by Tami Hoag
“I can stay with my friend Michele—”
“I thought her name was Molly.”
Angie pressed her mouth into a line and narrowed her eyes.
“Don't even try to bullshit me,” Kate advised—for all the good it would do. “There is no friend, and you don't have a place to crash in the Phillips neighborhood. That was a nice touch, though, picking a rotten neighborhood. Who would claim they lived there if they didn't?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I think you've got your own agenda,” Kate said calmly, her attention on a memo that read: Talked w/Sabin. Wit to Phoenix House—RM. Permission. Odd Rob hadn't mentioned this in the mayor's office. The note was in a receptionist's hand. No time notation. The decision had probably come just before the press conference. All that subterfuge on her part for nothing. Oh, well.
“An agenda that probably centers on staying out of jail or a juvenile facility,” she went on.
“I'm not a—”
“Save it.”
She hit the message button on her phone and listened to the voices of the impatient and the forlorn who had tried to reach her during the afternoon. Reporters hot on the trail of the government center shootout heroine. She hit fast forward through each of them. Mixed in with the news hounds was the usual assortment. David Willis, her current pain-in-the-butt client. A coordinator of a victims' rights group. The husband of a woman who had allegedly been assaulted, though Kate had the gut feeling it was a scam, that the couple was looking to score reparation money. The husband had a string of petty drug arrests on his record.
“Kate.” The gruff male voice coming from the machine made her flinch. “It's Quinn—um—John. I, ah, I'm staying at the Radisson.”
As if he expected her to call. Just like that.
“Who's that?” Angie asked. “Boyfriend?”
“No, um, no,” Kate said, scrambling to pull her composure together. “Let's get out of here. I'm starving.”
She drew in a long breath and released it as she pushed to her feet, feeling caught off guard, something she had always worked studiously to avoid. Another offense to add to the list against Quinn. She couldn't let him get to her. He'd be here and gone. A couple of days at most, she figured. The Bureau had sent him because Peter Bondurant had friends in high places. It was a show of good faith or ass kissing, depending on your point of view.
He didn't need to be here. He wouldn't be here long. She didn't have to have any contact with him while he was here. She wasn't with the Bureau anymore. She wasn't a part of this task force. He had no power over her.
God, Kate, you sound like you're afraid of him, she thought with disgust as she turned her Toyota 4Runner out of the parking ramp onto Fourth Avenue. Quinn was past history and she was a grown-up, not some adolescent girl who'd broken up with the class cool guy and couldn't bear to face him in homeroom.
“Where are we going?” Angie asked, dialing the radio to an alternative rock station. Alanis Morissette whining at an ex-boyfriend with bongos in the background.
“Uptown. What do you want to eat? You look like you could use some fat and cholesterol. Ribs? Pizza? Burgers? Pasta?”
The girl made the snotty shrug that had driven parents of teenagers from the time of Adam to consider the pros and cons of killing their young. “Whatever. Just as long as there's a bar. I need a drink.”
“Don't push it, kid.”
“What? I have a valid driver's license.” She flopped back against the seat and put her feet up against the dash. “Can I bum a smoke?”
“I don't have any. I quit.”
“Since when?”
“Since 1981. I fall off the wagon every once in a while. Get your feet off my dashboard.”
The big sigh as she rearranged herself sideways in the bucket seat. “Why are you taking me to dinner? You don't like me. Wouldn't you rather go home to your husband?”
“I'm divorced.”
“From the guy on the answering machine? Quinn?”
“No. Not that it's any of your business.”
“Got kids?”
A beat of silence before answering. Kate wondered if she would ever get over that hesitation or the guilt that inspired it. “I have a cat.”
“So do you live in Uptown?”
Kate cut her a sideways look, taking her eyes briefly off the heavy rush hour traffic. “Let's talk about you. Who's Rick?”
“Who?”
“Rick—the name on your jacket.”
