Tin City (5 page)

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Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Mystery & Thriller

BOOK: Tin City
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They served me at the downstairs bar. Rickie’s had two levels. The first floor reminded me of a coffeehouse. It had a large number of comfortable sofas and stuffed chairs mixed in among the tables and booths. There was even an espresso machine behind the bar. The second floor featured a larger bar set against one wall and an elevated stage with a baby grand piano set against the opposite wall. Arranged between them were a couple dozen tables covered with white linen, elaborate place settings, and candles.
I saw Nina Truhler standing on the staircase midway between the two floors, menus under her arm. I enjoyed watching her—the way she moved so smoothly and effortlessly; her short black hair, high cheekbones, narrow nose, and generous mouth; her curves, which she refused to diet away. But mostly I enjoyed her eyes, the most arresting eyes I had
ever seen in a woman. From a distance they gleamed like polished silver. Up close they were the most amazing pale blue.
“Luminous,” I said quietly, pleased with the word, wondering if I had spoken it aloud before.
Nina waved when she saw me. I waved back. She blew me a kiss, and I pretended to catch it. She leaned against the railing, raised her leg, arched her back, tossed back her head, and gave me her Marilyn Monroe. I pointed to the couple watching her from the bottom of the staircase. She smiled and went to them without even a suggestion of embarrassment.
We’re taught as children that everyone is special, but time and experience prove that to be a lie. It’s true we’re all different. But damn few of us are special. Nina was one of them. She always looked and behaved as though she had never had a moment of gloom or self-doubt. I knew this to be untrue. Her unplanned pregnancy and disastrous marriage, the early years raising Erica after her husband abandoned them both, and the frightening risk and punishing effort of making her club a success brought a great deal of misery into her life. Yet she survived. And how. Now it was smiles nearly all the time.
“Audacious,” I said, another word I don’t often use. Nina brought out the linguist in me.
Yet in the back of my mind I remembered what Mr. Mosley had said.
I notice you ain’t never brought her around.
Why hadn’t I? I wondered.
Rickie’s had two dinner crowds. The first consisted mostly of people who arrived early, ate quickly, and ran to whatever event they had planned for that evening. The second arrived later, ate slowly, and usually stayed for the upstairs entertainment that always began at 9:00 P.M. Tonight it was local chanteuse Connie Evingson performing Beatles standards to a jazz rhythm. I had caught her act twice now and looked forward to a third helping.
Nina had other plans. After the first dinner crowd was seated, she occupied the stool next to mine at the bar.
“Rickie’s on a weekend retreat sponsored by her high school,” she told me, using the name that her daughter preferred. “A confidence-building retreat.”
“Is she teaching it?”
“No, why would she be?”
“Because Rickie needs confidence like Tiger Woods needs confidence.”
Nina looked like she was trying to identify the dialect I spoke.
“She already has plenty,” I translated for her.
“McKenzie, as usual you’re missing the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“Your place or mine?”
Hers. It was closer.
 
 
 
