“Nash was a different breed of criminal than most that flourished during those days. Yes, he was a thief, but he also was a comparatively honorable man. I believe that it is unlikely that he would have put his wife at risk by transporting her and the stolen gold in the same vehicle. That, of course, is merely conjecture on my part. However, it is supported by the fact that Nash did not have the gold with him when he was apprehended by federal agents six days later in Hot Springs, Arkansas.”
“You think it’s still in St. Paul,” I said.
“Yes. The nine minutes Nash spent inside the Farmers and Merchants Bank triggered a massive manhunt. Treasury agents searched for the thieves and the thirty-two gold bars for many years. Yet no one was ever arrested for the crime, and the gold was never recovered. This is in the Treasury Department’s own files.”
“Wait a minute. When Frank was arrested, it wasn’t for the gold robbery?”
“No.”
“If the Treasury Department knew Frank robbed the bank—”
“It didn’t know. That’s something we developed on our own.”
“He wasn’t identified at the scene?”
“No one was identified. Witnesses claim the thieves wore masks.”
“Then how do you know Frank committed the robbery?”
“His fingerprints were all over it.”
“He was identified by his fingerprints?”
“No. What I meant by fingerprints—that was a metaphor. What I meant, the way the crime was executed, the way the vault was blown using nitroglycerin, the short amount of time spent in the bank, the escape route—it all fit Nash’s MO, his modus operandi.”
“I know what MO means,” I said. “You’re telling me that there isn’t a shred of evidence placing Frank in that bank. You don’t actually know that he stole that gold. This is mere speculation.”
“The facts fit,” Berglund said.
“The facts could be made to fit anybody. Hell, it could have been Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“They were dead by then.”
“Nonetheless,” I said.
I took a long pull on my coffee while Berglund stared into his empty mug. Ivy took his hand and looked at him with a deep kindness that made me jealous.
“I believe,” Ivy said.
“So do I,” Berglund said.
“That makes two of you,” I said.
“I believe Nash stole the gold,” Berglund said. “I believe he hid it somewhere in St. Paul with the intention of fencing it or moving it once it cooled down, only his arrest and subsequent demise prevented him from doing so. It’s been patiently waiting all these years for whoever can find it.”
“Assuming he did steal the gold—and that’s a big assumption—what do you think he did, bury it in his backyard?”
“Why not? Many people at the time—legitimate citizens—refused to give up their gold, choosing to hoard it instead until the price controls were lifted and they could sell it for considerably more than what the government was paying. Some of them did indeed bury it in their backyards.”
“What do you want from me?”
“We want you to help us find the backyard. Ivy says you’re an investigator.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“She says you know how to find things.”
“If it’s worth it to me.”
“We’ll give you a fair share of the gold.”
“How fair?”
“A third.”
It wasn’t hard to do the arithmetic. A third of $8,766,888 amounts to $2.9 million and change. Yeah, that sounded fair. On the other hand, a third of nothing is nothing.
“Why me?” I asked. “Based on the research you’ve already done, you certainly seem to know what you’re doing. Why come to me for help?”
“Assuming you agree to accept our offer, what would you do first?”
“If this were 1933, we’d try to reconstruct Frank’s movements during those days he was here—interview all of his known associates, visit all of his haunts, and like that. Unfortunately, this isn’t 1933. This is the coldest of cold cases. Most people who witnessed the actual events are likely long dead. Those who aren’t were probably too young at the time to be of much help to us. That limits us to police records, newspaper reports, historical references—”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Yes, you would. You already have. You’re a smart guy.” I glanced at Ivy when I said that, but I didn’t mean anything by it. I still thought she could do better.
“You overestimate me,” Berglund said.
“Probably,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. There was something else that Berglund wanted, and I thought I knew what it was.
“McKenzie, will you help us?” Ivy asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you, kid. I’m inclined to say no. I’m inclined to tell you that this is the wildest of wild goose chases, and if the gold had been hidden in St. Paul—if Frank had even stolen it in the first place—somehow someone would have found it in the past seventy-five years. I’m impressed that you believe that it exists, though. I’m even more impressed by the two guys sitting in the blue Trailblazer across the street watching us who also apparently believe that it exists.”
They both turned to look out the window.
“Don’t act surprised,” I said. “They’re the real reason you called me. Isn’t that right?”
“I didn’t know they were here,” Berglund said.
“You said we lost them,” Ivy said.
“I thought we had.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s no way to start a partnership, telling fibs.”
