Unidentified Woman #15 (29 page)

“In the meantime, you and your partner might want to reconsider your choice of occupations, because I don’t think this one suits you.”

“You’re a funny guy, Dyson.”

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

I slipped the phone into my pocket. Nina was smiling brightly while grooving to a melody in her head as if she were about to break into dance.

“Remember the cartoon
Underdog
?” she asked. “I loved that show.
Speed of lightning, roar of thunder, fighting all who rob or plunder…”

I took her home and did exactly what I said I would do despite her entreaties, which, let’s face it, were difficult to resist. It took a while before she fell asleep.

As a result of all this, I was a few hours later getting out of town than I had planned. Then there was the blizzard to contend with. It should have been a three-hour trip to Deer River, yet I spent nearly two and a half just driving to Lake Mille Lacs, about halfway. Fortunately, I was able to put the snowstorm behind me as I rounded the lake. After that, it was smooth sailing—if you didn’t mind sailing in subfreezing temperatures. Spring might have been flirting with the Cities, but it was still giving the northland the cold shoulder.

*   *   *

It was nearly 10:00
P.M.
when I pulled into the plowed parking lot of a motel near Blueberry Hills Golf Course just north of Deer River. The man who operated the motel was getting ready to leave his office just as I entered.

“He’p yeah?” he asked.

I think he thought I was going to ask for directions, because he was openly surprised when I requested a room for the night.

“Well, now, son, we don’t get many visitors this time a’ year,” he said. “Fact is, we’re as empty as a politician’s promise, so you got your pick.”

The motel consisted of a dozen cabins with two rooms per cabin; the cabins were spaced about twenty yards apart.

“Farthest from the road,” I said.

“Not a problem.”

He rounded his desk, produced a registration form for me to fill out, and swiped my credit card.

“During the summer and hunting season, we’re always full up,” the manager said. “Fact is, if you don’t already have a reservation, you ain’t stayin’ here. The winter we get some snowmobilers, some cross-country skiers, not many, though, especially this winter. What brings you to DR? Not lost, are ya?”

“I’m going to meet a few friends tomorrow to do some snowmobiling before the snow melts.”

“Hell’s bells, son, snow ain’t never gonna melt.”

“It sure seems that way.”

“Lucky you came in when you did. I was just about to call it a night myself. As it is, you need something, ice, microwave popcorn, whatever, now’s the time to get it. I was just going off to my own place up the road. You’re gonna be all alone down here. Hope that’s not a problem. There’s a number you can call if there’s an emergency.”

“If you’re not going to be here—the cabins, you say there are two rooms per. Are they adjoining?”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t you rent me both rooms, then, in case my friends come up early? You’re not going to be here at the crack of dawn, are you?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

The manager installed me in cabin 9, and gave me two sets of keys for 9A and 9B, plus keys that opened the adjoining doors.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“That should do it,” I told him.

He stayed in his office while I parked the Cherokee in front of 9A; mine was the only vehicle in the lot besides his. There were two doors—a metal-and-glass storm door that opened outside and a thick wooden door that opened inside. I pulled the storm door open, unlocked the inside door, stepped inside, shut the doors behind me, turned on the lights, and closed the drapes. It was warm inside the cabin. I checked the thermostat—sixty-eight degrees. ’Course, I was dressed for a Minnesota winter, including boots that would have kept my feet warm in the Arctic Circle. I unzipped my coat, though I didn’t remove it. I made sure the adjoining door was unlocked so that I could move easily from A to B, although I purposely left the lights off in room B.

I waited until the manager departed about ten minutes later, leaving me completely alone. There was a card next to the phone that listed the motel’s number and explained how to make local calls. I shoved it into my pocket, checked the SIG Sauer, returned it to the holster on my right hip, rezipped my coat, and left the cabin.

*   *   *

O’Malley’s was only a five-minute drive from the motel, yet I managed to stretch it to ten while I figured out how I was going to do this. My cell phone started singing. I read the caller ID before answering.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said.

“Where are you?” Nina asked.