’Course, it’s never simple with Nina. First we had to drive to the Black Sea, a Turkish restaurant located near Hamline University for a takeout order of what Nina claimed was the best baklava in the Twin Cities. Some people like a cigarette after sex. Nina prefers dessert.
She insisted on driving and slid behind the steering wheel of her brand-spanking-new Lexus while I rode shotgun. “It still has that new car smell,” she insisted, inhaling deeply. I didn’t agree but wasn’t about to say so. People with new cars—especially people with new cars that are the same color as their eyes—you don’t mess with them.
A few quick turns after we left Rickie’s parking lot, we were on Dale heading north toward 1-94. Almost immediately an SUV appeared on our back bumper. It rode higher than the Lexus, and its lights flooded the inside of the luxury car and reflected off the rearview into Nina’s eyes. She adjusted the mirror without thinking about it.
“Did I tell you the salesman gave me a discount?” she asked.
“Yes, you did. Several times. If I had been the salesman, I would have given you a discount, too.”
“You know why?”
“Because you’re an extremely attractive woman?”
“No.” Nina sounded offended. “It’s because I know how to haggle.”
“That, too.”
“I’m not kidding. I’m a great haggler. Want me to prove it? If you expect to come to my place tonight, you have to pay for the baklava.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“See.”
Nina slowed to make the right turn off Dale onto the service road that led to the 1-94 entrance ramp. Apparently she was too slow for the SUV. It edged just inches from her bumper and leaned on the horn. Nina flinched. “What’s he doing?” she wanted to know.
I turned in my seat to look out the rear window and got an eyeful of high beams.
“Probably afraid he’ll miss the
Law and Order
reruns on TV tonight.”
Nina accelerated faster than she normally would have to accommodate the tailgater. That’s what we do now—we hit the gas and hope to avoid trouble. There was a time, if someone was riding my bumper, I would have deliberately slowed down and make the guy pass me or back off. But that was before growing population, urban sprawl, and an overworked traffic system turned road rage into a spectator sport. It’s become so nasty out there that I, for one, refuse to use my horn for fear of setting off a confrontation—especially since the state legislature now permits any Clint Eastwood wannabe over the age of twenty-one who completes seven hours of classroom and firearms training to carry a concealed weapon.
Nina was five miles over the speed limit by the time she reached the bottom of the ramp. The SUV was still on her bumper, but it now had three freeway lanes on the left to pass us. Only it didn’t swerve away. It accelerated. And rammed the back of Nina’s Lexus.
The blow shoved Nina forward against the steering wheel. Yet she kept control of the car, kept it moving in a straight line. She righted herself and glanced in her rearview mirror and did what most of us would have done. She began to slow down.
The SUV hit us again. Harder.
The Lexus swerved abruptly to the left, but Nina brought it back.
I was looking out the rear window, but the headlights were in my eyes. I couldn’t identify the vehicle or read its license plate.
The SUV made another run at the rear of the Lexus. This time Nina saw it coming and accelerated. The SUV just grazed her bumper before the Lexus leaped ahead, gaining speed, gobbling up freeway.
Nina was heading for the next exit, moving fast.
The driver of the SUV must have read her thoughts, because he pulled into the left lane and punched it. The SUV surged ahead, drawing next to us.
It could have been a Chevy Blazer, but I wasn’t sure. I stared hard, but the freeway lights were reflecting off the SUV’s windows and I couldn’t see the driver.
The SUV and Lexus were side by side, going at least ninety, maybe faster. I was afraid to look at the speedometer.
And then I noticed the SUV’s passenger-side window rolling down.
“Stop.”
Nina stomped on her brakes.
The nose of the Lexus angled down toward the pavement and the rear seemed to lift upward as the car came to a sliding, shrieking halt.
Balloons of bright orange popped inside the SUV—one, two,
three—followed by snapping sounds that reminded me of a kid’s cap gun. The vehicle was well past us now. It traveled fifty yards before its red taillights flared and it rolled to a stop.
“If it goes into reverse, you fly past it,” I said.
Nina didn’t say if she would or wouldn’t. As it turned out, the instruction proved unnecessary. After a few moments, the SUV resumed moving forward, driving toward Minneapolis.
“Was he shooting at us?” Nina asked. It was the first she had spoken since we entered the freeway, the first sound she had made at all.
“You handled the car very well,” I told her.
“Was he shooting at us?”
“Yes.”
“Why was he shooting at us?”
“Because he could, I guess.”
She didn’t like my answer.
Nina drove the Lexus at the posted speed limit until she reached the Lexington Avenue exit, left the freeway, and pulled into the gas station at the top of the ramp.
I checked the front of the car for bullet holes and found none while she examined the damage in back.
“Look what they did to my new car.”
The taillight on the right was intact. The rest of the rear had been smashed in, including the trunk lid, and half of the bumper was missing.
“My car,” Nina moaned.
“I’m so sorry,” I told her.
“What have you gotten me into?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re always pissing off somebody. Who was it this time?”
I assured her that what had taken place had nothing to do with me
or Mr. Mosley’s bees—why would it? It was only another example of road rage. It had been happening to a lot of people on Twin Cities freeways lately. It was just our turn.
After she calmed down, Nina accepted my explanation. Unfortunately, so did I.
Nina usually went to work late in the morning, and because Erica wasn’t there, she had no reason to get up early. And since I seldom had a reason to get up early, we slept in. When I finally arrived home at about 10:30 A.M., the blinking red light on my phone informed me that I had a message on my voice mail. It was from Billy Tillman. He had called at 8:36 A.M. from the Fairview Southdale Hospital in Edina. He wanted to see me right now.
 
 
 
