Unidentified Woman #15 (12 page)

They both took a step closer.

“Guys,” I said. “Please. Don’t do this. It’s really cold.”

“You came to the wrong town, old man,” the smaller said.

Old man?

“You might be twenty years younger, but I’m twenty years smarter,” I said.

The way they kept coming, I didn’t think they believed me.

Legs, legs,
my inner voice reminded me. Without karate’s emphasis on the use of legs, it would be virtually impossible to defend against two or more attackers. I stepped backward and brought my hands up, keeping my eyes on both young men at the same time. If I could disable one fast enough, the other might back off. I decided to go after the taller one first, thinking a front kick to the groin might do the trick, if I could get my heavy boot up fast enough.

That’s when I heard the voice screaming behind me.

“You sonuvabitch.”

The two young men stopped advancing and turned their heads to look, so I did the same. The bullyboy called Tim Foley was sprinting across the parking lot and closing fast. He was waving a tire iron above his head with his right hand. Apparently the staff of the Northern Lights Inn had refused to return his gun.

Well, good for them.

When he came close enough, the bullyboy swept the tire iron in a downward arch, aiming for my head. I stepped inside the blow, which seemed to surprise him. The tire iron hit nothing but air. At the same time, I grabbed his right arm and shoulder, then squatted and turned, heaving him up over my hip, which was more judo than karate, but what the hell. He landed on the ice-packed pavement with a solid thud and slid forward, dropping his weapon. The bullyboy’s momentum carried him into the legs of the taller young man, knocking him down like a bowling pin, which wasn’t my intention yet pleased me just the same. The smaller man went to his friend’s side. There was some moaning and groaning that I didn’t pay much attention to. Instead, I picked up the tire iron and turned toward the trio.

“What the hell, Foley?” the smaller man said.

Tim rolled to his knees and fought to keep from vomiting.

“He’s asking questions about El,” he said.

“Are you sure it’s not because he made you look bad in front of Ms. Bosland?” the smaller man said.

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever.”

The smaller man was trying to help the taller man up. He saw me standing there with the tire iron in my hands and let him fall back down again. He brought his hands up like he was saying no to a second helping of ice cream.

“Now, mister…”

“Seriously,” I said. “I’m going home. You got a problem with that?”

“Me? No. Hell no. You drive carefully now, you hear?”

I flung the tire iron into the darkness beyond the lights of the parking lot. That didn’t seem to make any difference to him. I went to the Jeep Cherokee while he helped his buddy to his feet. We all ignored the bullyboy.

I started the Cherokee and drove off. I kept checking my rearview mirror. If the young men were following again, they did it with their headlights off.

*   *   *

The parking lot was virtually deserted by the time I reached O’Malley’s—midnight on a cold weekday in Deer River, I decided. I stepped inside. Two older men maneuvered around me and out the door, leaving the bar empty.

“Good night, M,” one shouted.

I didn’t see her, but I heard Cyndy’s voice in reply.

“’Night.”

I glanced inside the restaurant. It was also empty except for a middle-aged couple sitting at a table for two and having the kind of fierce whispered discussion that rarely ends well. I unzipped my coat, stuffed my hat and gloves in my pockets, drifted to the jukebox, pumped in a couple of quarters, and selected a song.

Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste …

Cyndy appeared from wherever she was hiding.

“Sorry, we’re closing early … Oh, crap.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said.

“What are you doing here?”

“You said to stop by on my way home.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Just taking the advice of the two young men you sent after me.”

Her eyes grew wide and an expression of concern crossed her face.

“Are they all right?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she gestured with her chin at the jukebox.

“I’ve never liked that song,” Cyndy said. “Why should the devil get any sympathy?”

“Because he’s so misunderstood?”

Cyndy retreated behind the bar. She took two glasses and a bottle of Jim Beam and set them in front of her.

“Join me,” she said.

I removed my coat and laid it across the pool table. Just as I was settling on a stool, the middle-aged couple left the restaurant. They were holding hands as they exited the door.

