by P. J. Tracy
“He could do worse,” McLaren said modestly, loading folders from his desk into a battered briefcase. “So how’s it going with the Norwood case?”
“Bad. We confirmed homicide, and the shit storm just turned into a shit maelstrom,” Gino carped.
McLaren’s brows crept upward, punctuating his pasty white forehead with flame-colored frowns. “Oh, man. Give me a shout if there’s anything I can do to help. I’m just golfing locally for the next seven days, but I’ll take a call from you guys anytime if you need some back-up.”
“Thanks, but we wouldn’t dream of messing with your game.”
“How’s the chief taking everything? He got a double-whammy today.”
“He’s in a meeting with the mayor right now, but if you see him, run the other way.”
“So it’s like that. Damn crazy times. Don’t get blown to Hell while I’m gone.”
Magozzi folded his arms across his chest. “I thought you were going to make an offer on my house.”
McLaren gave him a mysterious smile. “Getting my ducks in a row, friend.”
Gino snorted. “Still trying to get Gloria on board with the whole domestic-bliss situation?”
“She requires finesse.”
“So how many more years is this finesse phase going to last?”
“Heaven can wait, Rolseth.”
A commanding voice, the aggressive clomp of platform heels, and the clickety-clack of beaded cornrows announced Gloria’s presence before her corporeal form appeared in the cubicle. Magozzi briefly wondered if she’d been lurking in the shadows, eavesdropping on their conversation. If so, they were all in deep shit.
She tossed an admonishing scowl McLaren’s way. “I thought we got rid of you yesterday.”
“Oh, but parting was such sweet sorrow. The memory of your dulcet voice called me back, like a siren’s song.”
She punched a hand into a generous hip and eyed his briefcase. “You came back because you forgot your files, fool.” She slapped a stapled hand-out on each of their desks. “New protocol for heightened alert. I sent an email with an attachment, too, but I knew none of you divas would look at it unless you had paper on your desk. Read it or not, I don’t care, but Chief Malcherson does.”
“Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye?” Gino asked ingenuously.
Gloria didn’t smile—ever—but she came close. “This tells you exactly how to do just that.” She looked at McLaren again. “Where are you going in that ludicrous get-up?”
“I’m golfing with Willy Staples.”
“Hmm. You and that fancy billionaire are getting awfully chummy. What does he see in a twerp like you?”
“I don’t even know where to start, Gloria. My talents are so prodigious.”
Gino snickered. “He’s got a scary memory and he’s fluent in about fifty languages, for one. Willy does a lot of foreign deals and, for some bizarre reason, McLaren is the only one he trusts to translate.”
McLaren shrugged modestly. “Willy also appreciates my fluency in golf—under my devoted tutelage, his handicap has improved twenty percent.”
Gloria gave him an imperious look. “Doesn’t make up for your appalling wardrobe malfunctions. Are you color blind, McLaren?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope Willy Staples is.”
He gave her a mischievous smile. “Do you like baseball, Gloria?”
“I hate baseball. It’s the most boring, pointless sport on the planet.”
“That’s too bad. Willy gave me two tickets to his private box for the Twins game tonight. It’s pretty amazing—there’s a big buffet and an open bar, and they wheel in a dessert cart that would blow your mind. I was going to invite you, but I guess I’ll have to find somebody else.” He made a great show of looking at his watch. “Gotta run or I’ll be late.”
Gino cleared his throat to mask a laugh as McLaren sauntered away. “I guess Willy Staples sees something in him you don’t, Gloria.”
“Don’t go there, Rolseth. Don’t even think about it.”
CHAPTER
23
JIM BEAM STOPPED the company van in front of 111 Washington Avenue and called his arrival into Office Dispatch. Not that it was necessary because the GPS tracked his every move all day. If he stopped to take a piss at a gas station on the way to a client, he’d get a call from his boss before he’d even zipped up. But being proactive earned him Brownie points with old Lloyd, and maybe, just maybe, by God, he’d see a little Christmas bonus at the end of the year for his excellent and loyal service to Lloyd’s HVAC Systems.
“In your fucking dreams,” he muttered to himself, as he started off-loading equipment onto a dolly. By the time it was fully loaded, he was soaked in sweat down to his tidy whities and looking forward to going through those fancy glass doors into an air-conditioned lobby.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jim turned around and saw a street cop standing a few feet away, watching him cautiously. Actually, the cop looked nervous, and that made Jim nervous. Ten years ago, he would have bolted, but those times were long gone and he had nothing to hide anymore. “Hot day, Officer,” he greeted him, mopping his brow with the back of his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“May I see some ID, please?”
Jim pointed to the laminated employee ID hanging from the lanyard around his neck. “My driver’s license is in the van if you need something more than this.”
“Please get your driver’s license, sir.”
Jim automatically lifted his hands, an unfortunate reflex from his darker days that he hadn’t quite been able to kick. “It’s right in my wallet on the console.”
“Go ahead.”
Jim started sweating more heavily as the cop shadowed his every move as he reached into the van. He calmly and carefully grabbed his wallet and turned it over to the cop without opening it. “License is right in front. Troubles today, Officer?”
