack. That’s why I called Mr. Muehlenhaus.”

“The thing that bugs me—besides getting shot at and seeing an innocent kid almost killed—isn’t Muehlenhaus. He’s predictable. It’s you, Lindsey. It’s your willingness to believe that your husband actually murdered a girl. That just floors me.”

“You told me he did.”

“So?”

“What you said when you entered the room, that wasn’t just to hold off Mr. Muehlenhaus, right? You really can prove Jack is innocent?”

“Yes.”

She smiled, and for a moment she looked as she had when we were kids, when our lives were only slightly complicated.

“What proof? What do you know?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“What do you mean you’re not going to tell me?”

The smile disappeared. Lindsey was on her feet now and leaning heavily on the table. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table and I thought there was a good chance she would throw it across the room.

“I’m not going to tell you for the same reason that Jack never told you, or anyone else for that matter, the reason why he was content to let people whisper the word ‘murderer’ next to his name.”

“Why?”

“I’m an honorable man.”

Lindsey stared at me like she didn’t believe it.

“You said so yourself, back at the Groveland Tap,” I reminded her.

She still didn’t believe it.

“Speaking of honor,” I said. “Or the lack thereof. Tell me about Troy Donovan.”

Lindsey regained her seat.

“I told you. I barely know—”

“Stop it, Zee. Stop lying. Just this once, tell me the truth. I’ve been shot at, my car has been forced off the highway, I’ve been assaulted in skyways, accosted in parking lots, received menacing phone calls late at night, and that doesn’t count the dead bodies I’ve tripped over. I figured I earned the truth. Tell me about Troy Donovan.

“He’s just an acquaintance.”

“Tell me!”

“We were lovers. Is that what you want to hear, McKenzie? We were lovers, okay?”

“Ex-lovers?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why he sent the e-mail?”

“He did send it, then.”

“You know he did.”

“I knew, but I didn’t
know.
Not one hundred percent. That’s why I sent you down here. To find out for sure.”

“What then? Were you going to call Muehlenhaus? Have Donovan whacked?”

“I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

Lindsey finished her drink and poured another. She didn’t add ice or tonic water. A grimace distorted her face as she took a long sip of the straight vodka and suddenly her perfect beauty seemed terribly brittle and easily shattered.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “Everything that’s happened has been my fault. I know what I am, McKenzie. I’m an adulteress. I betrayed my husband’s trust and his love just for the fun of it. Only I won’t steal his dreams. That’s one gutter I won’t crawl into. That’s why I broke it off with Troy. When it became clear that Jack was going to win the election, I told Troy I wasn’t going to see him anymore. Only he wouldn’t let me go. Even now he still calls. He sends e-mails . . .”

I flashed on Nina Truhler’s ex-husband.

“Some men need to own,” I said.

“Troy thinks if Jack doesn’t run for the Senate, we can still be together.”

“He’s afraid that if Jack wins a senate seat, he’ll take you with him to far, far away Washington. I understand that. Only why send the e-mail to you and not to Jack?”

“It was a warning. I’m expected to talk Jack out of it, otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise Donovan will carry out his threat. Nice people you hang out with, Zee.”

“We can’t let it happen, McKenzie.”

“We?”

“We can’t let him hurt Jack like that. We . . . I love Jack. I love my husband. I know how that sounds after what I’ve done, but I do love him, McKenzie. We can’t—we just can’t . . . Oh, God.”

Lindsey sighed as if all the air had left her lungs.

“What am I going to do?” she asked.

I poured a small amount of vodka into my glass, added both ice and tonic water. I sat across from Lindsey at the table.

“Why did you have the affair?”

“For the same reason I slept with you.”

“To get back at your sister?”

“No. I mean . . . Have you ever done anything extraordinarily stupid, knowing it was stupid even while you were doing it?”

Images of Danny Mallinger flickered in my head.

“Do you mean recently?” I asked.

“We’re supposed to become wiser as we grow older. Don’t you believe it.”

“Don’t say that, Zee. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

“You never struck me as a man who makes many—what shall we call it—errors in judgment?”

“I can tell you stories that would bring bitter tears to your eyes.”

Lindsey smiled briefly before drinking enough straight vodka that she coughed.

“Troy came along when I was feeling pretty sorry for myself,” she said. “We had been married for seven years, Jack and I, and somehow our lives had come between us. Jack was busy doing Jack things—running his business, the charities, getting involved in politics, all the rest. Me—you know I had worked in advertising. That’s how I met Jack. I was an associate creative director working on the Barrett Motels account, winning awards, making money, having fun. I quit after the wedding because—because of the resentment of my colleagues. It was as if by marrying a wealthy man I had somehow forfeited the right to work side by side with people who worried about mortgages and car payments and braces for the kids. Instead, I shopped. I lunched with women who shopped. Sometimes I did busywork for a couple of charities and nonprofit groups that would rather I just sent a check.”