The Drifter (15 page)

This time he’d call ahead and make an appointment. He took out his new phone.

“Lake Capital. How may we help you?”

The receptionist was much nicer on the phone than she was in person. Maybe because she couldn’t see Peter’s worn work clothes and unshaven face.

“Skinner in?” Peter tried to sound like an Army captain he’d known in Afghanistan, whose family fortune dated back to the Civil War. The captain talked like the world existed to do his bidding. “Need to see him.”

“I’m so sorry, he’s in meetings all day,” said the receptionist with practiced sincerity. “May I take your information so he can reach you later?”

Her name, Peter remembered, was Gretchen.

“Listen, Gretchen, tell Skinner that I know his recent numbers are shit. But my attorney tells me the man’s on his way up again. So I need to meet him, and soon. Need to park this money before the fucking IRS gets it.”

Gretchen was practically purring. “His meeting is ending just now,” she said. “I think I can grab him. Can you hold for just one moment?”

A
s Peter put away his phone, a campus security guard approached. Maybe in his early twenties, with a soft face. The uniform fit him as if made for a different person. “Um, sir? Are you a student here?”

The girl at the information desk must have ratted him out. Peter gathered up his things. He said, “This is a public library. I don’t need to be a student to come in here.”

“Well, um, no, sir?” said the guard. “But we do want to make sure the library is used for, um, appropriate activities?”

Everything was a question with this kid. Peter was glad the guard didn’t have a sidearm. He imagined the kid saying,
Um, stop? Or I’ll shoot?

But it wasn’t worth the argument. “I was just leaving,” said Peter.

He handed the guard the empty box, tucked the accordion file under his arm, and began to thread his way through the tables toward the exit. “You have a public gym, right?” This was his plan to get a shower and change his clothes before meeting Dinah.

The guard, trailing behind Peter, looked relieved at the lack of confrontation. Peter was six inches taller and twenty pounds
heavier, even with the guard’s spongy bulk. “Um, I’d have to send you to the campus rec department? I think you need a membership? Or maybe a day pass?”

Peter pushed the door open. The crisp fall air washed through him. “So which way to the campus rec department?”

Then he saw Mingus racing toward him across the brown grass. An uneaten hamburger wedged in his mouth, he was pursued by a campus cop in a golf cart and another cruising behind on foot. The security guard from the library had a walkie-talkie on his belt. It crackled, and a garbled voice said, “Rogue animal, rogue animal. All officers respond.”

Then Peter saw that the cop in the golf cart had his sidearm in his hand. While driving.

This could go wrong six different ways. Peter stepped into the center of the paved area, waved his arms, and raised his voice. “Mingus!”

The dog saw Peter and cranked around in a tight turn. He galloped over, wolfing down the burger on the way, then came to a leisurely stop. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth as he panted happily. The golf cart almost tipped over as it tried to follow.

“Sir, is this your dog?”

The cop in the cart had his finger inside the trigger guard. He was in late middle age, with the pale and fleshy look of a boneless chicken breast, except for his face, which was bright red with righteous indignation.

“He’s his own dog,” said Peter. “I just clean up after him. Put that gun away, will you?”

The running cop was barely breathing hard. He was young, clean-shaven, and his uniform shirt was pressed. He wore sneakers,
and he couldn’t hide his grin. “A couple of girls tried to adopt him, let him into their dorm. He raided the lunch buffet pretty bad.”

“Shit.” Peter didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed.

The cop with the gun spoke loudly and he levered himself out of the golf cart. “Dogs are not permitted in the residence halls,” he said, glaring at the younger man. “And this animal does not have a license. I have notified animal control.” He hadn’t put the gun away. Maybe he just liked to have it in his hand.

“We’ll just go,” said Peter. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Oh, no,” said the cop with the gun. It was something fancy, bright, shiny chrome with mother-of-pearl grips. “You’re staying right here, pal. There’s a lot of paperwork for this, and the police are coming. You may face charges yourself.”

Peter looked at the young cop. “Seriously?”

The young cop shrugged, his face artfully blank. “Marv’s the senior officer.”

“Yes, I am,” said Marv, still louder than he needed to be. “Take hold of your animal.” He still had his finger inside the trigger guard. Peter could see the red dot on the safety, meaning the safety was off. The barrel was pointing all over the place.

“Sure,” said Peter. He stepped between Marv and Mingus, facing the dog. Then he pivoted and took hold of the pistol, one finger jammed behind the trigger so it wouldn’t go off, and twisted the gun from Marv’s grip.