“It came that way.”
Translation: name of the guy she stole it from.
“How long have you been in Minneapolis?”
“A while.”
“How old were you when your folks died?”
“Thirteen.”
“So you've been on your own how long?”
The girl glared at her for a beat. “Eight years. That was lame.”
Kate shrugged. “Worth a shot. So what happened to them? Accident?”
“Yeah,” Angie said softly, staring straight ahead. “An accident.”
There was a story in there somewhere, Kate thought as she negotiated the twisted transition from 94 to get to Hennepin Avenue. She could probably guess at some of the key plot ingredients—alcohol, abuse, a cycle of unhappy circumstances, and dysfunction. Virtually every kid on the street had lived a variation of that story. So had every man in prison. Family was a fertile breeding ground for the kind of psychological bacteria that warped minds and devoured hope. Conversely, she knew plenty of people in law enforcement and social work who came from that same set of circumstances, people who had come to that same fork in the road and turned one way instead of the other.
She thought again of Quinn, even though she didn't want to.
The rain had thickened to a misty, miserable fog. The sidewalks were deserted. Uptown, contrary to its name, was some distance south of downtown Minneapolis. A gentrified area of shops, restaurants, coffee bars, art house movie theaters, it centered on the intersection of Lake Street and Hennepin. Just a stone's throw—and a world—west of the tough Whittier neighborhood, which in recent years had become the territory of black gangs, driveby shootings, and drug raids.
Uptown was edged to the west by Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles, and was currently inhabited by yuppies and the terribly hip. The house Kate had grown up in and now owned was just two blocks off Lake Calhoun, her parents having purchased the solid prairie-style home decades before the area became trendy.
Kate chose La Loon as their destination, a pub away from the lively Calhoun Square area, parking in the nearly empty side lot. She wasn't in the mood for noise or a crowd, and knew both could be used as a shield by her dinner companion. Just being a teenager was enough of a barrier to overcome.
Inside, La Loon was dark and warm, all wood and brass with a long, old-fashioned bar and few patrons. Kate shunned a booth in favor of a corner table, where she took the corner chair, which gave her a view of the entire dining room. The paranoid seat. A habit Angie DiMarco had already picked up for herself. She didn't sit across from Kate with her back to the room; she took a side seat with her back to a wall so she could see anyone approaching the table.
The waitress brought menus and took drink orders. Kate longed for a stout glass of gin, but settled for chardonnay. Angie ordered rum and Coke.
The waitress looked at Kate, who shrugged. “She's got ID.”
A look of sly triumph stole across Angie's face as the waitress walked away. “I thought you didn't want me to drink.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Kate said, digging a bottle of Tylenol out of her purse. “It's not like it's going to corrupt you.”
The girl had clearly expected a confrontation. She sat back, a little bemused, slightly disappointed. “You're not like any social worker I ever knew.”
“How many have you known?”
“A few. They were either bitches or so goody-goody, I wanted to puke.”
“Yeah, well, plenty of people will tell you I q
ualify on one count.”
“But you're different. I don't know,” she said, struggling for the definition she wanted. “It's like you've been around or something.”
“Let's just say I didn't come into this job via the usual route.”
“What's that mean?”
“It means I don't sweat the small stuff and I don't take any shit.”
“If you don't take any shit, then who beat you up?”
“Above and beyond the call of duty.” Kate tossed the Tylenol back and washed it down with water. “You should see the other guy. So, any familiar faces in those mug books today?”
Angie's mood shifted with the subject, her pouty mouth turning down at the corners, her gaze dropping to the tabletop. “No. I would have said.”
“Would you?” Kate muttered, earning a sullen glance. “They'll want you to work with the sketch artist in the morning. How do you think that'll go? Did you see him well enough to describe him?”
“I saw him in the fire,” Angie murmured.
“How far away were you?”