The first thing Tilly did was punch me.
He was standing outside a closed door in the middle of a dazzling white hospital corridor and vehemently arguing in hushed tones with a man and a woman, both in their late twenties. Even from fifty feet away I knew they were plainclothes cops. As I approached, Tillman broke
away from the detectives. There was something in his eyes, only I didn’t see it until it was too late.
I said, “Tilly—”
And he punched me.
He hit me square in the jaw, snapping my head back.
He hit me so hard that I left my feet and sailed backward down the hospital corridor.
My first instinct was to return the favor. Only I was flat on my back and looking up at him, so it didn’t seem like much of an option.
“Get up,” he howled at me.
The two detectives clutched Tillman by the arms and shoulders, and he struggled to free himself.
“Get up,” he shouted again.
I rose slowly to my feet, never taking my eyes from him even as I cautiously probed my jaw with my fingers. It wasn’t broken, but it felt as if it were.
“What’s going on, Tilly?”
He struggled with the cops some more. A moment later, he abruptly stopped struggling. “I’m all right. I’m all right now.”
He didn’t look or sound all right.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
The cops relaxed their grip. He pushed them away. I brought my hands up in self-defense, but Tilly didn’t come for me. Instead he strode toward the small waiting room at the far end of the corridor.
“Come here,” he shouted.
The female cop said, “He won’t talk to us. Neither will Mrs. Tillman. You must convince them to talk to us.”
“About what?”
“Come here,” Tilly shouted again.
“What’s going on?”
They didn’t say. I moved toward Tilly. The two cops didn’t follow, which made me nervous.
“Tilly?”
He grabbed my arm, spun me toward the entrance to the waiting room, and shoved me inside. He slammed the door behind us.
“You sonuvabitch.”
His face was only inches from mine.
“You goddamn sonuvabitch.”
I moved backward, putting distance between us.
“What did I do?”
“They raped her.”
“What?”
“My Susan, they raped her.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no …
“There were two of them. Susan was at the end of the driveway with Sheila, waiting for the 7:10 school bus. I had already left for a breakfast meeting. They waited until the bus came and went, and when Susan returned to the house they were on her. Two of them. They beat her and they raped her and then—and then when they finished they told her to tell me to forget about Crosetti. Forget all about Frank Crosetti, they said, or next time it’ll be your daughter. Susan won’t talk to the police, she won’t let me … That’s why … Our daughter, McKenzie. Sheila.”
I heard Tilly’s words, understood their meaning, yet my mind wouldn’t accept them.
You’re kidding, right? This is one of your outrageous gags. Right?
“I’m sorry,” Tilly told me. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have hit you, but …”
But you need to hit someone. And I deserve it because I didn’t warn you. It wasn’t road rage, what happened last night. Those guys were trying to kill Nina and me, and I didn’t warn you. Oh, God …
“I know … I know it’s not your fault, but … Dammit, McKenzie. What did you get me into?”
It was the same question Nina had asked me, only this time I had no answer. The gears wouldn’t mesh. My brain raced along in neutral, going nowhere fast.
“Say something,” Tillman said.
My mouth moved. Words came out. Useless sounds.
“I’m so sorry, Tilly.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t know they were this dangerous.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I don’t even know who they are.”
“The depth and breadth of what you don’t know is staggering.”
“Tilly, you and Susan have to talk to the police. You have to tell them …”
“Susan won’t—she won’t even consider it. Maybe later, maybe when she’s had some time … Right now all she can think of is Sheila.”
“May I talk to Susan?”
“Hell no! She hates you. I hate you, McKenzie. What they did to her …”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Tilly, I’ll take care of this.”
“How the hell are you going to take care of this, McKenzie? Are you going to wish it away? You going to make it so it never happened?”
“It’ll be all right.”
“It will never be all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry. I know … Listen, just—just go away, all right? Just go.”
He flung open the door and was out of the waiting room before I
could reply. It was just as well. I had nothing more to say except “I’m sorry” another two or three hundred times. He brushed past the detectives without answering their questions and entered his wife’s room, closing the door behind him. The cops asked me the same questions when I walked past. I didn’t have any answers for them, either.
“A crime was committed,” the male cop announced.
“No kidding, Barney,” I said and instantly regretted it. I had despised being called Barney Fife when I was a policeman.
“Sorry,” I told him.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he said.
He had me there.
I went to the elevators, punched the down button, and thought about Susan. I had dealt with rape victims when I was on the job. Sometimes I told them, “I know how you feel.” Only I didn’t. I was taught how to behave, how to “chaperone” a victim. I was taught that rape was the ultimate violation, just one step short of homicide. I was taught about the fear, shame, anger, shock, and guilt that a woman experiences. I was taught about her inability to sleep and the nightmares she’ll have when she does sleep, the erratic mood swings and the feelings of worthlessness that will come later. But
feel
what she feels? Who was I kidding?
And Tilly. I could only guess at what he felt, too. The humiliation. The powerlessness. The crushing knowledge that he failed to do what men are taught they must do—protect their families. I’ve seen it suck the heart right out of a guy.
That’s why I wasn’t upset that Tilly slugged me, and I certainly didn’t hold it against him. Having failed the image he had of himself, he’d need to do something rough to restore his self-respect, something that’d absolve him of the sin of helplessness. It’s one way some men cope, and better than the alternatives many choose—blaming the woman for the assault or ignoring it altogether, pretending the rape never happened, out of sight, out of mind. Besides, the way I figured it,
he had a few more free shots coming. Yet what I wished most for my friend was that he’d find within himself the strength, courage, patience, humor, and depth of love necessary to help him and Susan heal. That’s what I wished for them both.
As for me—I should have warned him.
Goddammit, what was I thinking?
I told Tillman I’d take care of this, and I meant it. I couldn’t make it all right, I knew that.
But I could make it better
. I could find Frank Crosetti. I could find his thugs. I could grind them into dust. It’s the least I could do for Tilly and Susan. I owed them now.
I took a slow elevator to the main floor and worked my way out of the hospital. It wasn’t until I was in the parking lot that it dawned on me.
“Mr. Mosley.”
I didn’t warn him, either.
I punched his number into my cell phone. There was one ring followed by a voice mail message. “You’ve reached Mosley Honey Farms. We’re sorry we can’t take your call right now …”
 