“I just pulled into Deer River.”

“I hate it when I wake up and you’re gone and I don’t know where.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted. I feel more tired now than when I went to sleep. You were right about going through adrenaline withdrawal.”

“It happens sometimes. Not always.”

“I woke up with a song in my head that I can’t get rid of. A song Madeleine Peyroux sang when she was last in town about her Daddy teaching her
’bout how warm whiskey is in a cold ditch and one more thing about good and evil: you can’t tell which is which.
”

“The woman knows how to turn a phrase.”

“It’s a far cry from
Underdog,
I know. I think it’s my subconscious telling me to tell you to come home. Turn your car around and come home. To heck with Fifteen. I brought her into my home and dressed her in my daughter’s clothes. I let her play my piano. What does she do? She shoots me.”

“I thought you said it was an accident.”

“Accident my Great Aunt Matilda Mountbatten. She almost killed me, whether she intended to or not. As it is, she ruined a perfectly good virgin wool overcoat. I loved that coat. I spent twelve hundred dollars on it two years ago. It was a special treat from me to me because I had finally paid off all the notes on my club.”

“I remember.”

“So, McKenzie, I’m saying forget her. I mean, I still don’t want anything awful to happen to Fifteen, but this has nothing to do with us, you and me. Let Bobby and Shipman deal with it.”

“I can’t do that.”

I heard her yawn over the cell.

“I bet you could if you put your mind to it,” she said.

“I’m here.”

“What do you mean?”

“O’Malley’s. I can see the lights just down the road.”

“Even if you weren’t…” I heard her yawn again. “Never mind. I just thought I’d give it a try. I’m going back to bed now, and I’m not going to leave it until you return.”

I liked the sound of that so much I nearly did turn the car around.

*   *   *

I was fortunate to find an empty space in O’Malley’s crammed parking lot. When I opened the front door, people nearly tumbled out of the building like they did in that Marx Brothers movie, so many of them were waiting for a table in the restaurant area or a place at the bar. I squeezed inside, to the annoyance of the customers who were already crowded there, and looked around. To my great surprise, I saw an empty seat at the end of the bar directly beneath the mounted head of the twelve-point buck. I figured that its owner had retired to the restroom, yet when no one claimed it after a while I realized the stool was unoccupied. It made me wonder if O’Malley’s patrons were superstitious, if they believed sitting in the shadow of the dead deer somehow brought them bad luck. Certainly my life had been less than sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows since I last sat there—I quoted the Lesley Gore song because that’s what was playing on the jukebox when I settled onto the stool.

There were two bartenders working the rail, an older woman and Cyndy M. It was Cyndy who turned to greet me and take my order. Her smile disappeared and her vibrant eyes became gray and cloudy at the sight of my face. I pointed at nothing in particular.

“Believe it or not, Marvin Hamlisch wrote this song when he was first starting out,” I said.

“I don’t know who that is,” Cyndy said.

“Quincy Jones was the producer. Please tell me you know who he is.”

She shook her head, and I thought, McKenzie, you are so old.

Cyndy excused herself to serve a couple of customers as far away from me as she could get and still be standing behind the bar. I turned in the stool and surveyed the room. My friends from the Northern Lights Inn—I knew them as tall and small—were sitting at their usual table near the jukebox. Neither of them seemed happy to be there. The taller of the two raised his glass in mock salute while the smaller pointed at the jukebox. I followed his finger until I found Tim Foley leaning against the machine. He was staring straight at me, a kind of panicked expression on his face, while speaking on his cell phone.

Cyndy must have decided that I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon no matter how much she ignored me, because a few moments later, she filled a twelve-ounce mug with Grain Belt Beer and set it in front of me.

“Would you like to see a menu?” she asked.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch with Bobby.

“What’s the daily special?” I asked.

Cyndy sighed the way people do when they want you to know they’re pissed off.

“Walleye deep fried in beer batter, fries, and coleslaw,” she said.

“I’ll have that.”