“Hey!” said Marv, eyes wide.

The younger cop put his hand to his own sidearm.

“Wait,” said Peter, eyes on the younger man. He held up the gun by the barrel. “The safety was off. His finger was on the trigger.” He found the magazine release and dropped it into his waiting palm, and handed it to the other man. Then he racked the slide
to eject the round from the chamber, caught it in the air, and held it up between thumb and forefinger for the younger man to see. “Is this how you were trained?”

The younger cop shook his head. “Christ, Marv,” he said. “We talked about this, remember? Somebody’s gonna get hurt.”

“Goddamn you little shits.” Marv was pulling a blackjack from his pocket.

“Marv,” said the younger cop, stepping in close. “We talked about this. Get back in the cart.”

Peter dropped the pistol into a campus mailbox. “I’m leaving now,” he said. “Sorry about the lunch buffet.”

The security guard from the library said, “Um, sir? I’ll just see you off campus?”

He was writing Peter’s license number down in his notebook as Mingus jumped into the cab of the truck.

As Peter climbed in after him, the dog slurped him in the face. His breath smelled like hamburgers. The rest of him smelled like ten gallons of hot sauce at the city dump.

Peter shook his head. “Mingus, you are a bad goddamn dog. Now I’m never going to get my shower.”

—

The cold November wind came through the broken window as he drove. He kept one eye on his mirrors, hoping to see a black Ford SUV. But no luck.

He had some time before his meeting with Skinner. He needed to get showered and changed if he wanted the guy to talk to him. And Dinah, he had to talk to Dinah.

He pulled out his phone and called the number she’d given him, which was the nurse’s station on her floor. It took them five minutes to get her to the phone.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Can we meet after your shift?”

“That’s fine with me,” she said. “I’ll be home about six.”

He wanted to ask if he could use her shower. Maybe run a load of laundry through the wash. But he’d just spent an hour in the library, his head was aching, and bathrooms were definitely indoors. He was used to splashing himself in a glacial stream under the vast dome of the sky. The last time he’d showered was at that motel, which hadn’t gone well. He didn’t ask.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you at six.”

He broke the connection and cruised, watching the traffic. Waiting for the black Ford. Feeling the cold wind on his face. He caught sight of his face in the rearview, the bruise turning truly interesting colors now. Purple, yellow, green. He sure looked like a solid citizen.

He passed an old Pathfinder with a crumpled front passenger side, the glass missing, plastic sheeting taped up in its place. That was a great look. No bullet holes, though. You needed bullet holes for the truly custom effect.

Peter knew he should be making some kind of plan. Some kind of plan for his life. Find some new glass for his truck. That wouldn’t be easy, with a forty-year-old truck. Then fix the sheet metal, fix whatever other damage the bullets had done to the truck he’d taken hundreds of hours to restore. Figure out what to do next. With the rest of his life.

After he figured out Jimmy, he told himself.

After he saved Dinah and the boys.

After that, he’d do the next thing, whatever it was.

The bruise would heal itself in time. A shower and a change of clothes would make all the difference. Maybe he could shower at the Y.

Mingus leaned up against him, tongue hanging, stinking up the cab. Weren’t dogs supposed to have a fantastic sense of smell? Peter didn’t know how the animal could stand himself.

Maybe the stink was like canine cologne. And all the bitches thought Mingus smelled like an investment banker.

He passed a car wash and had an idea. He circled around and parked facing out, mostly hidden from the street, with a straight line to the exit.

It was a self-serve place. Eight chrome washing bays, each with a coin-op control and a spray wand. But you could wash more than a truck in a place like that.

Peter plugged in a dozen quarters and turned the setting to plain warm water.

“C’mere, Mingus.”

He got a good grip on the dog’s rope collar and dragged him over. It wasn’t easy to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog somewhere he didn’t want to go. But Peter made it happen, straddled the dog, grabbed the spray wand, dialed down the pressure to the lowest level, and got to work, using his hand to minimize the force of the water.

It wasn’t a lot of fun.

When Mingus got wet, the stink got worse. As if the water somehow rehydrated the stench.

Shit and death and pepper spray mixed with a deep animal funk, worse than anything Peter had ever smelled. It was unspeakable.

Peter tried to breathe through his mouth.

Mingus, of course, couldn’t care less about the smell. It was the bath he didn’t like. He whined and flattened his ears and hunkered down close to the pavement while Peter worked his way around, closing his pitiful dog eyes when the water got close to his face. When the time came to wash his chest and belly, Peter had to roll
him over by main force, kneeling on him again and talking in the same calm voice as he had under the porch, when the dog had been trying to rip off his face. Mingus whined louder.

