Pretty Girl Gone (32 page)

I was only a few miles north of Mankato when my cell phone played its melody. I fumbled for it in my pocket.

“Hello.”

“Hey, pal. Nice night for a drive.”

“Schroeder?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you?”

“On your bumper.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror just as Schroeder flicked his high beams at me.

“So, how are you doin’?” he asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“How’s the bullet hole?”

“Not a hole. A scratch. Granted, it took eleven stitches to close it, but a scratch just the same.”

“Uh-huh. The cops held you for a long time. Nearly twenty-four hours.”

“They’re a thorough bunch.”

“What happened?”

“What’s the matter? Are you nervous, Greg?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about it. Mallinger took the hint. Your name never came up. When her officers and the sheriff deputies finally arrived, she told them that she had shot Testen. She told them that she went to see Testen about a traffic accident involving me. She told them that she suspected that the accident might have been premeditated, that Testen had attempted to kill me, and that he might have killed Josie Bloom over a meth operation. She said she had no proof of these allegations beyond Gene Hugoson’s testimony, at least not until Testen shot her when she started asking questions. She said she went to see Testen alone at night because Testen was an important figure in Victoria and she wanted to spare him from gossip in case the allegations
proved unfounded. Eventually, they put her under anesthesia and took the bullet out of her armpit. Even doped up she stuck to her story. By then it sounded more believable. CID found Coach Testen’s fingerprints all over Josie’s place. Apparently he thought they would never even bother to look.”

“What about the girl?”

“Elizabeth Rogers?”

“That’s her name.”

“I cornered Kevin Salisbury alone at the hospital. He’s a reporter for the
Victoria Herald.
”

“I know him.”

“Of course, you do. I told Salisbury that Coach Testen killed Elizabeth. I couldn’t supply him with a motive; I couldn’t tell him what happened in Josie Bloom’s basement—”

“What did happen in Jose Bloom’s basement?”

“Never mind. I did tell him that the ME found skin and blood under Elizabeth’s fingernails and that they match Testen’s O positive blood type—God, they had better match—and that if he looked, Salisbury could see scratches on Testen’s face in the photographs taken at Elizabeth’s funeral. I also told him that Testen had probably kept a locket among his many souvenirs of the Seven’s victory. Salisbury took the information to the sheriff—made it sound like he was the one who figured it out—and convinced the sheriff to search Testen’s museum. Sure, enough, they found the locket at the bottom of one of the smaller trophies.”

“Beautiful.”

“So, you can tell your boss that come Sunday’s edition of the
Victoria Herald
he should be free and clear of that particular problem.”

“My boss?”

“The governor of the state of Minnesota. He hired you, didn’t he, Greg?”

“Did he?”

“The only question I have is, Did he hire you to make sure I solved the case or watch my back?”

“Maybe both—if he hired me.”

“The incidents on the skyway and in the parking lot, the telephone calls—the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. You arranged all that, didn’t you?”

“I had to keep you interested, pal. You have to admit the roses were a nice touch.”

“Very nice. Tell me something. Why didn’t he send you in the first place? Why did he pick me?”

“The governor didn’t pick you. The first lady picked you, remember?”

“Does he know why?”

“Of course he knows why.”

“Then he knows about Donovan.”

“That’s my understanding.”

“Why doesn’t he do something about it?”

“He’d have to admit to his wife that he knows what happened, and he’s not prepared to do that.”

“Why not?”

“If he admits he knows about her infidelity, he’d have to do something about it and maybe he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Maybe he’s content with his marriage, warts and all. Maybe he hopes to avoid confrontation so he can repair the damage quietly and in his own time. Maybe, despite everything, he loves his wife and doesn’t want to lose her. This is all hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Personally, I’d like to blow Donovan’s brains out, but the governor won’t have it.”

“I’ll take care of Donovan.”

Schroeder chuckled loudly.

“You didn’t get suckered into doing another favor, did you, pal? When are you going to learn?”

“I wish you’d stop calling me pal.”

