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Shoot to Thrill

Page 19

by PJ Tracy


  ‘Really. Well, of course he’d be happy to help if he could …’ He pressed his lips together and frowned at John

  Goddamnit, Magozzi thought, he wasn’t as dumb as his doorbell. ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Good heavens. I can’t imagine Kyle seeing anything and not mentioning it … this whole thing is terrible, and to tell you the truth, I think it frightened him a little.’

  Magozzi nodded. ‘I’m sure it did. The point is, witnesses often see things without realizing what they saw, so they never think to mention it until someone asks them about it.’

  ‘Oh.’ He chewed on his lip a while and tugged at his pants, which Magozzi thought was always a bad sign. Bull readjusting the jewels before taking a stand. Worse yet, Mr. Silk Robe wasn’t opening the door and inviting them in. ‘I do want to be helpful, Officers. Please don’t misunderstand. But Kyle is my son, and having the three of you show up at my door at this hour wanting to question him about what happened today makes me very uncomfortable. I think I’d like to call our lawyer.’

  Magozzi nodded. ‘Then that’s exactly what you should do, sir. As a matter of fact, if you have any reason to believe that your son might have been involved in the placement of these boxes all over the city—’

  ‘Good God, no! It’s not that. I just meant … it’s so ridiculous. Kyle was valedictorian of his graduating class. Four-point-oh since he was a freshman. Voted most popular, most likely to succeed …’

  Gino made a face and rolled his head. ‘Oh, man, you gotta be kidding me. You have a kid with a four-point-oh?

  Kyle’s dad blinked at Gino, and then smiled tentatively. ‘Thank you. He’s a great kid.’

  Gino gave him a lopsided smile. ‘Obviously. Let me know when he’s between girlfriends. My daughter may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but she’s a sweetheart, and a looker to boot, and I’d sure like to see her hooked up with a young man who takes education seriously.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged at Magozzi. ‘Come on, Leo. Let me tell him what’s up. The guy’s got the army at the door and has every right to be concerned.’

  Magozzi looked down at his shoes and pretended to think for a moment.

  John was watching the two cops without saying a word, thinking he’d learned more in the past three minutes than in all his years of law enforcement.

  ‘I suppose,’ Magozzi finally said.

  ‘Great. Okay, Mr. Zellickson, this is the deal,’ Gino said. ‘We got some surveillance video from some of the sites where the boxes were planted, and we caught a pic of Kyle and his friend’ – he pretended to consult his notes – ‘Clark, something …’

  ‘Clark Bradley?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. They weren’t carrying a box or anything, and we’re not thinking for one minute they were involved, but they were pretty close to a spot where one of the boxes was found, so we figured maybe, if we were really lucky, they might have seen something … like somebody setting down a box, for instance. And what’s so freaky about

  Kyle’s dad frowned. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘The Metrodome.’

  The man got manicures, Magozzi realized, wondering why that still gave him the creeps. His hand was pressed against his chest as if to quiet a relieved heart, and his buffed nails glinted on the black silk of the silly robe.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ Mr. Zellickson said, smiling for the first time since he’d opened the door. ‘They have open skating at the Dome on a couple of floors whenever nothing else is going on. Kyle and Clark go all the time. They love their Rollerblades.’

  Gino opened his hands and grinned. ‘And they were blading on the film.’ His grin disappeared. ‘However – and I’m telling you this as a father, because I’d want to know if it were my kid – neither one of them was wearing a helmet.’

  Mr. Zellickson’s eyes narrowed. ‘I will definitely talk to him about that. Come in, gentlemen. Kyle’s in the basement doing some homework. With Clark, as it happens. You can talk to them both at the same time.’

  Gino beamed at him. ‘How lucky can we get?’