“I swear, Mr. McKenzie, I have no idea who they are.” Berglund turned to Ivy, looking for support. “No idea at all.”
“It’s true, McKenzie,” Ivy said. The anxiety in her voice was almost heartbreaking. “They just, they just appeared.”
“When?”
“About a week ago. They’ve been following us—everywhere.”
“When I try to talk to them, they just drive away,” Berglund said.
“Yet when I look around again, there they are.”
“They’re waiting for you to lead them to the gold,” I said. “Who else did you tell about it?”
“No one,” Berglund said.
“You told someone.”
I glanced at Ivy. She shook her head.
“A friend?” I said.
“No,” Berglund said.
“Family member?”
“No.”
“Someone you’ve been in contact with while doing your research?”
“No one. We’ve been very discreet.”
“Yet there they sit.”
Berglund opened his mouth to defend himself, but I flung a thumb in the general direction of the front window and he thought better of it.
“So what you really want is for me to watch your back while you search for Jelly’s gold,” I said.
“No, I …” Berglund turned to Ivy, looking for more assistance.
Ivy reached across the table and set her hand on top of mine. “More than that, I hope,” she said.
I might have read a lot of extra meaning into the gesture if it came from someone else, but I knew her and she knew me. I was the uncle she counted on when she couldn’t turn to Mom and Dad. The realization made me sad. When did I stop being attractive to young women, I wondered.
When were you ever attractive to young women? my inner voice replied.
“Please help us,” Ivy said.
Her pleading eyes, the expectant expression on her face—I closed my own eyes. When I opened them again she was still staring at me. All I can say is, I’m lucky she wasn’t selling time-share condos in Florida.
“Sure,” I said.
They both seemed relieved, and for a moment I wondered just how much trouble they were really in that they hadn’t told me about yet.
“Are y
ou kids old enough to drink?” I asked. They seemed insulted by the question. “Do you know where Rickie’s is?”
“The jazz joint on Summit Hill?” Berglund said.
“That’s the place, only don’t call it a joint; the owner doesn’t like it. I want you to give me a good five minutes, then go to your car and drive south on Cleveland until you reach Como Avenue. After that, I don’t care how you get to Rickie’s, just go.”
“What are you going to do?” Ivy said.
“Make sure that the guys in the Trailblazer really are following you, then find out who they are.”
“How?” Berglund asked.
“There are ways.”
“Then what?” Berglund said.
“Are you going to shoot them?” Ivy said.
“What a bloodthirsty young lady you’ve become since I saw you last. No, I’m not going to shoot them. I’m not going to shoot anyone. Let’s be clear about that, kids. No guns, all right?”
They nodded.
“I mean it.”
They nodded some more. Still, I don’t think they believed me.
“Okay,” I said. I stood and splayed the fingers of my hand. “Five minutes. Then go to Rickie’s. I’ll meet you there.”
Berglund stood, took keys from his pocket that were on a chain with a USA Olympic emblem. Ivy remained seated. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me.
“Seems like old times, doesn’t it?” I said.
Her smile matched her eyes, and she nodded in agreement.
2
The guys in the Trailblazer didn’t pay any attention to me when I left the coffeehouse; probably they couldn’t see past the reflections on Lori’s windows and didn’t know I had been speaking to Ivy and Berglund. I left my parking space, circled the block, and found a new parking space on Cleveland heading south. I sat in the Audi, my engine idling, and waited. I couldn’t see Ivy and Berglund leave the coffeehouse or the vehicle that they drove, but by adjusting my sideview mirror I had a clear line of sight to the Trailblazer. It soon pulled away from the curb and began following a blue Honda Civic. I waited until they passed me, made sure Ivy and Berglund were in the Civic, then jumped on the Chevy’s rear bumper.
After eleven and a half years on the job, I had made a lot of friends at the St. Paul Police Department who were willing to accommodate me, especially Bobby Dunston, the commander of the homicide unit. Only there was a risk to the favors they did—it was against SPPD policy to use department resources for personal pursuits; they could get into a lot of trouble. So, instead of imposing on them, I’ve been tapping the same contacts as a Minneapolis private investigator of my acquaintance named Greg Schroeder. He paid his police contacts under the table for information as he needed it, and lately I’ve been doing the same thing. That way, I figured if the informants were caught and punished for helping me out, my conscience would be clear. I called one of them now, a sergeant working with the Minneapolis Police Department’s gang unit.
