by P. J. Tracy
That stopped her. She took a breath, let it out, then turned around and walked back. He stood his ground, looking up with the whites of his eyes showing. Defiant and wet, all at the same time.
‘Listen, kid . . .’
‘My name’s Jackson.’
She ran her tongue over the inside of her left cheek, considering. ‘You’re too short for the hold I put on Frank, got it? But I could show you something else . . .’
19
Freedman and McLaren were thorough. They did one walk through the boat with Captain Magnusson, then another on their own, double-checking the three sets of restrooms, the food service areas, even the tiny cabin where the captain kept a book, a recliner, and a spare uniform hanging on a wall hook.
‘Not a lot of space in here,’ Freedman had told him, trying to maneuver his bulk through the doorway.
‘All I need,’ the captain had replied, eyes twinkling. ‘Now the wife, she needs a living room, a dining room, a family room, a breakfast nook, just room after room, God knows why, but me? Give me a chair and book and maybe a little TV and I’m in heaven. I’ve often thought if men really ran the world like the women claim, all the houses would be eight by ten and we’d have a lot more room in the suburbs.’
By the time crew and caterers arrived at six Freedman and McLaren had their squads and uniforms posted in the lot, helping Chilton’s men screen the arrivals, and the other plainclothes officers briefed and stationed on board.
At 6:30 they stopped at the bar in the center-deck salon before going back outside in the cold. They begged a couple of bottles of water from the young man polishing glasses, then drank them while they watched the caterer’s staff put finishing touches on white linen tables crowded with crystal and silver and fresh flowers. A fussy, hawk-nosed woman in a dark suit was following them about, occasionally moving a glass or a piece of silver an inch this way or that.
‘We’re ready,’ McLaren said.
‘Couldn’t be any readier,’ Freedman agreed, his eyes taking in the two plainclothes officers by the restrooms, then following three of Chilton’s men as they paced the salon’s circumference like caged animals. ‘Damn boat’s like an armed camp.’
‘Too much hoopla,’ McLaren said. ‘He’s not gonna show up here tonight.’
‘Nope. Which means we’re going to have to do this all over again Saturday.’
‘I got Gopher tickets Saturday. They’re playing Wisconsin.’
Freedman clucked his tongue in sympathy.
The two of them each took a gangway once the guests started to arrive, watching Chilton’s people run the sweeps, eyeballing every single person who boarded. A colossal waste of time, Freedman thought, shivering in his wool suitcoat, watching a parade of the state’s rich and richer pass through a phalanx of armed men with metal detectors as if they did it every day. Maybe they did. How would he know?
When the boat finally cast off and moved out into the river, he and McLaren started making the rounds they had worked out, alternating levels inside and out. Cold as it was, after a few circuits Freedman began to feel more comfortable outside than in. You put a six-foot-nine black man in a cheap suit on a boat with a bunch of Fortune 500 white people, and pretty soon some ditzy broad wearing his year’s salary around her neck is going to ask him to refill the water carafe. It had happened four times in the first fifteen minutes, and his patience was wearing about as thin as his self-esteem.
‘Hey, Freedman.’ Johnny McLaren was coming out the center-deck salon doors as he was heading in. ‘I was just coming to get you . . . What’s the matter with you?’
‘People keep asking me to get them drinks, that’s what’s the matter with me.’
‘Assholes. Fuck ’em.’ He pulled Freedman inside and started weaving through tables toward the dance floor. The Whipped Nipples were on this deck, playing something that sounded like a classical waltz with a salsa beat. Freedman might have liked it if they hadn’t had such a stupid name.
‘I’m not dancing with you, McLaren. You’re too short.’
‘Play nice, Freedman. I’m taking you to the trough. Hammond had the caterers set up a buffet for us security types back in the kitchen.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Not a bratwurst on it, just caviar and lobster and shit like that, but it ain’t bad.’
Captain Magnusson was making his own obligatory rounds through the salon, smiling, answering questions, looking captainesque. Freedman wondered who was steering the boat. ‘Everything as it should be, Detectives?’ he asked as they passed him.