“McKenzie.”

“Better. I spoke to Mrs. Rogers, Elizabeth’s mother, before I left.”

“Oh?”

“I told her that Coach Testen killed her daughter because he was afraid she would distract Jack Barrett from the big game. I didn’t mention what happened to her before she was killed.”

“What did Mrs. Rogers say?”

“She said she’d pray for him, pray for Testen. Can you imagine that?”

“Not really.”

“She said something else that kinda threw me.”

“What?”

“She said it looked like God picked the right emissary to do his will.”

“She said that?”

“She believes in that sort of thing.”

“What do you believe, McKenzie?”

“I pretty much make it up as I go along. How ‘bout you?”

“I’m the same, I guess.”

“I suppose I should thank you. For saving my life, I mean. I didn’t get the chance before.”

“It was my pleasure. Now I have a question for you.”

“Sure.”

“Why did you visit Grace Monteleone?”

“Are we about finished here, Greg?”

“Yeah, we’re done. You have to admit—it was fun while it lasted.”

“You have a strange idea of what’s fun, Greg.”

Schroeder chuckled.

“I suppose I do. I’ll see you around, McKenzie.”

“Not if I see you first.”

I deactivated the cell and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I watched Schroeder through my rearview mirror as I gave him a backward wave. He flicked his high beams. I downshifted into fifth gear and accelerated, leaving him far behind me.

The streets of North Oaks all had soft names that made the place sound like a nature preserve—Wildflower Way, Birch Lake Road, Red Forest Heights, Long Marsh Lane, Catbird Circle, Mallard Road—and I doubted I had been the only visitor who questioned the sobriety of the men who had mapped them. The few times I had driven the streets I had become hopelessly lost. Members of the city’s private police department were forced to give me directions—after first running my plates for wants and warrants and demanding that I explain exactly what I was doing in North Oaks in the first place since I wasn’t sporting the tiny black reflector on my rear bumper that indicated I belonged to the exclusive community. Fortunately, no one stopped me as I negotiated the troublesome streets looking for Troy Donovan’s address at nearly one in the morning, which made me wonder: They paid extra for this kind of security? Given the late hour, my appearance, and the condition of the Audi, the cops should have been on me like I was doling out free Krispy Kremes.

I took me awhile, but I finally located Donovan’s house, a sprawling two-story, white, with black trim and shutters. I parked on the street and walked to his front door. It was late, yet there were plenty of lights burning inside.

“One last promise to keep,” I said aloud before leaning on the bell.

Donovan examined me carefully through the spy hole before he opened the door, the safety chain in place.

“Mr. McKenzie? What is it? Do you know what time it is?”

“May I come in? There is something important I need to discuss with you, sir.”

“With me? I suppose.”

Donovan closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it. I stepped across the threshold.

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Yes, I am.”

I hit him under the jaw with a palm fist, driving him backward into the house. I followed him inside, closing the door behind me.

At some point in his life, Donovan must have actually been in a fight because he didn’t act surprised and indignant the way some people do when confronted with unexpected violence, demanding an explanation before attempting to defend themselves, asking “Why are you doing this?” while their opponent pummeled the hell out of them. Instead, after regaining his balance, Donovan actually threw a punch at me. It didn’t amount to much, but I admired the effort.

I blocked the punch with my left forearm, stepped in close, slid my right arm under his left arm and around his body, swept his leg out and up, and threw him over my hip and down solidly on the hardwood floor. The move took his breath away, immobilizing him long enough for me to grab his right leg.

I hauled him across the floor to a chair while he gasped and coughed. I propped his heel on the edge of a chair and braced it against my leg so he couldn’t pull it off. I removed my Beretta from my inside pocket, made sure he saw me chambering a round, and pressed the muzzle against his knee.

“Kiss it good-bye,” I said.

“No, no, please, no,” he screamed. “Stop. Oh, God. Why are you doing this?”

I ground the muzzle against his kneecap.

“No! McKenzie, please.”

“Do I have your attention?”

