“You’re a woman who loves her brother. Who would do anything to protect her brother.”
“You understand.”
“I’ve seen plenty of misplaced loyalty lately.”
“I won’t betray Mitch.”
“Who asked you to?”
I leaned back in the car seat and cocked my head so I could see through the rearview mirror.
“Who are you waiting for?” Ms. Bosland asked.
“Cyndy Desler.”
“I don’t want to speak in front of her.”
“Then talk now.”
“Talk about what?”
Show her the gun again, my inner voice said.
Instead, I said, “When you spoke to your brother earlier this evening, telling him that I was in Deer River, did he mention that he and his partners had hired a man named Nick Dyson to kill Ella Elbers for twenty thousand dollars?”
Ms. Bosland paused a long time before she said, “He would never do that.”
“Hire a man to kill El, or pay that much to get it done?”
She hesitated again.
“Is that why you’re here?” Ms. Bosland asked.
“I intend to disrupt his plans, if that’s what you mean.”
She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, as if she thought it was a good idea but was afraid to show it.
“The last time I was here, you said you wanted to protect El, too,” I said.
She nodded her head ever so slightly again.
“Here’s your chance.”
“I had no idea what Mitch was involved in,” Ms. Bosland said. “Honestly. I thought he and Craig ran some kind of secondhand store. When I asked him to check up on the kids after they moved to the Cities, it was because I was genuinely concerned about their welfare. It didn’t occur to me that he would … take advantage of them.”
“Coerce them into a life of crime, you mean?”
She didn’t answer.
“When did you learn differently?” I asked.
“When Tim Foley returned to Deer River just before the holidays. He had stories to tell about the crew—that’s what they called themselves, a crew. How they would invade a store; El would behave suspiciously, and she’s so pretty to begin with that all the store employees would be concentrating on her while the others robbed them blind. How they would do a snatch and grab—that’s another phrase he used. Steal something and dash out the door to a waiting car. Most stores have a don’t-chase policy, and those that will chase—Foley told how if something happened, if someone was hurt, they could be in more trouble than the criminal.”
“Did Foley refuse to participate in the operation? Is that why he came home?”
“I’d like him better if that were true. No. He came back because he was a poor thief. Inept. He kept getting caught. Half the time the stores would release him without pressing charges. A couple times they prosecuted. On both occasions he had to pay a fine. After the second arrest, the others decided he was more liability than help…”
Considering that shoplifters are caught on average once in every forty-eight attempts, yeah, you could see how the others might be annoyed, my inner voice said.
“I enlisted Foley to assist me the day you came to Deer River looking for El, the day you came to the high school, solely because he already understood the circumstances,” Ms. Bosland said. “I reasoned there was less likelihood for gossip that might impact my … I’m a good teacher, McKenzie. I’m a good principal. There is absolutely nothing between Foley and me. It’s important that you know that. There are some things that even I won’t stoop to.”
“You’ll stoop low enough to help your brother, though.”
“No, no, McKenzie, I won’t help. What he’s doing—I’m so angry that he’s using my former students the way he is.”
“Just not angry enough to do anything about it.”
“He’s my brother.”
“What did you think when El disappeared?”
“Just that—that she disappeared. Mitchell said that El and the others had a falling-out. I had the impression that they didn’t part on the best of terms, because Mitch said to keep an eye out in case she came home. I didn’t think anything bad happened to her because he said she might come home. Did something bad happen to her?”
“Yes, something bad happened to her.” Another vehicle pulled into the motel parking lot; I saw its headlights in the sideview mirror. I turned in my seat and watched as it approached the line of cars, parking at the end. “Now there’s hell to pay.”
Ms. Bosland watched, both hands still resting on top of the steering wheel, while I slipped the SIG out of my pocket and thumbed off the safety.
“Turn off the engine,” I told her.
She did. I held out my hand.
“Keys,” I said.
She removed the keys from the ignition and dropped them into my palm. I stuffed them into my pocket.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said.
I stepped out of the warm car. Winter slapped me in the face, but by then I was used to it. I had intended to go to Cyndy. She came out of her car in a hurry, though, and marched on me. She must have seen the nine-millimeter handgun resting against my thigh, yet chose to ignore it. As soon as she was within spitting distance of me, she halted, her legs spread apart, her fists pressed against her hips, and shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “Sending those punks to mess with me.”
“They’re not punks. They’re my friends.”
“Look at it from my point of view.”
“All they were going to do was tell you to go home.”
“I guess it was the guns that confused me.”
“What guns?”
I heard a muffled voice coming from room A.
“After what he did to Tim the last time, we thought we might need them,” it said.
“He didn’t do anything to me,” Tim said. “I slipped on the ice.”
“Why are you trying so hard to be rid of me?” I asked.
“This is Deer River business,” Cyndy said. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Dyson—”
“Dyson, whoever he is—he’ll never find El. He’ll never find anyone.”