She stared at me for a few beats, turned, and placed my order. She did not speak to me or even glance in my direction until my food was up. She set the plate in front of me.

“Tartar sauce?” she asked. “Ketchup?”

“Thank you.”

She retrieved a bottle of each.

“Why are you here?” Cyndy asked.

I ate a french fry. While I chewed, I pulled my smartphone from my pocket and called up a pic of Nina. I set the cell on the bar so that Cyndy would have no trouble seeing it.

“Her name is Nina Truhler,” I said. “She had been very kind to your friend. Gave her a place to stay after she left the hospital; tried to take care of her as best she could. About eight hours ago, El shot her.”

Cyndy took a couple of steps backward, although her eyes never left the smartphone.

“She wouldn’t do that,” Cyndy said.

“Maybe not on purpose. She did squeeze the trigger, though.”

Cyndy’s head came up; her expression was that of a child who had just learned there was no Easter Bunny and was now wondering about Santa Claus.

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Eight hours ago I probably would have said the same thing.”

“Now you want to get back at her?”

At that moment, my burn phone started playing its preposterous melody. I held up a finger and told Cyndy, “Hold that thought,” as I pulled the cell from my jacket pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Mitch. I answered by saying, “What?”

“Dyson?” he asked.

“What now?”

“Where are you? Are you in Deer River?”

I couldn’t think of a single reason to tell him the truth, so I answered, “Why do you ask?”

“McKenzie’s in Deer River—the guy we told you about who’s also looking for El.”

“He is?”

“My sister called. She said someone she knows saw him in a place called O’Malley’s. That’s where El’s friend works. Cyndy Desler. She’s the bartender. Manager. Something like that.”

“Good to know.”

“Where are you?”

“The Wagon Wheel next to the Holiday Stationstore on Highway 2.”

“O’Malley’s is on the other side of town.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Good luck.”

I ended the call without wishing him good luck in return.

“You carry two phones?” Cyndy asked.

“Occupational hazard,” I said.

“I’m sorry about your friend, I really am.”

“She’s fine, by the way. Thanks for asking. She won’t press charges against El, either. Something about that girl instills outrageous loyalty, damn if I know what it is.”

“I won’t speak with you.”

“See? That’s what I mean by outrageous loyalty. Still, you and I are going to have a conversation, M, whether you like it or not. If not now, then later. But we will have a conversation, I promise.”

She ground her fists against her hips. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“There’s no reason why you should be, but you’re afraid of something. I saw it in your eyes the moment I sat down.” I gestured at tall and small. “I see it in the faces of your friends.”

She refused to reply. I took a chance.

“What do you know about a man named Nick Dyson?” I asked

Cyndy grimaced, took a step backward, and folded her arms across her chest.

Those are all defensive gestures,
my inner voice said.
She
is
afraid, and now you know why—assuming your body-language training wasn’t completely useless.

It’s all starting to make sense now, I told myself.

“Look, M,” I said, “you can talk to me or you can talk to Dyson. And don’t tell me you’re not afraid of him, either. If you weren’t you wouldn’t have your friends standing guard at the door, waiting for him to show up. He will show up, too. He’s on his way. That’s what the phone call was about.

“Something else, just so we’re both on the same page. See Tim Foley over there by the jukebox? He’s in contact with Ms. Bosland. Ms. Bosland is in contact with her brother Mitch in the Cities. It was Mitch and his cohorts who hired Dyson in the first place. Twenty thousand dollars to put El in the ground. Imagine.

“I, on the other hand, am still interested in protecting you and your friend, although the two of you are making it so damn hard. Will you please help me?”

From the jukebox came the opening
ba-ba, ba-ba
to the old Partridge Family song, followed by David Cassidy singing “I Think I Love You,” with nearly everyone in the bar joining in. Cyndy smiled weakly and waved and announced, “Enough, enough now,” as she had the first time I witnessed the ritual. For a quarter hour afterward, she was overwhelmed by drink orders. When she found an empty moment, she returned to my place at the bar.

“I’ll talk to you, but not now and not here,” she said. “Where are you staying?”