Angie traced a gouge mark in the tabletop with one bitten fingernail. “I don't know. Not far. I was cutting through the park and I had to pee, so I ducked behind some bushes. And then he came down the hill . . . and he was carrying that—”
Her face tightened and she bit her lip, hanging her head lower, obviously in the hope that her hair would hide the emotion that had rushed to the surface. Kate waited patiently, keenly aware of the girl's rising tension. Even to a streetwise kid like Angie, seeing what she had seen had to be an unimaginable shock. The stress of that and the stress of what she had been through at the police station, compounded by exhaustion, would all have to eventually take a toll.
And I want to be there when the poor kid breaks down, she thought, never pleased with that aspect of her job. The system was supposed to champion the victim, but it often victimized them again in the process. And the advocate was caught in the middle—an employee of the system, there supposedly to protect the citizen who was being dragged into the teeth of the justice machine.
The waitress returned with their drinks. Kate ordered cheeseburgers and fries for both of them and handed the menus back.
“I—I didn't know what he was carrying,” Angie whispered when the waitress was out of earshot. “I just knew someone was coming and I needed to hide.”
Like an animal that knew too well the night was stalked by predators of one kind or another.
“A park's a scary place late at night, I suppose,” Kate said softly, turning her wineglass by the stem. “Everybody loves to go in daylight. We think it's so pretty, so nice to get away from the city. Then night comes, and suddenly it's like the evil forest out of The Wizard of Oz. Nobody wants to be there in the dead of night. So what were you doing there, Angie?”
“I told you, I was just cutting through.”
“Cutting from where to where at that hour?” She kept her tone casual.
Angie hunkered over her rum and Coke and took a long pull on the straw. Tense. Forcing the anger back up to replace the fear.
“Angie, I've been around. I've seen things even you wouldn't believe,” Kate said. “Nothing you tell me could shock me.”
The girl gave a humorless half-laugh and looked toward the television that hung above one end of the bar. Local news anchor Paul Magers was looking grave and handsome as he related the story of a madman run amok in the county government center. They flashed a mug shot and told about the recent breakup of the man's marriage, his wife having taken their children and gone into hiding in a shelter a week before.
Precipitating stressors, Kate thought, not surprised.
“Nobody cares if you were breaking the law, Angie. Murder overrules everything—burglary, prostitution, poaching squirrels—which I personally consider a service to the community,” she said. “I had a squirrel in my attic last month. Vermin menace. They're nothing but rats with furry tails.”
No reaction. No smile. No overblown teenage outrage at her callous disregard for animal life.
“I'm not trying to lean on you here, Angie. I'm telling you as your advocate: The sooner you come clean about everything that went down last night, the better for all concerned—yourself included. The county attorney has his shorts in a knot over this case. He tried to tell Sergeant Kovac he should treat you as a suspect.”
Alarm rounded the girl's eyes. “Fuck him! I didn't do anything!”
“Kovac believes you, which is why you're not sitting in a cell right now. That and the fact that I wouldn't allow it. But this is serious shit, Angie. This killer is public enemy number one, and you're the only person who's seen him and lived to tell the tale. You're in the hot seat.”
Elbows on the table, the girl dropped her face into her hands and mumbled between her fingers, “God, this sucks!”
“You've got that right, sweetie,” Kate said softly. “But here's the deal, plain and simple. This nut job is going to go on killing until somebody stops him. Maybe you can help stop him.”
She waited. Held her breath. Willed the poor kid over the edge. She could see through the bars of Angie's fingers: the girl's face going red with the pressure of holding the emotions in. She could see the tension in the thin shoulders, feel the anticipation that thickened the air around her.
But nothing in this situation was going to be plain or simple, Kate thought as her pager began to shrill inside her purse. The moment, the opportunity, was gone. She swore silently as she dug through the bag, cursing the inconvenience of modern conveniences.
“Think about it, Angie,” she said as she rose from her chair. “You're it, and I'm here to help you.”
