Unidentified Woman #15 (15 page)

“Olson has no record that we’re aware of.”

“That surprises me.”

“Why?”

“He was very competent. You don’t just wake up in the morning with those skills. They’re developed over time.”

“A gifted amateur.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Do you think Elbers shot him?”

“No. He was killed with a rifle. El didn’t steal any rifles.”

“She stole enough money to buy one.”

“That’s true.”

“The fact Olson was shot while we were moving up on the scene makes me wonder if he might have been killed to keep us from taking him in, keep us from making him give up his friends.”

“Makes me wonder, too.”

“That’s not why you’re feeling gloomy, though, is it? You’re feeling gloomy because it got very iffy there for a while. It got very iffy, and you’re thinking whoever killed Olson probably also saved your life. That’s why you’re not your usual smartass self giving me crap, because it got so iffy.”

True, very true,
my inner voice said.

“Why him?” Shipman asked. “Why not you? Why not both of you?”

“You ask as if you expect me to have an answer. I don’t.”

“But you’re going to keep at it until you do have one, aren’t you?”

That’s the way you’re wired,
my inner voice said. I kept the thought to myself.

“I met Nina Truhler, you know,” Shipman said. “At Bobby’s barbecue last August, remember? She has the loveliest pale blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you take her away from all this, take her someplace warm? Take her to Florida. Take her to Hawaii. You have more money than God, take her to Tahiti. I mean, what are you doing here, McKenzie? Why are you doing these things?”

“This is my home. I like to be useful.”

“Once a cop, always a cop—is that what you’re saying?”

“Something like that.”

Shipman gave my arm a squeeze.

“Go home, McKenzie,” she said.

*   *   *

It was past 3:00
P.M.
when I finally returned to the condominium. How time flies when you’re having fun. I parked in the underground garage and took the elevator to the lobby. I was hoping to transfer to the elevator that could take me to the seventh floor without being noticed, but Smith stopped me. Or was it Jones?

“Mr. McKenzie?”

I pivoted toward the desk where the security guard sat. He had a troubled expression on his face.

“A man showed up here this morning,” he said. “He was looking for you. We never send anyone up without asking permission from the tenant first. He wouldn’t give us his name, though. He said he just happened to be in the neighborhood and might come back later. We kept an eye on him when he left. Saw the car he drove. We ran his plate.”

The guard slid a small sheet of paper off the desktop and handed it to me. It contained the driver’s complete record.

“His name is Mitchell Bosland,” the guard said just in case I couldn’t read.

The name caught me by surprise. I guess I had been expecting to hear Olson’s name instead.

“Do you know him?” the guard asked.

“No,” I said. “I think I met his sister, though.”

He was also one of the men El spent time with here in the Cities,
my inner voice reminded me.
Assuming Cyndy M’s recollection of El’s Facebook posts could be trusted.

“When was this?” I asked. “When did he show up?”

According to the guard—it was Smith, by the way—Mitch appeared at approximately the same time that Olson caught me in El’s duplex. I waved the sheet at the guard.

“Thank you for this,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Smith said. “Umm, Mr. McKenzie … your coat, your clothes—they’re soaked with blood.”

“You should see the other guy.”

*   *   *

I thought about taking Shipman’s advice and soaking my coat in cold water and decided against it. Instead, I balled it up and shoved into a garbage bag. The crinkling of paper reminded me of the flyers I had stuffed into my inside pocket. I hadn’t mentioned them to the cops—honest to God, it had completely slipped my mind—and I wondered if they had found the copies that I left in the wastebasket.

I set the flyers on my dresser.

I removed the rest of my clothes and put them in the garbage bag, too—even the ones that weren’t stained with blood. Afterward, I took a long, hot shower. I toweled off and stretched out on the bed, where I stared at the ceiling and contemplated my life choices. Shipman had asked why I did the things I did. Not long ago, I would have told her that I was merely trying to help people who couldn’t help themselves. I might even have told her that I was making the world a better place; that’s how arrogant I am. Lately, though, I’ve been wondering about that. How many favors have I done for how many people in the years since I left the police? Is the world a better place because of them? It sure didn’t seem like it.

You’re feeling sorry for yourself,
my inner voice told me.

If I don’t, who will?

What would the old man say?

Knowing Dad—the world doesn’t stop spinning cuz you’re unhappy with it. Get your lazy ass out of bed.

Well?

Ten minutes later, I was fully dressed and making a call on my smartphone.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hello. Cynthia M. Desler?”

Her voice sounded weary, as if hearing her formal name was cause for concern.

“Yes,” she said.

“This is McKenzie.”

“Oh, hi.”

I noticed that hearing my name didn’t improve her outlook any.

“You said you would check Ella Elbers’s Facebook posts,” I said. “I was wondering if you found anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t check or—”

“I didn’t find anything.”

“What about Oliver Braun?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Your friends, the Deer River tribe, they moved away from the address that you gave me. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then you don’t know where they went.”

“Why would I?”

“There have been no texts, no tweets, no status updates on their Facebook pages?”

“I need to go. My daughter is calling me.”

“Wait. M, tell me. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. Why would you ask?”

“You sound frightened.”

“What? No, McKenzie…”

“You were happy to help last night. Now you’re not. What’s changed? Did someone threaten you? Who threatened you, Cyndy?”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

“McKenzie…”

“Let me help you.”

In the long silence that followed, I thought she might hang up. Instead, I heard her take a deep breath. She spoke with the exhale.