  Kyle’s mother pretty much hated the basement, which suited Kyle just fine since it meant she didn’t come down here very much. Once in a blue moon the tornado siren on the corner blew its brains out and busted everybody’s eardrums, and that was the only time she came down to the space Kyle had made his own. He and Clark had tacked up

  Clark was kind of a superdweeb. He’d been wearing jackets with zippers instead of snaps, duh, when he and Kyle had first hooked up, but he was a pure CSI genius. He’d seen every show about a million times, and watched all the cop and autopsy shows on cable until he nearly fried his brains out with a TV Ph.D. in how to do crime and make assholes out of the cops. Better yet, he carried a bong in his backpack and scored a lot of green from somewhere, because he always had a Glad bag full in his jockey shorts.

  They were slumped on the sprung-out couch in the basement room mainlining tortilla chips and chocolate, watching the big screen Kyle’s dad had hung on the wall to keep his precious progeny occupied while he and the mother of the year did whatever the hell they did upstairs. Last time he’d checked they’d been watching some reality show about a bunch of weird people trying to beat each other at stupid games on a deserted island. Tonight they were glued to the coverage of all the boxes that were turning the city upside down.

  Have you done your homework, Kyle?

  We’re doing it now, Dad. Clark and I are watching the PBS special on the Civil War for history class.

  That’s good, Son. I heard that was a good series. So you’re not watching the network news?

  Nah. It’s all about the boxes, and that’s a little scary, you know?

  It is, a little. Your mom and I were thinking we might all head up to Duluth tomorrow to visit your grandparents.

  ‘Well, that sucks,’ Clark said quietly, just in case Kyle’s dad was still at the top of the basement steps, trying to think of something else to say. Most of the time he worked about forty hours a day, which made him the ideal dad in Clark’s opinion, if you had to have one at all. But occasionally, when he took a day off because the world was ending or he had a killer hangover, he took a shot at father-son bonding with Kyle, and those days were just plain creepy. He’d come down to the basement and ask them how they were doing, and they’d say they were doing fine, and he’d say, ‘No shit,’ as if that kind of talk would put him in the cool-dad category or something.

  ‘You and Mom want to watch this with us, Dad?’ Kyle called up the stairs. Kyle was kind of brilliant at parental management. He knew damn well if he invited his parents down, they’d assume they were actually watching that stupid Civil War thing and didn’t need any supervision; plus, it allowed them to tell themselves they’d be good parents if they trusted the boys and just stayed upstairs, watching the Great Mystery Boxes show while they had a few cocktails.

  As predicted, Kyle’s dad said thanks very much but they’d stay upstairs so they didn’t interrupt the boys while they were watching a homework assignment, which meant it was perfectly safe to light up some green.

  Kyle turned on the HEPA air machine, opened the windows, and pointed at the big screen. ‘Oh, that is so sweet. Look at the traffic cams.’

  Clark focused on the screen for a while, grinning at the

  ‘Weird, how?’

  ‘Well, they’re idiots. Assholes. Freaked out over nothing. They’ve blown all the boxes, for Chrissake. They know they’re empty, and look at those fools, still running.’

  ‘They don’t know if they found them all.’

  ‘I want to tell somebody,’ Clark said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carrie Wynheimer, for one.’

  ‘She’s a loser. Wears a push-up bra.’

  ‘So what? It’s pushing up something.’

  Kyle snatched the stick away and pulled a load into his lungs, thinking he might have made a big mistake hooking up with Clark.

  They were both mellowed out by the ti
me the sun started sinking and the basement started to get murky. Bad thing about basements and their little window slices at ground level, especially when your parents planted yew bushes to hide the top four courses of cement blocks, as if no one knew they were there.

  They’d watched a lot of the news coverage of the panic in the city. At first it had been fun to see the traffic jams and wide-eyed residents packing up their minivans with kids and pets. After a while it got old. And then the doorbell rang.

  Gino had wanted these kids to be the perps, partly so they could sew this thing up fast, and partly because he hated all teenage males. That kind of prejudice was the price of doing business when you were the father of a drop-dead sixteen-year-old daughter. Magozzi hadn’t known what to wish for or what tack to take until he heard the footsteps plodding up from the basement. The way he figured it, you didn’t stop running up any flight of stairs until you were at least twenty, unless you were nervous about what was at the top.

  Kyle came first. His house, his lead on the stairs. He was a good-looking kid, blond and blue, with a pleasant, intelligent face.