 
 
Six cruisers from the Carver County Sheriff’s Department and one black Buick Regal were parked every which way on Mr. Mosley’s property. I parked behind the Regal and ran to the house. A female deputy opened the door. She wore pink lipstick, but most of it had been gnawed off where she chewed on her lips.
“Mr. Mosley,” I called and tried to push past her. She was a little thing, but she understood leverage and kept me pinned against the door frame.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“McKenzie,” a voice told her.
Reverend Winfield was sitting on Mr. Mosley’s sofa next to another deputy. He was the minister of the King of Kings Baptist Church of
Golden Valley. I had met him on those few occasions when I attended services with Mr. Mosley.
“McKenzie,” he said again, shaking his head. “It’s too late. He’s gone. He’s gone.”
Gone? Gone? What does that mean, gone?
Another voice said, “Let him through.” That got me past the door and as far as the kitchen, where I was stopped again. In the kitchen I found several more deputies, one of them working a camera. Mr. Mosley was on the floor. Suddenly he seemed so small, so fragile, so old. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. His eyes were open. He was still grasping the handle of the ancient percolator, the coffeemaker now on its side, its contents spilling out on the floor and mixing with his blood. There were two mugs on the counter above him. Mr. Mosley had been pouring a cup of coffee when someone shot him twice in the back of the head.
It was the same kind of day as before. The sky was blue and cloudless. Bees buzzed. Birds sang. People went about their business. Except they did it in slow motion and their voices were like sounds heard from the bottom of a pool. The reverend rose from the sofa and approached me. His arms opened. I could see him so clearly—the deep creases in his face, the gray in his mustache, the tiny specks of lint on his black suit jacket. Oddest of odd, I could see myself, too. A man with a comical expression on his face, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks and dripping from his chin, and no voice, only a strange guttural sound like a man makes when he’s strangling …
 
 
 
“I’m sorry,” the deputy sheriff said. He didn’t look sorry. He looked like a man with questions to ask.
It had taken a while for me to shove the pieces back together. Most
of them, I’m sure, were still lying on the floor where I collapsed. I had seen things, some of the worst sights humanity had to offer. Yet none of them—not even the savage murder of Jamie Carlson last fall—had rocked me in the same way as seeing Mr. Mosley zipped into a black vinyl bag. Until now I had managed to keep all those displays of brutality at a distance, even those I had committed myself. True, they had a way of sneaking up on me and messing with my head at the oddest moments—during a ball game, at a supermarket checkout, while doing yard work—but not often and never for long. Now I felt the weight of all of them at once.
Reverend Winfield had discovered the body. He had come by to drop off a turkey-sized deep fryer that Mr. Mosley had lent the church and found him on the kitchen floor. I know because he kept telling me over and over, even as I repeated my own story—I was helping Mr. Mosley with his bees.
We’re not at fault, we don’t deserve this,
we told each other, told ourselves. This went on, between wails and sobs, for what seemed like a long time.
Finally a sense of acceptance, and with it coherent thought, began to seep through the sorrow. Function returned. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, arms, legs, hands, feet began working again. I breathed in and out.
“I’m sorry,” the deputy repeated. His name tag read BREHMER. There were sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves. His expression was neutral, and his voice was calm. “What was your relationship to the victim?”
No, no, don’t ask that. Don’t make me think about that. Not now.
I took the question and quickly built a wall of brick and mortar around it.
“My name’s McKenzie.” I was speaking quickly.
Don’t think, don’t feel
. “Let’s cut to the chase. I know who did this. His name is Frank Crosetti. He lives two and a half miles from here—”
“How do you know?”
Don’t interrupt. Let me finish before the wall crumbles.
I spoke over the sergeant’s questions, telling him the story in chronological order, telling him about the bees and Ivy Flynn and the meeting with Crosetti and Billy Tillman—making sure he knew that Tilly and Susan had no intention of cooperating with him but maybe would change their minds once they had time to digest what happened. I withheld nothing except one vital piece of information.

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