Guess things worked out after all,
my inner voice said.
Good for them.

Cyndy poured an inch of bourbon into a glass and pushed it in front of me. “Friend or foe?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You’re not here to help Ella.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You didn’t even know her name.”

“That’s true.”

“No one’s seen or heard from her in over six weeks, but you said that you saw her at a party last week.”

“The bit about the party was a lie. I did see her, though. Yesterday, in fact.”

“Well?”

“It’s kind of a long story. I’m trying to decide if I trust you enough to tell it.”

“And you expect me to talk about her?”

“El is missing. She really is this time.”

“Missing or hiding? See, that’s the problem, McKenzie. If you’re looking for El because she’s missing, I’m inclined to help. If you’re looking for her because she’s hiding…”

“Ms. Bosland said the last time she saw her, El seemed frightened. She said that El was frightened by dangerous people from the Cities.”

Cyndy picked up her glass and swished the alcohol around, yet did not drink.

“Bosland isn’t from around here,” she said.

“Do you know who these people are, why they’re dangerous?”

“No.”

“Ms. Bosland said—”

“Why should Bosland care about El? What’s it to her?”

“You tell me.”

“McKenzie, listen, I don’t know what Ms. Bosland said or why. El never told me she was frightened, never said anything in her posts or texts. Last time we actually spoke—it was at Christmas—she said she was having a wonderful time, that the Cities were great and I should come down and visit, find a babysitter for Lizzie so we could party with her boyfriend.”

“What boyfriend?”

Cyndy backed away from the bar; her expression suggested she had revealed something that she meant to keep secret.

Let it go,
my inner voice told me.
Come back to it later.

“Why do you think El is hiding?” I asked aloud.

Cyndy didn’t answer.

“I know about the expensive gifts,” I said. “What was she into? Tell me.”

“Who are you, McKenzie? Why are you here?”

There was something akin to menace in Ms. Bosland’s voice when she had asked those questions earlier. Cyndy M’s voice, though, was filled with concern. So I told her. I told her all of it, starting with the blizzard six weeks earlier and ending with El fleeing my condominium. Somewhere during the story, Cyndy’s smile disappeared. I never saw it again.

“She’s okay?” Cyndy’s voice demanded that the question and answer be the same. “She’s okay now?”

“She gets headaches. Her knee still bothers her.”

“But she’s okay?”

“She seems to be.”

“Her memory, though.”

“She might have been … faking.” I nearly said “malingering.”

“Why?”

“Do you know who Doug Howard is?”

“No.”

“He’s not one of the Deer River tribe?”

“No, and the others—they’re like brothers and sisters. The men who tried to kill El, they have to be someone else.”

“Even the best families can have a falling-out.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That brings us back to the original question. Why do you think El might be hiding?”

“I knew she was into something. When she came home, not just during the holidays, but whenever she came home, she always had expensive gifts, like you said. Clothes and jewelry. I asked how she got the money for it all. She laughed it off. She said if a girl is smart, there’s plenty of easy money to be had. I might be a small-town girl, McKenzie, but I know the streets in the Cities aren’t paved with gold. Anything where you get a lot of money for not much work isn’t going to be honest.”

“When was the last time you heard from El?”

“I saw her at Christmas, like I said. We traded texts and Facebook postings until after New Year’s. A couple weeks before … before the accident.”

“And then?”

“And then, nothing.”

“What about the rest of your friends?”

“We weren’t as close, so not hearing from them—I wasn’t surprised not hearing from them except … except when I sent texts asking about El, no one replied. I asked Tim about it—”

“Tim?”

“Tim Foley. He was one of the original seven that moved to the Cities. Well, six after I dropped out. He came home last, what was it, November?”

“Why?”

“Not everyone is cut out to live in the city. I think it’s much harder to go from here to there than it is to go from there to here. Anyway, I asked him about El and the others, what they were doing. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Which is like—why wouldn’t you tell? Why keep secrets? That’s when I realized something was wrong, and then not hearing from El … You showing up like you did, I thought you might be the reason something was wrong.”