‘Shipshape,’ McLaren answered with a little salute, staring at a wet pink splotch on the captain’s collar.
‘Pink champagne,’ the old man confided, dabbing at it with a snowy handkerchief. ‘I had an unfortunate collision with a lovely young woman and an overfilled glass.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Not at all. It was really quite invigorating. She ran smack-dab into me. Full-front.’ He had a wicked little grin for an old man. ‘I was just on my way to put this in a sink of cold water and change into a new one. See you later, gentlemen.’
Freedman and McLaren watched him walk toward the forward door of the salon as they continued past the dance floor toward the food service area.
They both stopped at the same time.
‘McLaren?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The restrooms are in the back.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He went forward.’
‘Right. Toward his cabin.’
‘So where’s he going to soak his shirt?’
McLaren closed his eyes, saw the tiny cabin with its single chair and book and narrow closet door – only the spare uniform was hanging on a hook on the wall, and why would he put it there if he had a closet to hang it in? ‘Shit,’ he exhaled softly, and then they were both moving as fast as they could without actually breaking into a run, weaving through the tables, breaking apart a cluster of giggling bridesmaids at the door, then outside to the bitter cold of the deck, right turn, and then they both started to run, the little Mick and the big black man, up toward the captain’s cabin.
Tommy Espinoza’s shift had ended three hours ago, but he was still at his desk, slurping cold coffee and hammering out commands on the computer keyboard. His eyes were raw from eleven hours at the monitor, but that’s why God made Visine.
He reached into the orange plastic jack-o’-lantern that grinned on the corner of his desk and fished out a mini Snickers bar. ‘Come on, come on . . .’ He raked his fingers through his black hair, waiting for his computer to talk to him; it finally did, in the language of a shrill alarm.
‘Damnit,’ he muttered, his fingers busy on the keyboard again.
‘Got anything for me, Tommy?’ Magozzi was standing in the doorway, a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
Tommy never looked up from the screen, he just waved Magozzi over. ‘Check this out, Leo. I’m running across the damnedest thing with these Monkeewrench folks.’
By the time Freedman and McLaren burst into Captain Magnusson’s cabin, the old man had already opened the sliding door to his private head and was scrambling backward. The recliner caught him by the backs of his knees and he collapsed into it, his eyes wide, his breath coming in short little puffs. McLaren went to him while Freedman took the first look.
It was the tiniest of rooms, everything reduced to the smallest possible size the way it is on all boats. Tiny stainless steel sink, tiny mirror, a shower stall Freedman would have been hard-pressed to squeeze into. Only the toilet seat was full-size; so was the man sitting on it. He was wearing a suit, but he was naked from the waist down, pants puddled around his ankles, fat white knees spread wide, shirttails dangling between flabby thighs. His head was propped against the back wall as if he were only resting, but this one had been a messy kill. Trails of blood had coursed down from the bullet hole in his forehead, spreading on either side of his nose, filling the lines around the mouth, sliding down his nec
k to stain the collar of his white shirt.
Freedman had seen enough gunshot victims to know that this one hadn’t died right away. There had been some heartbeats left to account for that much blood pumping out of the relatively small hole.
He stepped aside so McLaren could see inside the narrow doorway.
‘Aw, Jesus.’ McLaren exhaled in a rush. ‘I don’t believe this. Captain? When’s the last time you used the head?’
Captain Magnusson looked up at him from his chair, blinking rapidly. ‘Oh dear. Um, yesterday, I think. No, wait. We didn’t go out yesterday. The day before, I guess.’
Freedman and McLaren turned back to the dead man.
‘Blood’s dry,’ Freedman remarked. ‘Didn’t happen on our watch.’
‘Which means he was in here when we checked the cabin earlier.’
Freedman’s big head went up and down solemnly. ‘Worse yet.’
Magozzi and Espinoza were now hunched in front of his computer screen, looking equally baffled.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ Tommy was saying. ‘I’ve never seen firewalls like this before in my life.’