  ‘Hey, Dad. What’s up?’ his eyes immediately shifted to the three strangers standing in the foyer, and his brows tipped in polite curiosity. No tell there. Total innocence. Christ, the kid was good.

  Clark came and stood a step behind his friend, unintentionally showing Magozzi the pecking order. Funny how people positioned themselves in a physical display of hierarchy without ever being taught such a thing. Then again, wolves did it. Why not kids?

  Mr. Zellickson, proud papa, put his arm around his son. ‘This is my son, Kyle, and this is his friend, Clark. Boys, these two gentlemen are Minneapolis police officers, and this is Agent Smith of the FBI. They’d like to ask you

  ‘Sure thing,’ Kyle said pleasantly. ‘Although I can’t think of anything unusual. Just the usual slew of ’bladers and skaters we see there most of the time.’

  Magozzi smiled and nodded. ‘How about at the Crystal Court?’

  Clark’s face went stiff, Kyle’s smile faded, and Mr. Zellickson looked puzzled. ‘Uh … I thought you said you saw them on surveillance film at the Dome.’

  ‘That’s right. And at Crystal Court, and the Mall of America, and I don’t know how many other sites where we found boxes. We’re still going over the film.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Clark was swallowing hard, over and over again, and beads of sweat popped on his forehead.

  Magozzi and Gino both took a step backward as the boy suddenly folded in half and threw up on the Zellicksons’ oriental foyer rug. ‘It was just a joke,’ he wailed, and then threw up again.

  ‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake,’ Kyle screamed, but as it turned out, Gino barely had time to read them both their rights before Clark started talking.

  Magozzi looked down at the mess on the rug and felt bad, then turned up the edge with his toe and immediately felt better. Damn thing was a fake, just like the house and the pretense of a perfect family and the golden boy who was starting to look really tarnished.

  Then he saw Mr. Zellickson’s world falling apart on his face, and felt really bad all over again.

  Officer Haig answered the call for a squad with a cage,

  ‘You hit the jackpot, Haig.’

  ‘Yeah? What have you got?’

  ‘Box boys.’

  Haig’s forehead wrinkled. ‘You mean the kids who pack up your stuff at the supermarket?’ He studied Magozzi’s grin for a second, then his graying eyebrows went up to say hello to his hairline. ‘No fooling?’

  ‘No fooling. You saw the mess of cameras and reporters at the house, right?’

  ‘You mean the ones who’ve been blocking the streets and sidewalks and the entrances all day? Nah. Didn’t notice them.’

  ‘It’s worse now than when you went out. All the networks, a ton of cable stations, and a few foreigns have the place surrounded with satellite vans. Looks like the Martians have landed.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll just zip down into the garage like always …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I want you to off-load these boys at the front entrance. Maybe go around the block a couple times before pulling in so the media catches sight of you. We’ll be right behind

  ‘Wow. I’m going to be on TV.’

  ‘Comb your hair, Haig. The whole world’s going to get a look at it by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Cool.’

  The media ranks had swelled in the past few hours, vans filling the streets, photogs and reporters milling on the sidewalks and front steps of City Hall. They were all hooked into Dispatch, Magozzi knew, and all had heard that the possible perpetrators of the box fiasco were being brought in. That had been the plan.

  Gino looked up at the windows and saw faces at almost every one, watching what was going down. ‘This is about as big as it gets, Leo,’ he said. We’re going to be all over the news.’

  ‘Let’s hope it works.’

  ‘It’s not going to work. We’ll haul these kids off to Federal prison in front of the cameras and a million idiots out there will still think they could do what they did and not get caught. We’ll be chasing this tail for years to come. What a rush, closing down a city and getting the attention of the world. Look at this. In less than a week we’ve got murders on film and a fake terrorist attack, and maybe neither one of those things would have happened without the Internet. Goddamn Web is escalating everything, just like Chelsea said. Somebody’s gotta get a handle on this, ’cause there’s no going back.’