“What is her boyfriend’s name?”

“Oliver Braun. Although…”

“What?”

“One of El’s posts, one of her last posts, she wrote how the U’s food service department sells ice cream made by the students that’s just as good as Ben and Jerry’s and how she’s been going through it one flavor at a time since Oliver suddenly can’t go a single evening without visiting his mother.”

His mother?
my inner voice asked.
What does that mean?

“El’s texts and posts, what other names did she mention?” I asked aloud. “Did she upload photos of people she met in the Cities?”

“She wrote about the Deer River crowd and their landlord, someone named Leon—Leon Janke, something like that. I guess he’s a real sweetheart. She also mentioned … besides Oliver she mentioned some of his friends, and a couple of guys she met in the Cities, Mitch and Craig, but she didn’t post many pics. I can go back and look. Postings on Facebook last forever. McKenzie, Mitch and Craig—do you think they’re the ones who tried to kill her?”

“We’ll have to ask them, won’t we? I’m going to give you my cell number. If you find out anything about Oliver, about Doug Howard and the others, anything that might tell me where to look for El, you call.”

“I will.”

“In the meantime, your other friends, the ones who went to the Cities with El, I want their names, addresses, cell numbers, whatever you can give me.”

“They wouldn’t have hurt El.”

“They might know who did.”

“Maybe they’re in danger, too.”

“Maybe.”

Cyndy wrote out the information on a napkin. She told me the address was for a duplex the Deer River tribe was sharing near the University of Minnesota campus.

“They live on the top floor,” she said.

“Earlier you told me that El had moved,” I reminded her.

“She house-sits sometimes.”

“Is that a job, babysitting people’s homes while they’re on vacation?”

“I think so.”

I held up the napkin.

“Don’t tell your friends you gave this to me,” I said.

“I’m trusting you with a lot, McKenzie.”

More than Fifteen did,
my inner voice said.

*   *   *

It took me three and a half hours to drive home on an icy highway. Probably I should have spent the night in a motel, except the thought of my own warm bed kept me on the road even though I was fast approaching an entire day without sleep. Along the way, I stopped to top off my gas tank and buy black coffee and strawberry Twizzlers. I was tempted to call Bobby Dunston’s office and recite into his voice mail Ella Elber’s real name as well as the other names and numbers Cyndy had given me. I knew he wouldn’t get the message until morning, though, and decided to wait. As for calling him at home—I had learned long ago that’s not something you do, call a policeman’s home late at night if it isn’t a dire emergency.

I tried not to wake Nina when I returned to the condominium. As I slipped silently beneath the sheets, though, she rolled over and rested an arm across my chest.

“Bobby wants you to call him,” she said.

“First thing in the morning.”

“How was your trip?”

“No one died.”

“Hmm,” she purred in reply.

SEVEN

When I said first thing in the morning, what I meant was sometime after ten o’clock. Imagine my annoyance when my cell phone started singing at a quarter past eight. I would have ignored it despite Nina’s NHL-quality elbow to my ribs, except I thought it might be Cyndy M with more information.

“McKenzie,” I said.

“Dunston,” Bobby said. “Meet me at the Highland Park arena. Meet me now.”

“Why?” I asked, but he had hung up before I could get the word out.

“I hate it when he does that.”

“Hmm,” Nina said and rolled over.

*   *   *

The ice arena in Highland Park, usually considered a “Jewish neighborhood” because most of St. Paul’s synagogues were located there, was actually called the Charles M. Schulz—Highland Arena, named for the creator of Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and the other Peanuts characters. It’s where Bobby and I and our ne’er-do-well friends have been playing pickup hockey for the past decade and a half—the scene of many happy moments, and I thought of it fondly.

I knew that was about to change, though, when I pulled into the parking lot and found a half-dozen police cars surrounding a steel-blue Ford Taurus, its doors wide open. The arena was about to be added to a long list of locations in the Twin Cities that tightened my stomach, that caused me to look away.