Peter didn’t blame him. The day hadn’t warmed up any, and having some guy you just met wash your belly was bad for a tough dog’s image.

The soap was listed as nontoxic, so he figured that would be okay. He’d skip the wax setting, though. When the bubbles came out, the stench improved, but Mingus tried to bolt. Peter had a good grip on the collar and almost got pulled into traffic. Soaked through himself, he had to tie the dog’s rope collar to the coin-op machine.

The soap smelled like plastic strawberries, but that was a definite improvement over the original stench. Mingus tucked his tail and cowered on the wet concrete as Peter used his own hairbrush on the dog’s matted fur. Maybe a haircut was the best solution. For both of them. He’d have to buy some clippers. He sure wouldn’t be using that hairbrush again.

Then back to the warm water, rinsing away the strawberry-smelling soap, talking gently. They were both shivering in the late-autumn air. When Mingus growled, Peter said, “Watch your manners, dog. I’d rather be somewhere else, too, but this has got to get done.”

The dog growled again. This time it was the tank-engine rumble, the sound that meant business.

Peter looked up to see a black Chevy Caprice roll slowly into the car wash. It had no city seal on the door, no light bar on the roof, but the tan municipal plates and folded spotlights by the side mirrors clearly marked it as a police car.

The driver parked in a way that would appear casual to someone who hadn’t run tactical missions in three countries. But the
Caprice now blocked Peter’s truck from an easy exit. Unless he was willing to jump a high curb and crash through a fence in a restored forty-year-old truck with a custom mahogany cargo box. Which he wasn’t. Even with the bullet holes.

The cruiser door opened and Detective Lipsky unfolded his lean marathoner’s frame, surveying the scene. Peter remained crouched over Mingus. Hairbrush in one hand, collar in the other. Man and dog both soaked to the skin.

Lipsky looked down at him, those X-ray eyes surprisingly pale in the daylight. “I guess you really are a dog lover,” he said. “That’s illegal in fifty states, but I keep an open mind. You two need a little more private time?”

It didn’t look good, Peter had to admit. He said, “The dog didn’t mind the pepper spray, but I did.”

Lipsky wore a chocolate-colored topcoat over a moss-green blazer and dark blue dress pants, no tie. “Yeah, I took a nice long shower myself,” he said, crossing his arms comfortably. “In my own house. Where I happen to live. Suit’s already at the dry cleaner’s.” He glanced at Peter’s jeans and shirt, the same he’d worn two days before. “You do have more than one change of clothes, right?”

Lipsky was trying to get into his head again. This wasn’t the direction Peter wanted the conversation to go. “Any news on those license plates from the other day?”

Lipsky ignored the question. He gave Peter a steady stare, apparently done with the banter. “It wasn’t hard to find you,” he said. “I can tell that truck of yours from a mile away. You are still a suspect in that killing. And apparently a nuisance at UWM, you and that dog both. Your truck plate came in with a request for information.”

“I’m not hiding,” said Peter. “I have work to do. What about those license plates?”

Lipsky shook his head and watched the traffic. “The Impala turned up stolen, owned by a white kid lives on the south side. His dad called it in that afternoon. They found it in a parking lot at Mayfair Mall, with a couple of bullet holes in the rear end.” He said, “The other plate, the Ford SUV, I think you got the number wrong. The number you gave me is for a BMW sedan, not a Ford SUV. Owned by a dry cleaner in Brookfield, seventy years old. No record. I talked to the guy, said he hasn’t been downtown in years.”

Peter knew he hadn’t gotten it wrong. His face must have showed something.

Lipsky put a curious look on his face. Maybe it was even genuine. “What do you care about that Ford?”

Mingus whined. Peter went back to work with the hairbrush. “I told you the guy in that Ford almost ran me over, right? What really happened was he almost hit my dog. That’s why Mingus ran off that night. That guy was driving like a complete asshole. I wanted to have a talk with him about civic responsibility.”

“Mm,” said Lipsky, clearly not buying a word of it. He looked at Peter as if measuring him for a suit he knew wouldn’t fit. “Is that where you got that beautiful shiner? In a conversation about civic responsibility?”

“What, this?” said Peter, touching the multicolored bruise on his cheek. “Just a misunderstanding. Could happen to anyone.”

“A misunderstanding,” said Lipsky. “With a couple of ex-Army tough guys who got patched up at Saint Mary’s night before last, am I right? They gave the ER doc a line she didn’t believe.”