Unidentified Woman #15 (24 page)

The officers made ready to evacuate the conference room, but he halted them.

“Up until now we’ve been able to operate below the radar,” he said. “That’s going to change. A murder suspect killed at the funeral of his alleged victim—you know the media’s going to be all over this one. No leaks. I mean it. I want this case airtight. Any journalists start asking questions, you refer them to me.”

“Especially if the reporter is Kelly Bressandes,” Keith said.

The remark caused a snicker to ripple through the room. Bressandes had the nicest legs and best come-hither smile on local TV.

“Damn right,” Bobby said. “If anyone is going to give Bressandes an exclusive, it’s going to be me.”

The ME slapped Bobby on the shoulder as he passed out of the room. “Rank does have its privileges,” he said.

I was the last to leave. Bobby intercepted me at the door.

“McKenzie, do you know why I let Shipman take the lead on this investigation instead of doing it myself?” he asked.

“Because you’re a desk-bound bureaucrat?” I said.

“It’s because I didn’t want to put you in a position where you would lie to my face. And I didn’t want to put myself in a position where I would have to do something about it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Shipman knows everything that I know.”

“See, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Trust me, Bobby.”

“Uh-huh. One more thing. If you tell Shelby what I said about Kelly Bressandes, I will shoot you where you stand.”

THIRTEEN

Later that evening, I went to Rickie’s. Joey DeFrancesco and his trio had just begun their first set in the upstairs performance hall—I could hear his Hammond B-3 organ singing—yet instead of listening, I went to Nina’s office. I knocked on the door and stepped inside without waiting for permission. Nina was sitting at her small desk, her feet up, and drinking Scotch. She did not look happy.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You don’t know? It’s been on the news.”

The shooting,
my inner voice said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

I sat in the chair opposite her. She studied me long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

“What?” I asked.

“You were there.”

“How do you know?”

“You were standing close when it happened. That’s why you have bloodstains on your new jacket, isn’t it? Because you were so close when it happened.”

I hadn’t noticed the stains.

“I have some old jackets I can wear,” I said.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Nina asked.

“Not particularly.”

“So, what else is new?”

“Talking won’t change anything.”

“It always makes me feel better.”

“It just makes me feel sad.”

“That’s because you think Fifteen did it. You like her, and it bothers you to think she killed that man. Him and the one in Minneapolis.”

“You like her, too. If I recall, you said you wanted to adopt her.”

“I still don’t believe she did it.”

“Why are you drinking alone in your office, then?”

Nina didn’t reply.

“I don’t know what I think,” I told her.

“McKenzie, there were three men in that truck. If it is Fifteen, and I’m not saying it is, but if she is trying to get revenge on the men who hurt her, who dumped her on the freeway—there’s one left.”

“At least one. If it was a man. We don’t know for sure.”

“Who?”

“I have no idea. Maybe Kispert.”

“Should we warn him?”

“Do you think he needs warning?”

Nina took a long pull of her Scotch.

“It’s my own fault,” she said. “I wanted to involve myself in your adventures. Before that, I hardly ever drank. Now look at me.”

“Do you have any more of that?”

She did. We sat together drinking silently.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Nina said. “I received an e-mail just before you walked in.”

“From whom?”

“Our friend Mitch. Actually, it wasn’t just to me. It was to his entire mailing list. The garage sale set for Saturday in Apple Valley? Postponed indefinitely.”

“I was afraid something like this would happen. With all the heat from the shooting, they decided to go dark. I bet Shipman has Mitch under the bright lights even as we speak.”

“Forgetting the mixed metaphors—you sold him twenty-four thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise for fifty cents on the dollar.”

“It was my money.”

“We’re not going to have that discussion right now, the one about joining our finances. The point is, the investment was supposed to tie us in with these guys, right? Get us close so we can find out if they’re the ones that tried to kill El and then decide what to do about it. Now what?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you had a plan?”

“Can’t imagine what gave you that idea.”

We drank some more.