My peripheral vision picked up Ms. Bosland as she left her vehicle. I pivoted, my back to the Jeep Cherokee, so I could watch both women at the same time while staying out of sight of the boys should they decide to open the drapes.
“What do you think of that, Ms. Bosland, since it was your brother who sent Dyson in the first place?” I asked.
“I told you, there are some things even I won’t stoop to.”
“Is that why you and M joined forces?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“If I may use a somewhat antiquated phrase—the two of you are in cahoots. You pretend to be at odds, yet you’ve been together in this all along.”
The quick glance the two women shared confirmed my suspicions, yet I justified my accusation anyway.
“When Foley arrived, M’s thugs—”
“They’re not thugs,” Cyndy said.
“Friends, then. Jeezus. M’s friends asked Foley why he was here and he answered that Ms. Bosland sent him. How would you know I was staying in cabin 9, room A—unless M told you? Something else—M, you knew about Dyson coming to Deer River before I mentioned his name.” I gestured at Ms. Bosland. “Which means Mitch must have told her and she told you.”
“No,” Ms. Bosland said. “Honestly, McKenzie. I never heard the name until just now.”
“Then how…”
No, no, no, my inner voice chanted. You have to be frickin’ kidding me.
Cyndy must have seen something in my face.
“What?” she said.
What a nitwit you are.
“McKenzie, what?”
“El’s friends, her fellow shoplifters,” I said. “Where are you hiding them?”
Ms. Bosland’s head
snapped toward Cyndy as if she were surprised by the possibility.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cyndy said.
“Don’t lie to me, M. I’m in a very bad mood and I just might call the sheriff’s department and have you arrested for conspiracy to commit assault, not to mention aiding and abetting a fugitive. While you’re in jail, your little girl can go live with the man who stole your middle name.”
Cyndy didn’t reply, yet I could see her thinking about it.
“I’ll make it easy,” I said. “You don’t need to tell me exactly where they are. Just tell me that they’re here.”
“In Marcel,” Cyndy said.
“They are?” Ms. Bosland asked.
“They’ve been hiding here since a week ago last Wednesday.”
The day El left your condominium, my inner voice reminded me.
“I thought it best to keep it from you,” Cyndy added.
“Because of Mitch,” Ms. Bosland said.
“El said to protect them from your brother. I didn’t know why exactly until I heard about Dyson.”
Shipman was right. She’s been right all along. Nuts.
“Where is El hiding?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Cyndy said.
“Stop it.”
“I don’t know where she is. I told her not to tell me.”
“Don’t ask, can’t tell. I get it. That’s all right. I think I know where to look.” I raised my voice. “You in the cabin.”
A voice replied, “Yes.”
“Open the window. Throw your guns out.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not leaving.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Throw the goddamn guns out the goddamn window.”
A few moments passed without anything happening. Cyndy spoke up.
“Do what he says, c’mon,” she said.
A moment later, the drapes were pushed aside, the inside window was opened, and the storm window was raised. A moment later, two handguns were dropped outside.
“One more,” I said.
I heard muffled voices raised in anger followed by a loud thud. A second later, a third handgun joined the pile.
The three young men watched me through the storm door as I went to the Jeep Cherokee; Tim Foley was massaging his forehead. I started the vehicle and put it in reverse. The two women stepped aside as I backed away from the cabin. I stopped and powered down the window.
“Both of you,” I said. “You believe you’re virtuous because you’ve drawn a line in the sand that you refuse to cross. The trouble is the line often disappears. The sand shifts; wind and rain and time work at it, and pretty soon you need to draw another line, and another, and another until you’re so far from where you started that you can’t even imagine how you got there. Your family, your friends, your students—they’re criminals. I understand that you want to protect them because they are your family, friends, students. But they’re criminals, and there comes a time when you need to step away, step back across the line, or become criminals yourself. I don’t expect you to understand what I’m talking about.”
I left them alone in the parking lot without even a glance in the rearview mirror. I was tempted to drive home, yet I was afraid that it was still snowing in the Cities, so I spent the night in Grand Rapids. I figured I had pushed my luck far enough for one day.
SEVENTEEN
The front door of the duplex had been painted and the concrete steps scrubbed. I couldn’t see any blood at all, yet being there gave me a queasy feeling just the same.
Nina had not been home when I returned to the Cities. I called her at the club. In a chipper tone she told me she was perfectly wonderful—which I quickly agreed with—and she had saved a couple of voice mails on our landline that I should listen to before I do anything else.
The first was from Bobby. His recorded voice told me that the assistant Ramsey County medical examiner had finally worked up a profile. The blood on the hilt of the knife that Shipman took off Peter Troop did not match Oliver Braun’s. “So we can’t say for sure that it was the murder weapon. Or that Troop did it. Call me.”
And tell him what? my inner voice asked. That you were wrong and Shipman was right? Let’s hold off on that for a bit. Wait until you’re sure.