The cop, not much more than a kid by Jim’s estimation, opened the wallet, examined the license and then his face, then closed it and handed it back. “Your license identifies you as Jim Beam. Is that your real name?”
Jim took a deep breath and steeled himself to answer the question he’d been asked a million times before, the same question that had cast a dark penumbra over him his whole life. “Yep, that’s my given name, says so right on my birth certificate. Not James, Jim. My father was a drunk, so he named me after his favorite booze. It killed the son of a bitch young, I’m not sorry to say.”
The young cop’s face relaxed a little. There might even have been a little sympathy mixed in. “Thank you for your cooperation. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.” Jim watched him walk away, feeling something dark and bad uncoil in the pit of his stomach. Something about the cop’s demeanor bothered him. He’d been tight, on high alert, like he was expecting something to go down.
Or maybe it was just the heat and humidity messing with his head. It wasn’t unusual in this day and age for a cop to stop a guy unloading equipment in front of a downtown commercial building, especially a building that was housing the Minneapolis FBI field office until their new state-of-the-art location in Brooklyn Center was finished. Lloyd’s supplied HVAC equipment for that, too, but Jim couldn’t make deliveries there because a background check was required to get within a light year of the construction site.
Jim finally decided he didn’t really care if something was going down or not. The whole world was a damned powder keg, and if you thought too hard about it, or let paranoia get the better of you, you’d end up in a fetal ball in bed for the rest of your life. You had to focus on the good things in the here and now, like getting out of this hellish heat and humidity and pushing a dolly into an air-conditioned building.
He rejoiced internally once the cool blast of central air hit him in the face and started drying the sweat from his brow. He rolled his equipment up to the security desk and slid his manifest toward a chubby guard, who’d outgrown his
uniform by a few Big Macs. “Delivery from Lloyd’s HVAC.”
The security guard gave him a sour look. “Deliveries are supposed to come in and out through the service entrance in back, by the loading dock.”
Jim formed an instant opinion: he didn’t like this fat, pompous rent-a-cop, but he wasn’t getting paid to have opinions, he was getting paid to deliver equipment, and part of his job was to be courteous and accommodating and kiss whatever asses demanded kissing. It was the story of his fucking life.
He stole a quick glance at the guard’s nameplate and swallowed his pride in a big, bitter lump. “I’m just following orders from my boss, Mr. Kramer. Take a closer look. Specific instructions are right there on the manifest: delivery to be made through the front entrance. A representative for TCG Construction will sign.”
The guard eyed him suspiciously with beady brown eyes that looked like dried-up raisins, then scrutinized the manifest. “This is irregular.”
Jim never paid much attention to the details of his job, just did what he was told to do, but it suddenly occurred to him that this was irregular. He made a lot of deliveries to this building, always at the loading dock, and almost always to the TCG Construction super, Big Mike. “I’m sorry, but that’s what it says. Call Big Mike Guidry. He can probably sort this out.”
“Mike Guidry isn’t here today.” He sighed irritably and picked up his phone. “Let me make a call.”
Jim waited, digging deep for patience. He had six more deliveries to make today and this Kramer knucklehead was sucking up time. He was also making a point of being as unpleasant as possible, which really pissed him off. The fat fuck was sitting on his lard butt in an air-conditioned lobby while he was sweating his nuggets off, doing all the heavy lifting, and Kramer was the one with the attitude.
Fat Boy finally hung up and gave him a distrustful look. “Take the service elevator to the lower level. Somebody will meet you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Sign in first.” He handed over a clipboard and Jim scrawled his name on the form, anxious to get away from the man and the building.
“Please note the time.”
Jim gritted his teeth and noted the time next to his signature. “Everybody seems a little twitchy today. Is something going on?”
“It’s the renovations. Lots of equipment and people coming and going all the time. The FBI field office is in this building and that makes them nervous, I guess.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Service elevators are …?”
“That way, on the west end of the building.”
Jim nodded an insincere thanks and headed toward the elevators reserved for dregs of the earth like him while suits and ties swirled around him. Nobody gave him a second glance, as if he didn’t exist at all.
Once he got to the lower level, he was met by a beefy guy in a hard hat he hadn’t seen on this job before. He was cordial enough, but he seemed tweaked as hell, like he’d just snorted his bodyweight in meth. His small, darting eyes made Jim uneasy. “Delivery from Lloyd’s HVAC.”
“Am I glad to see you! I’ve been waiting for this shipment for days.” He jumped on the dolly, like it was the Holy Grail, and started unloading boxes with frantic urgency.
“You might want to take a look inside, check to make sure the order’s right.”
“Not necessary.”
“Are you sure? Big Mike always checks. He’s a real stickler for details. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
The man ignored him and kept unloading. What did Jim care if he got in trouble? This guy was turning out to be a prick, too. “Where’s Big Mike today, anyhow?”
“He’s around here somewhere.”