‘You can’t dig up anything on them?’
‘For the past ten years, I can get you anything you want. Tax returns, medical records, financial statements, hell, I can just about tell you when any one of ’em took a crap. But before that, nada.’ Tommy flopped back in his chair. ‘No employment records, no school records, not even birth records. For all practical purposes, none of these people existed until ten years ago.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Apparently not. At first blush, I’d say these people erased themselves.’
‘You can do that?’
Tommy shrugged, grabbed a potato chip from the open bag on his desk, stuffed it in his mouth, and talked around it. ‘Theoretically, sure. Almost everything’s computerized now. And if it’s on a computer, it can be deleted. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. Your average hacker can’t just sit down with his laptop and a six-pack and erase his history. You’d have to be friggin’ brilliant to break through some of the firewalls, especially the ones the Feds set up, like for the IRS and the SSA. I’m telling you, this is unreal.’
Magozzi grunted. ‘Witness Protection?’
‘No way. The Feebs aren’t this good. Their trails I can follow in my sleep. If this is Monkeewrench work, Witness Protection should be hiring them.’
Magozzi scratched at the day’s worth of stubble on his chin, mulling over this new wrinkle. ‘So they changed their names and got themselves new identities.’
Tommy shoved another potato chip into his mouth. ‘Makes sense. Where else do you get names like Harley Davidson and Roadrunner? So the hundred-dollar question is, why would five ordinary people go to the trouble of totally obliterating their pasts?’
Magozzi didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Criminal activity.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Maybe they’re better suspects than you thought.’
Magozzi reached for a potato chip. The fat pill was in his mouth before he realized what he was doing. God, it tasted good. ‘A team of five serial killers acting together? Man, we should be so lucky. We could buy Japan with the movie rights.’
‘Yeah. They were probably just bank robbers, or international terrorists. Ten years ago they saw the computer revolution coming and decided there was more money in software.’
‘There you go.’ Magozzi rubbed his eyes, trying to push away the headache that was blossoming behind them. ‘Are we at a dead end here?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Tommy rolled his neck to release the kinks. ‘I’ve still got some things I want to try, and even if I come up dry, computerization isn’t total yet; not by a long sight. We’ve still got a lot of paper trails lying around if you’re old enough to remember where to look. It just takes a really long time, doing it the old-fashioned way. You want me to keep at it?’
‘With all my heart.’ Magozzi turned his back on the evil potato chip bag and headed for the door. ‘By the way, how are they fixed financially? Are they going to go under if this game doesn’t make it to market?’
Tommy looked at him as if he were crazy. ‘Are you kidding? The company did over ten million last year, and it wasn’t the first time. Lowest net worth on any of the partners’ – he pulled a single sheet out from under the potato chip bag and glanced at it – ‘is four million. That’s Annie Belinsky. Woman’s got a clothes budget you wouldn’t believe.’
Magozzi stared at him. ‘They’re rich?’
‘Well, yeah . . .’ A cell phone chirped and Tommy started pawing through the mess of printouts on his desk. ‘Damnit, where’d I’d put that thing?’
‘It’s mine,’ Magozzi said, pulling his cell phone out of his coat pocket. ‘Get me hard copies on whatever you find, will you, Tommy? And while you’re at it, see what you can dig up on Grace MacBride’s permit to carry.’ He flipped open his phone. ‘Magozzi.’
Tommy watched as Magozzi listened to the voice on the other end. The blood suddenly seemed to drain from his face and in the next second, he was running out the door.
20
The town of Calumet, Wisconsin, hadn’t received this much media attention since Elton Gerber’s six-hundred-fifty-seven-pound pumpkin had fallen off the back of his truck on the way to the Great Pumpkin Contest in 1993. But even then, they’d missed the real story.
The TV news had covered it tongue-in-cheek, since the pumpkin had been the only casualty, and not one reporter ever connected that shattered pumpkin with the bullet Elton put in the roof of his mouth two weeks later. The grand prize that year had been $15,000, just enough to cover the balloon payment due on Elton’s farm, and there was no doubt he would have won it. His closest competitor weighed in at a paltry five-hundred-thirty pounds.