“What? My attention? McKenzie, don’t shoot me. Please. Why are you, why are you . . . ?”

I tried to keep all emotion out of my voice.

“You really want to stay away from Lindsey Barrett from now on,” I said. “Don’t see her, don’t talk to her, don’t write her, don’t even think about her. These are the new rules you live by. Break the rules and one of two things will happen. Either I’ll come back and put you into a wheelchair, or I’ll inform Mr. Muehlenhaus that you’ve been endangering his investment. Personally, I think the second prospect is more frightening than the first, but that’s just me.”

“McKenzie, please . . .”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Maybe you think you can say anything now and forget about it later.”

“No.”

I rapped Donovan’s kneecap hard with the barrel of the gun. I didn’t damage it permanently, but he’d be walking uncomfortably for a few days, and that would give him something to think about.

I released his leg. Donovan folded it neatly against his chest and caressed the knee.

“Why, why?” he whimpered.

“Just doing a favor for an old friend,” I told him and returned the Beretta to my pocket.

I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

Two of North Oaks’s finest were standing fore and aft beside my Audi.

“Is this your vehicle, sir?” the one in front asked as I made my way across Donovan’s icy sidewalk. All things considered, I was surprised he wasn’t shooting first and asking questions later.

“Yes, it’s my vehicle,” I said. “Such as it is.”

“Sir, it is a violation of city ordinances to park your vehicle on the street.”

“I apologize. I’ll move it right away.”

“Sir, may I see your ID?”

“Officer?” Donovan was calling from his front door. He was leaning heavily against the frame, favoring his left leg. “Officer?”

“Mr. Donovan,” the officer replied. I wondered if the cops knew everyone who lived in North Oaks by name or only the seriously wealthy.

“Officer”—I was sure that Donovan was going to burn me. He didn’t—“it’s all right, officer. Mr. McKenzie is a friend of mine. I should have told him about the rules. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, sir.” The officer nodded at me. “Mr. McKenzie, you’re free to go.”

I gave Donovan a nod. Apparently, Donovan got the message, which meant I could forget about him. And I so much wanted to forget about him, about all of them. I felt crummy about frightening him with the Beretta and wondered for a moment if I would have actually done what I had promised. In any case, he brought it on himself.

“Thank you, officer,” I said and climbed into the Audi.

“What happened to your car?” the officer asked as I fired it up. “There’s a lot of damage here.”

“I was sideswiped on the freeway by a snowplow.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I thought so, too.”

“It was such a nice car, too.”

Was?

“Sir?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that a bullet hole?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said before driving away. “Who would want to shoot at me?”

On Saturday a few hundred people crowded into the St. Mark’s Elementary School gymnasium to support about a half dozen nonprofit groups. There was a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, a raffle, cakewalk, something called a “bottle blast,” various games of chance for the entire family, and, of course, sno-cones, popcorn, and mini-donuts. The corner where Girl Scout Troop 579 was ensconced had been hopping the entire day—we had to send Bobby Dunston out to get more paper bags for the mini-donuts, which gave me a great deal of pleasure.

“You scoffed when I bought the donut machine,” I reminded him and Shelby. “Now what do you say?”

They admitted that making a hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour just about met the demand. On the other hand Shelby asked, “Have you ever even come close to making this many donuts before?”

I told her, “Just knowing that I could was enough.”

On Sunday morning, I drove my Jeep Cherokee to Rickie’s and had brunch with the boss. There was a jazz trio playing soft and mellow and
they were pretty good. They were also college kids and you could tell they were itching to cut loose, only Nina wouldn’t let them. Apparently she was concerned they would disturb the digestion of her older, after-church customers. She did promise them a Monday night gig to see what they could do and that seemed to encourage them.

While we ate, I told Nina everything that happened in Victoria, without pause or hesitation, starting with my meetings with Lindsey Barrett and the Brotherhood. The question Donovan had asked in Muehlenhaus’s conference room—“Can we rely on your discretion?”—flashed in my brain without leaving an impression. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Nina the same question.