Jim’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. Big Mike wasn’t here today: shouldn’t a rep for TCG know that? “You’re with TCG, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Uh … well, since I don’t know you, I’m just making sure things are getting to the right place. Company policy and all that,” he said weakly, as sweat trickled down his spine. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe Lloyd, money-grubbing bastard that he was, had a little side deal going under the cloak of his very legitimate and respected business and this guy was a part of it. It was a preposterous thought, unless you knew something about the darker side of human nature; the darker side of man, more specifically.
See something, say something. The only problem with that public-service message was that Lloyd was his meal ticket: it was damn near impossible for ex-felons to find decent-paying work, and for some reason he’d never know, Lloyd didn’t have a problem with ex-felons. But if Lloyd went down, he’d go down with him and end up pulling minimum wage in one of the few holes in the city that didn’t care if you had a criminal record.
He realized the man was staring at him intently with those little, darting eyes. “Something wrong?”
“Uh, no.”
He gave him a strange smile. “Are you sure? You’re not looking so good.”
Jim let out a breath and shook his head. “Just a little light-headed. Probably too much caffeine. And the heat, you know.”
“Too much caffeine, too much heat, not a good combination. Drink lots of water, you’ll feel better.”
“Yeah. Are we done here?”
“We are. Thanks. And take care.”
Jim gathered his empty dolly and hot-footed it toward the elevator, anxious to get the hell out of there. For all his paranoia, he never anticipated the silenced bullet that hit him in the back of the skull and mushroomed into his brain, killing him instantly.
* * *
Kramer drummed his fingers on his clipboard while he scanned the lobby anxiously. The Lloyd’s HVAC guy had been in the basement a long time. It wasn’t unusual for delivery personnel to spend some time with the construction crews and walk them through the manifests, maybe shoot the shit a little, but it had been almost half an hour and he was getting nervous. If he didn’t get a sign-out, his job wasn’t just on the line, it was over, and he couldn’t afford that right now.
He felt beads of sweat popping on his brow, even though the air in the building was cool and dry. He finally picked up the phone and called downstairs. “This is Kramer at the front desk. Who’s this?”
“Gus, with general contracting.”
“Okay, Gus, there was a delivery from Lloyd’s HVAC a while ago. Have you seen the driver?”
“Yeah, he made his delivery, but it was all the wrong stuff. I told him to go back to the mothership and start over.”
Kramer started sweating more. “Did you send him back up to the lobby?”
“Didn’t send him anywhere. Like I said, I just told him to leave and get it right. Is there a problem?”
He clenched his fist around the phone. “Yes, there’s a goddamned problem. This is a secure building, and if you sign in at the front desk, you sign out when you leave. Find out where he went.”
“Don’t see how that’s my concern, but hang on, I’ll check.”
Prick, Kramer fumed, as he heard muffled voices conferring before Gus came back on the line.
“I just talked to my guys. They saw him leave through the loading dock, said he’d be back before the end of the day.”
Kramer slammed down the phone and stared at his clipboard, rehashing his earlier conversation with the man.
Deliveries are supposed to come in and out through the service entrance in back, by the loading dock.
After a few moments of soul-searching, he scrawled a reasonable facsimile of the HVAC guy’s signature in the sign-out box. But it didn’t feel right, and the longer he thought about it, the worse it felt. All he could hope for was that this didn’t come back to bite him in the ass later.
CHAPTER
24
GRACE WAS STANDING in Harley’s kitchen, resting her eyes on the blooming hydrangeas outside the bay window. Their heavy heads bobbed in cadence with a light breeze, reminding her of the broken metronome she’d once had. It had been a Christmas “gift” from a f
oster mother, but even as a young girl, she’d understood that the metronome was useless, just a token hand-me-down piece of junk that nobody else would want. Just like nobody had wanted her.
She frowned and turned away from the hydrangeas. Lately, her mind had been randomly pulling pieces of her past out of the dark, exposing them, and it was unsettling. People near death supposedly summoned certain critical memories of people or events or even things from their distant past, and she supposed it was entirely possible the prospect of a new life engendered the same kind of introspection.
While she waited for the tea kettle to whistle, she pressed her hands against the small of her back. The pregnancy had been pulling her muscles out of whack lately, and she wondered if they’d ever snap back. She was still fairly young, but when you thought about the reproductive years of a human starting in the teens, the thirties, at least in biological terms, were ancient.
Suddenly she felt a sharp pain deep in her belly and braced herself against the counter, willing it to go away. The life growing inside her was getting increasingly impatient to explore new horizons, but Grace wasn’t all that eager to give up the euphoria that came with pregnancy. She’d read articles about the misery some women endured, but she had never felt better.
Maybe that’s because you’re not alone for the first time in your life. You’ll never be alone again.
“You’re looking awfully thoughtful, sugar.” Annie startled her as she sashayed into the kitchen.
“There’s a lot to think about. A lot to worry about.”
“On multiple fronts,” she said knowingly, killing the burner under the tea kettle when it started to whine. “Maybe you should call your doctor. You’re in pain, I can tell.”
“It’s just false labor, Annie. It comes and goes.”
“Are you sure?”