Not a tongue-in-cheek story, Sheriff Mike Halloran thought. More like an American tragedy, and the media missed the point. And they were missing it this time, too.
The thump of rotors from somewhere outside barely penetrated his consciousness. He was used to the news helicopters now; used to the vans with their satellite-dish hats cruising the streets of his town, stopping anyone who looked mournful enough or frightened enough to deliver a titillating sound bite; used to the clamor of reporters from the front steps of the building whenever a deputy tried to get outside to his car.
According to the autopsy report, John and Mary Kleinfeldt had died between midnight and one A.M. Monday morning. Less than eight hours later it was a lead story on every channel in Wisconsin, as interchangeable anchor people reported the small-town tragedy of ‘ . . . a God-fearing elderly couple savagely murdered while at their prayers in church.’
There was no mention of the bloody crosses carved into their chests – so far Halloran had managed to keep that little gruesome detail under wraps – but even without it, the story was irresistible to reporters, and mesmerizing to the public. The idea of someone shooting the elderly was bad enough; stage the crime in the supposed sanctuary of a church and you added outrage to the horror, and maybe a little fear. Bad news, great ratings.
Later that morning Deputy Danny Peltier’s death hit the airwaves as a bulletin, less than half an hour after it happened, while Halloran was still standing over the ruin of his body, looking for the poor kid’s freckles, weeping like a girl. By sunset Monday print reporters and TV news crews had increased the population of Calumet by at least a hundred, and now, a full day later, they were all still here.
But they were missing the story, every one of them; missing the tragedy beneath the tragedy, the crime beneath the crime. None of them knew that Danny Peltier, freckled and fresh and heartbreakingly innocent, had died because Sheriff Michael Halloran had forgotten the key to the Kleinfeldts’ front door.
‘Mike?’
Before he looked up, he cleared his face of whatever expression had been there, and raised dispassionate eyes to where Bonar stood in the doorway.
‘Hey, Bonar.’
His old friend walked closer and scowled at him, looking like an angry Jonathan Winters. ‘You look like shit, buddy.’
‘Thanks.’ Halloran set aside one of the tilting towers of paperwork on his desk, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up.
Bonar sat down and waved a beefy hand at the smoke wafting toward him across the desk. ‘I could arrest you for smoking in a public building, you know.’
Halloran nodded and took another pull off his cigarette. He hadn’t had one in his office in years, and couldn’t remember the last time smoking had tasted this good. Pleasure enhanced by the illicit nature of the act. No wonder people committed crimes. ‘I’m celebrating. I’ve cracked the case.’
Bonar gave him the once-over, taking in the uniform that looked slept in, the circles under his eyes that were almost as dark as his hair. ‘You don’t look like you’re celebrating. Besides, that is such bullshit. I solved the case. The kid did it. I told you that right from the start.’
‘You did not. You told me Father Newberry did it.’
‘That was just wishful thinking, and it was also before I knew the Kleinfeldts had actually reproduced. Minute you told me that I pegged the kid, and you know it. Hated to give up the padre, though. It was so perfect. Crosses carved in the chests, big inheritance for the church . . . I mean, you had to love the old guy as a suspect.’ He leaned forward and poked around the paper clutter on the desk. ‘You got any food in here?’
‘Nope.’
Bonar sighed unhappily and leaned back, lacing his fingers across his expansive belly. His brown uniform shirt gaped between buttons that were hanging on for dear life. ‘So angels came down and told you the kid did it, long after I told you the kid did it, may I point out, but such insight, my friend, is useless. We don’t know who or where the kid is, what he looks like, how old he is . . .’
Halloran smiled a little. This was good. Talking about the case with Bonar, focusing on that and nothing else – it was a straight line he could stand on for as long as it lasted. ‘The kid was born in Atlanta. Thirty-one years ago.’