“Do you want to go upstairs and listen to Joey?” Nina asked.

“Actually, I was thinking of taking you home.”

*   *   *

We started making out before we even opened the door. Nina had her hands around my neck and was nibbling my ear—which I really, really liked—while I fumbled with my key card, trying to slip it into the lock. I realized that we were on camera; Smith and Jones were probably watching us on their security monitor. I didn’t care.

They said they were bored,
my inner voice reminded me.

I managed to open the door and we spilled into the condominium. I closed the door and had Nina pressed back against it. My fingers were working the buttons of her long coat. I stopped when I heard what sounded like a polka played on a xylophone.

“What the hell?” I said.

“Is that you?” Nina asked.

“No, that’s not—wait.” I rummaged through my pockets until I found the burn phone I had used to contact Mitch. Now he was trying to contact me. I pressed the button that allowed the cell to accept the call.

“This is Dyson,” I said.

Nina’s eyes grew wide at the name.

“Dyson, this is Mitch.”

“I was just going to call you,” I said. “What’s this shit I hear about you canceling the garage sale? I told you I need a reliable distributor.”

“That’s why I called. I’d like to meet with you. You and Mr. Herzog.”

I flinched at the sound of his name. Nina must have noticed, because she leaned toward me, a concerned expression on her face.

You used Herzog’s name at the storage garage,
my inner voice told me.
Damn, he’s going to be pissed.

Mitch filled in the silence that followed.

“We checked you out, you and Mr. Herzog,” he said. “We believe you can help us.”

“Help you what?”

“That’s what we want to meet about.”

“When?”

“Now, if it’s convenient.”

I was watching Nina when I answered.

“It is most certainly not convenient,” I said.

I agreed to meet him anyway. Nina leaned away from me after I finished the call and folded her arms across her chest, a defensive gesture.

“Dyson?” she said. “Nick Dyson?”

“Yeah, about that…”

“I need another drink.”

*   *   *

Herzog was even more unhappy than Nina, especially when I explained that Craig and Mitch knew his name and apparently accessed his record. It took a lot of fast talking and the guarantee of a sizable payday to convince him to accompany me to the meeting. Even so, he remained in a foul mood. When we arrived at Cafe Latt
é
, a gourmet cafeteria specializing in exotic desserts located in St. Paul, he marched to the table where Mitch and Craig were nursing coffees and announced, “I don’t like to drink caffeine at night, it keeps me awake.” From the expression on their faces, you’d have thought he threatened to set them both on fire.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Herzog,” Craig said. “They serve—I could get you green tea. That has only a little caffeine.”

“Japanese cherry,” Herzog said. “With honey. And while you’re at it, I could use a slice of that raspberry torte they got.”

Craig was quick to his feet, pausing only long enough to ask, “Mr. Dyson?”

Mister,
my inner voice said.
I like that. Means they’re frightened or impressed, probably both.

“I’m good,” I said aloud.

We remained at the small table while Craig left to serve Herzog. I said, “What do you want?” Mitch said, “We should wait,” even as he gestured toward his partner’s empty chair. So we did. Quietly. Meanwhile, a steady stream of customers flowed around our table as if it were an obstacle in a creek. No doubt that’s why Craig and Mitch chose the place, I told myself—for its loud, crowded, and breezy atmosphere. As for me, I prefer privacy when I conspire to commit a major felony.

The wait was long enough that Mitch grew restless.

“We Googled you,” Mitch said, just to make conversation. “Both of you. Is your name really Glen?”

“Think that makes me happy?” Herzog said. “You checking up on me?”

“I was just saying…”

“You call me Glen again, I’ll fuck you up.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Herzog.”

“Fuck the Internet.”

Mitch avoided Herzog’s stare after that. He found my face. He smiled slightly as if he were hoping to find an ally. I glared at him.

You don’t see me calling him Glen, do you, numb nuts?
my inner voice said.

Mitch looked away.

Craig returned a few minutes later. He served Herzog from a plastic tray.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Craig asked.