Shelby Dunston recorded the next voice mail, and it came in three parts. The first part was angry. “I knew you had commitment issues, but I’d never thought you’d try to get Nina killed.” The second was all exasperation. “When are you going to grow up?” And the third—the third part I still don’t entirely understand. “I wish…”
Wish what, sweetie?
“I wish…”
The unfinished sentence kept repeating in my head as I shaved, showered, and dressed. It was still there when I took the elevator to the underground garage and walked toward my Jeep Cherokee. The burn phone rang; its song echoed off the concrete walls.
“Now what?” I asked.
“I was talking to my sister, my sister in Deer River,” Mitch said.
“What about her?” I asked.
“She didn’t see you last night.”
“She wasn’t supposed to see me,” I said. “I saw her, though, and the bartender and McKenzie, in a motel parking lot.”
“You were there?”
He seemed impressed.
“Interesting conversation,” I said. “Told me everything I needed to know.”
“What? What did it tell you?”
“Where to look for El. Let’s hope I get there before McKenzie.”
“But where is she?”
“Hiding in plain sight.”
“Huh?”
I turned off the phone. The sonuvabitch was starting to bore me.
Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the duplex. I opened the front door and stepped into the foyer. I leaned toward the artificial flowers in the vase attached to Leon Janke’s doorjamb and took a deep breath of their pleasant aroma.
Hard to believe they’re not real.
I stuffed my hat and gloves into my pockets, unzipped my coat, and pulled it back so I’d have access to the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer holstered on my hip. I knocked on the door. Nothing happened. It was late on a Saturday morning, I reminded myself. Maybe Janke was on one of his five-mile walks, if, in fact, he did take walks. The flowers reminded me that it was difficult to know what a lie was these days.
I knocked again. I heard Janke’s voice.
“Comin’, I’m comin’.”
A shadow passed over the spy hole, and a moment later Janke yanked opened the door. He smiled, but the smile quickly went away when he saw that my right hand was resting on the butt of my gun.
“Now, son, I’d say it was good t’ see ya, but standin’ like you are, that just ain’t sociable,” he said.
“I apologize. I’ve had a rough couple of days since we last spoke.”
“Not on account of me.”
“That’s true.”
I removed my hand from the gun butt.
Janke smiled and gestured with his head. “Well, now, come on in,” he said.
I was surprised to see how neat the duplex was, probably because I had been such a poor housekeeper when I was living alone that I expected everyone else to be as well. The furniture was old. Some of it dated back a half century or more, yet it was all well kept—like its owner.
“Can I offer you a beverage, McKenzie?” the old man asked. “You strike me as a bourbon man.”
“I’ve been known to drink my share, but before you start pouring the good stuff, I need to ask something.”
“What’s that?”
“Will El be joining us?”
Janke stared at me for a few beats and then smiled as if he had come to a decision.
“She don’t live here no more,” he said.
“Mr. Janke, I mean no disrespect—”
“So you say.”
“El left my apartment on a Wednesday because she thought she was
in danger. That very same day, she moved her friends out of this duplex and sent them Up North—to Marcel, to be precise. I was there last night, in case you think I’m guessing. El did it to protect them because she knew what was about to happen. She couldn’t have done that, sir, without your knowledge. Or help. Not with that narrow, spiraling staircase. Please. I also believe El stayed here after she sent the others home, that she stayed with you. I believe you took care of her because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. You told me you couldn’t help but look out for El, for the others, because they grew up where you grew up. So, I ask again—will Ella be joining us for drinks?”
“You talk a lot, McKenzie, but you don’t listen real good. She isn’t here. I sent her away.”
“Sent her away? When?”
“After that fella was killed on my front stoop. I’ve seen things and done ’em, too, McKenzie. When I got off that damn peninsula, I promised I wouldn’t hurt no one ever again and I wouldn’t stand by while others are bein’ hurt no matter how much they might deserve it. I broke that promise a bit when I didn’t tell on that little girl, didn’t tell the police. Maybe I shoulda. I argue to myself that I didn’t actually see it done, so I’d just be guessin’, even though, well, my huntin’ rifle is missin’. I didn’t know that till later though, till a day or so after the police came and went. It shoulda been in a case in the closet; I hadn’t used it in years and years. I figured the police, they’d get it right soon enough. You did. Now, you want that drink or don’tcha?”
“You think that El shot Karl Olson—with your rifle?”
“Seen ’im comin’ and used it to protect herself. ’Course, like I said, I didn’t see it done, and what I think—that ain’t evidence, is it?”
“I’d like that drink very much.”
“Take off your coat. Stay awhile.”
I removed my coat and followed Mr. Janke into the kitchen. He opened a cupboard door, revealing a colorful assortment of alcohol. The labels on some of the bottles—Grand Marnier, crème de cacao, sherry—gave me the impression that he cooked with it.
“The older I get, the more I like to eat good,” he said.
Janke poured two inches of Maker’s Mark into each of two squat glasses and handed me one. He raised the other in a toast.
Unidentified Woman #15 Page 25