  Officer Haig led Clark up the stairs to City Hall, pausing every few steps, supposedly to look for the men behind

  Gino and Magozzi, flanking Kyle on their way up the steps, were forced to stop whenever Officer Haig stopped, and the media cashed in on film of the terrified boys that the satellites sent around the county and the world.

  ‘Jeez, Leo,’ Gino said when the hard lights hit his face, ‘what happened to Haig’s hair?’

  Magozzi was trying to look professional and a little mean. A really good-looking woman with BBC all over her microphone was in his face, asking if these were the two perpetrators who had engineered and planted the boxes that had had the world holding its breath all day. ‘No comment,’ he said, pushing past her gently while dozens of other voices yelled out questions. He leaned toward Gino and whispered, ‘I told him to comb his hair, and believe it or not, he pulled a comb out of his back pocket. Looked like Fonzie next to the jukebox, sweeping back the strands, getting ready for the girls.’

  ‘He’s pushing sixty, Leo. He’s no Fonzie.’

  John was trailing behind a few steps. Even in this media age, the Bureau still clutched at the threads of dignity from times past, avoiding the limelight. Hungry reporters and camera operators looked at him curiously, wondering if he was a person of importance, then turned away as if he were an unknown escort on the red carpet, not worth the film.

  City Hall was blessedly quiet when they finally managed to get their prisoners inside, but behind closed doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of celebration. A lot of off-duty cops had stuck around after their shifts to revel in

  ‘We’re going to have to give the Chief a couple minutes, John,’ Magozzi said. ‘Will you and Haig take the prisoners down to a holding cell?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  McLaren ran into them in the hallway on the way to the Chief’s office. ‘Swe-eet,’ he greeted them. ‘Well done, guys.’

  Gino always tried hard to play the curmudgeon, but nobody could ever accuse him of being unfair or ungracious. He reliably gave credit where credit was due, and today was no exception. ‘Are you kidding me, McLaren? We were just your delivery boys. You had the sharp eye, Monkeewrench had the brains, and we had the courage to go bust a couple Clearasil geniuses who puked the minute they saw a cop. Kind of like The Wizard of Oz.’

  ‘Man, I wish I’d been there. Did they really puke?’

  Gino smiled. ‘Yes, they did puke, and oh,
it was pretty, my friend. A sight to behold. Normally, you don’t want to see recycled candy bars and nachos, but this was very satisfying.’

  McLaren gave them both high fives. ‘Cool. Well, I’m outta here. Just wanted to stick around long enough to give you props.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Magozzi said. ‘You want to catch a beer with us later?’

  His pale face turned slightly pink, and then he grinned. ‘Sorry, guys, but I’ve got a real cutie lined up for dinner.’

  Gino nodded his approval. ‘No shit? Way to go, dude.’

  ‘I hope like hell you told her you were a Belfast Catholic before you agreed to meet her.’

  ‘I know her story, she knows mine. Everything’s kosher.’

  ‘Hey, at least you’re working your way into the lingo. Best of luck, friend,’ Gino said, meaning it.

  ‘Thanks. And hey, speaking of cuties … there’s a profiler from the FBI somewhere around here waiting for you. That’s some hot property.’

  ‘Chelsea Thomas,’ Magozzi informed him.

  McLaren’s red brows lifted. ‘Ah, so you know her. Lucky you. She’s way outta my league.’

  Gino shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know, McLaren. She might be the kind of woman who picks the ugliest Christmas tree on the lot or adopts the blind, one-legged puppy at the pound.’

  ‘Rolseth, you are such an asshole. Anyhow, have a good night, guys, and wish me luck.’

  Chelsea Thomas was waiting for them outside the Chief’s office, and she did look hot … and different. She was dressed in a suit, but it wasn’t a Fed suit. Magozzi was no fashionisto, but he knew really great, expensive clothes when he saw them – Annie Belinsky had schooled him in that.

  ‘Detectives. Excellent work today.’

  Her smile was infectious, and Magozzi and Gino both succumbed. ‘Yep. Everybody did their part, and it turned out great.’

  ‘Yes, it did. You can’t imagine how important this is as a deterrent. What kind of impression did you get from talking to them?’

 

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