Herzog sipped the tea while Craig hovered above him.

“You waiting for a tip?” Herzog asked.

“No. No, no.” Craig sat down, setting the tray in front of him. “No.”

“Start talking,” I said.

“We have been forced to suspend operations,” Mitch said. “We won’t resume until … until certain matters are dealt with.”

“What matters?”

“The police are onto us.”

Herzog spoke around a forkful of raspberry torte.

“What do you mean, us?” he said.

“Us, us,” Mitch said. “Well, not you. I mean us.”

“Better not be me.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“A St. Paul detective named Shipman brought me in for an interview. She wanted to know about the garage sales. I don’t think she had any evidence, and I gave her nothing. Kispert, he didn’t say anything either.”

“Who’s Kispert?” I knew the answer, but Dyson didn’t.

“John Kispert,” Mitch said.

“He’s our … associate,” Craig said.

“The detective didn’t arrest either of us, so we figure we’re okay. But now that we know they’re looking…”

“Why are they looking?” I asked.

Both Mitch and Craig took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was as if they had practiced together.

“There have been … incidents involving a former employee,” Mitch said. “Things that have nothing to do with you.”

“Then why am I here?” Herzog asked.

“We’re hoping you can help us,” Craig said.

“Help you what?” I asked.

“The former employee, a woman, a girl really, she needs to be found,” Mitch said. “She needs to be…”

“Dealt with?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We should start at the beginning,” Craig said.

“They don’t need to know all that.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

“No, you ain’t,” Herzog said. “You wouldn’ta called us here unless you want us to do somethin’ untoward.”

Untoward?
my inner voice said.
Herzy, listen to you.

“We won’t even consider it unless we know everything,” Herzog said. “We don’t walk into a room without our eyes wide open.” The big man pivoted in his chair to look at me. “Right?”

He seemed so earnest it was all I could do to keep from laughing.

“Eyes wide open,” I said.

“You got till I finish my torte,” Herzog said. “I eat fast.”

Mitch and Craig both took another deep breath and exhaled, except this time they were out of sync.

“The girl is named Ella Elbers,” Mitch said. “El for short. She was part of our crew—”

“Your crew of shoplifters,” I said.

“Yes. She was very good at it, too. A real professional. But she found out that we—not us, not Craig and me, but our associates, Kispert and the Boss—they were blackmailing some of our customers.”

“Wait,” Herzog said. “The Boss? Who the hell is the Boss?”

Craig looked down at Herzog’s plate. He seemed relieved that the big man had stopped eating.

“We don’t know,” he said.

Dammit.

“That requires explanation,” I said aloud.

“It has nothing to do with what we’re asking,” Mitch said.

Herzog pointed two fingers at his own eyes, pointed them at Mitch’s, and repeated the gesture a couple more times.

“We maintain a list of customers, an e-mail list,” Mitch said. “Someone on the list, we don’t know who, sent us a message over a year ago saying we had a business rival, but not to worry. The sender, whoever he was, said he could arrange a merger of our operations, combining our resources, so that instead of competing for customers we would both profit by appealing to the same customer base. He said he could also furnish security as well as rotating venues, which would make it more difficult for the cops to catch us—all this in exchange for a third of the take. The e-mail was very convincing. Anyway, the sender—he signed the e-mail as the Boss—brought us together, and yeah, it worked out pretty well. Even though we’ve never met. We’d get the location for the garage sales a week in advance by e-mail and snail-mail his share to a PO box. It went great. Until we discovered that both Kispert and the Boss were targeting some of our customers for blackmail.”

“Women,” Craig said. “Usually women who were single. Always women who were vulnerable because of what they did for a living.”

“Buying stolen property, what is that?” Mitch said. “You get caught, most of the time it doesn’t amount to much more than a fine. For some women, though, women who have jobs that require them to be above reproach…”

“Teachers. Ministers. Lawyers.”

“Women whose careers would be totally screwed if they were arrested, if news got out that they knowingly bought stolen property—yeah, they pay.”