That makes me IT by association, she thought as she headed to the pay phone in the alcove by the bathrooms.
No. Nothing about this would be plain or simple.
7
CHAPTER
“WHAT THE HELL did you do with my witness, Red?” Kovac leaned against the wall of the autopsy suite, the receiver of the phone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. He slipped a hand inside the surgical gown he wore over his clothes, pulled a little jar of Mentholatum from his jacket pocket, and smeared a gob around each nostril.
“I thought it'd be nice to treat her like a human being and feed her a real meal as opposed to the crap you give people at the cop shop,” Kate said.
“You don't like doughnuts? What kind of American are you?”
“The kind who has at least a partial grasp of the concept of civil liberties.”
“Yeah, fine, all right, I get it.” He plugged his free ear with a finger as the blade of a bone saw whined against a whetstone in the background. “Sabin asks, I'm gonna tell him you nabbed her before I could throw her in the slammer—which is true. Better your lovely tit in a wringer than my johnson.”
“Don't worry about Sabin. I've got his okay on a memo.”
“Do you have a picture of him signing it? Is it notarized?”
“God, you're a raving paranoid.”
“How do you think I've lived this long on the job?”
“It wasn't from kissing ass and following orders. That's for damn sure.”
He had to laugh. Kate called a spade a spade. And she was right. He handled his cases as he thought best, not with an eye to publicity or promotion. “So where are you taking the angel after this grand feast?”
“The Phoenix House, I'm told. She belongs in a juvie facility, but there you go. I've got to put her somewhere, and her ID says she's an adult. Did you get a Polaroid of her?”
“Yeah. I'll show it around juvenile division. See if anyone knows her. I'll give a copy to Vice too.”
“I'll do the same on my end of things if you get me a copy.”
“Will do. Keep me posted. I want a short leash on that chick.” He raised his voice briefly as water pounded into a stainless steel sink. “I gotta go. Dr. Death is about to crack open our crispy critter.”
“Jesus, Sam, you're so sensitive.”
“Hey
, I gotta cope. You know what I'm saying.”
“Yeah, I know. Just don't let the wrong people hear you doing it. Is the task force set up?”
“Yeah. As soon as we get the brass out of our hair, we'll be good to go.” He looked across the room to where Quinn stood in discussion with the ME and Hamill, the agent from the BCA, all of them in surgical gowns and booties. “So what's the story with you and the Quantico hotshot?”
There was the briefest of hesitations on the other end of the line. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? What's the deal? What's the story? What's the history?”
Another pause, just a heartbeat. “I knew him, that's all. I was working on the research side in Behavioral Sciences. The people in BSU and Investigative Support regularly cross paths. And he used to be a friend of Steven's—my ex.”
This tossed in at the end, as if he might believe it was an afterthought. Kovac filed it all away for future rumination. Used to be a friend of Steven's. There was more to that story, he thought as Liska came toward him from the crowd around the corpse, looking impatient and nauseated. He gave Kate his pager number and instructions to call, and hung up.
“They're ready to rock and roll,” Liska said, pulling a travel-size jar of Vicks VapoRub from the pocket of her boxy blazer. She stuck her nose over the rim and breathed deep.
“God, the smell!” she whispered as she turned and fell in step with him, heading back toward the table. “I've had floaters. I've had drunks in Dumpsters. I once had a guy left in the trunk of a Chrysler over the Fourth of July weekend. I never smelled anything like this.”
The stench was an entity, a presence. It was an invisible fist that forced its way into the mouths of all present, rolled over their tongues, and jammed at the backs of their throats. The room was cold, but not even the constant blast of clean, frigid air from the ventilation system or the cloying perfume of chemical air fresheners could kill the smell of roasted human flesh and organs.
“Nothing like posting Toasties,” Kovac said.
Liska pointed a finger at him and narrowed her eyes. “No internal-organ jokes or I puke on your shoes.”