“Right after I started bartending,” Cyndy said. “This was about a year before Ingvar made me manager. I was bartending and this guy came in, pleasant enough, bought a few drinks, bought dinner, paid with a one-hundred-dollar bill. I don’t usually get hundreds, but okay. I took the bill and gave him his change. Ten minutes later, some cops came in—state cops, they weren’t local. They said the bill was marked, that it was taken in an armed robbery. They accused me of laundering stolen money and said they had the legal right to shut down the bar and take me in. They said they would forget about it, though, forget it ever happened, if I told them about another guy who sometimes came into O’Malley’s. They even made it easy for me. They told me what to say. I told them to go … entertain themselves. Maybe that was a stupid thing to do. I think about it sometimes, how much trouble I could have been in. I have a daughter, McKenzie. My God. Yet I did it anyway. Do you know why? Because they weren’t from around here, and the guy they wanted me to rat on, he was.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

I flashed on Leon Janke, loyal to a handful of kids he had never met simply because they grew up ten miles from where he did.

“I think so,” I said. “Tell me, have you heard from Ms. Bosland?”

Cyndy paused before slowly answering. “No. Why would I?”

“Because her brother Mitch lives in the Cities. He came to visit me today while I was out.”

“Why are you telling me this, McKenzie?”

“The only way he would have known about me is if his sister told him.”

“I get it. Don’t worry, McKenzie. I’m being careful.”

“Good girl. The story about the state cops—tell me what happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I never saw any of them again.”

“Let’s hope you’re just as fortunate this time. One thing more, M, please, before you go.”

“What is it?”

“Can Ella shoot?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can she shoot a rifle?”

“This is northern Minnesota,” Cyndy said. “Everyone hunts up here. Everyone can shoot.”

*   *   *

On that encouraging note, I went shopping. I returned thirty minutes later. My cell started playing “Summertime” the moment I came through the door. I answered just as Ella Fitzgerald’s lush voice gave way to Louis Armstrong’s trumpet.

“Hey,” I said.

“Anything interesting going on?” Nina asked.

“Depends on what you find interesting.”

“Humor me.”

I told her about finding Oliver Braun in Highland Park, but not about Karl Olson.

“Does Bobby think Fifteen killed him?” Nina asked.

“I rarely know what Bobby thinks until he tells me, and even then…”

“What do you think?”

“If Fifteen wanted to kill Oliver, I think she would have used the gun, not a knife.”

“Then why was the gun in the car?”

“It’s a mystery.”

Nina gave it some thought.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you coming down tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? We have Charmin Michelle and Joel Shapira in the big room.”

“We also have the Wild on TV. If they win a couple of games down the stretch, they might actually get into the playoffs for a change.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later tonight. Maybe then you’ll tell me what’s really happening.”

“What do you mean?”

“McKenzie, please. After all these years you don’t think I know when you’re holding out on me?”

There was a smile in her voice, and I thought, the thing with Nina, I could say just about any damn thing that popped into my head and she would either laugh, cry, agree, argue, accept, contradict, take offense, nod, shake her head, or say “Yes, dear” in that sarcastic way she has. Yet she would never hold it against me. Unless I said it twice.

“I’ll have cr
è
me br
û
l
é
e waiting when you get home,” I said.

“Yum.”

NINE

It was approaching 11:00
A.M.
when Nina finally got up. She walked into the kitchen area wearing what she had worn to bed—gray gym shorts and a white tank top, except now it was beneath a frayed robe that she left untied.

“Morning,” she said and went to the coffeepot without waiting for a reply.

“I remember, before we actually started living together, when you wore weapons-grade nightgowns and other assorted outfits from Victoria’s Secret.”

“That’s when I was lucky if I saw you a couple times a week. It was more of an event back then. Now I see you every night.”

“The excitement has gone out of our romance.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Besides, it’s what’s in the package that matters. Not the wrapping paper.”

Still …
my inner voice said.

There were bagels in a bag on the counter. She opened the bag, retrieved a blueberry bagel, and set it on a plate. Her hand hesitated as it reached toward a wooden block where our Chicago Cutlery was stockpiled.

“Where’s the knife I like to use?” she asked.

“Probably in the dishwasher.”

“The knives should be hand-washed. Honestly, McKenzie.”

“Try the guillotine.”

Nina shook her head like she thought it was silly—the miniature guillotine used to halve bagels and English muffins that I bought
before
we moved in together. Instead, she found a different knife, sliced her bagel in half, and dropped the halves into the slots of a toaster I acquired from France that she apparently had no misgivings about.

The excitement really has gone out of our relationship.

While the bagel toasted, she brought her coffee to the island and sat on a stool.

“I found these on the dresser,” she said.

She reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew the flyers I had taken from the duplex. She smoothed out the folds and slid them across the countertop.

“Yeah, ’bout that,” I said. “What are you doing this afternoon? Do you have any plans?”

“Not in the afternoon, why?”

“How would you like to go to a garage sale in Arden Hills?”

“Wait. You want to take me to a garage sale? Voluntarily?”

“Why not?”

“I can think of a couple of reasons but yes, sure, if that’s what you want to do?”

“It’s scheduled from one till five. I’d like to get there around two. I figure that’s when it’ll be busiest.”

“And less likely we’ll be noticed.”

“Something like that.”

“Fine, but you have to explain what’s going on first. I was going to ask last night, but I became distracted after you seduced me with your cr
è
me br
û
l
é
e.”

“You always hear people say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but if I knew when I was younger how susceptible women are to homemade desserts…”

“McKenzie, I saw your new coat hanging in the closet when I got home. You left the tags on, for goodness sake.”

“Can’t a guy change up his wardrobe?”

“What happened to your old coat?”

“I threw it in the Dumpster.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“It was stained with blood.”

Nina took a long sip of her coffee and set the mug in front of her. She held it with both hands. She looked me hard in the eye. “I’m waiting,” she said.

I told her everything.