“Afternoon, Sarge,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Do I have to want something? Can’t I call just to say hello?”
“Have you ever in the past?”
He had me there.
“I’m following a blue Chevy Trailblazer,” I said and recited the license plate number.
“What do you need?”
“Whatever you can tell me.”
“You on your cell?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Ivy and Berglund followed Cleveland to Como as I instructed, turned left, and drove along the Minnesota State Fairgrounds to the Snelling Avenue intersection. They were driving south on Snelling past Midway Stadium where the St. Paul Saints played minor league baseball when the sarge called back. He gave me a name and a description of the driver—a young man, only twenty-two. There were no wants or warrants on him, but “Give him time,” the sarge said. “The asshole has a license to carry, and these young guys, most of ’em are just itchin’ to use, if you know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant. In Minnesota, any moron above the age of twenty-one can carry a concealed weapon as long as he completes a cursory firearms safety course, and believe me, a lot of morons do.
“Watch yourself,” the sarge said.
I thanked him and said the check was in the mail.
“Check?”
“Cash,” I said. “I meant cash.”
I continued to follow the Trailblazer, which was still following the Civic, but I thought we were beginning to look like a parade, so I dropped out when we reached University Avenue and headed for Rickie’s on my own.
I found the Civic near the front entrance when I arrived; the Trailblazer was across the parking lot. Both vehicles were empty. I parked my Audi between them and went inside.
For a long time I thought Rickie’s was named after Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. It was actually named for Erica, the daughter of the take-your-breath-away owner—at least Nina Truhler always took my breath away. The club was located on Selby Avenue just down the road from the St. Paul Cathedral and had a solid reputation for presenting the best up-and-coming and lesser-known jazz acts in its elegant upstairs dining room. At the same time, the downstairs portion of the club resembled one of your more comfortable neighborhood bars. It had a small stage, yet most of the music came from CDs that Nina burned herself.
Frank Sinatra was covering “Mood Indigo” from half a dozen hidden speakers as I made my way to the bar—Nina loved Sinatra. Nina’s assistant manager was standing behind it. “McKenzie,” she said.
“Hey, Jen,” I said. I sat on a cushioned stool. “How was brunch?”
“Good. A lot of churchgoers from the cathedral. We finished serving an hour ago. Are you here to see Nina? She’s in the office. Do you want me to tell her you’re here?”
“Later.”
That caused her to arch an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I have things to do,” I said. That didn’t lower the eyebrow. Jenness Crawford knew me too well.
“Summit Ale?” she asked. Summit was my favorite beer, brewed in St. Paul, my hometown, thank you very much.
“Please,” I said.
While she poured it from the tap, I surveyed the room. Ivy and Berglund were sitting at a table near the stage and drinking hard lemonades. They hadn’t changed much since I saw them last. Berglund still wore a severe expression, while Ivy’s face was flushed with excitement. Both had turned in their seats and were watching me intently. Could they possibly be any more obvious? my inner voice asked.
A man matching the description that the sarge gave me was sitting with a companion near the door. He was supposed to be twenty-two, yet they both looked young enough to eat off the children’s menu at Denny’s. They were sucking on bottles of light beer—I knew they were tough because neither used a glass. Occasionally they would throw a glance at Ivy and Berglund, only they never held it long. Amateurs, I thought. They were both wearing windbreakers; the driver’s was green and had the logo of the Minnesota Wild hockey team, while his pal wore the colors of the Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team. It was about seventy degrees outside, a bit warm for the Twin Cities in the first week of May, and warmer still inside Rickie’s, so I figured the jackets were meant to conceal their handguns.
Jenness set the Summit on a coaster in front of me. I ignored it, rising from the stool. She must have seen something in my face because she asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Relax,” I said. I doubt that she did.
I was about ten steps from the table when he saw me coming. “Ted?” I shouted. “Ted? How the hell are you, man? You still driving that piece-of-crap Chevy?”
He glanced at his partner, then back at me. “Do I know you?”
“What do you mean, ‘Do I know you?’ How can you say that after all we’ve been through together? Hey, man, who’s your girlfriend?”
Ted’s partner didn’t like the insult. “Who the fu
ck are you?” he said.
“Easy, Wally,” Ted said.
“Yeah, Wally.” I slapped him hard on his shoulder. “We’re all friends here.”
“Friends?” Ted said.
“Sure. I came over to do you guys a big favor.”
“What favor?” asked Wally.
I placed both my hands on the table and leaned in. They leaned in, too, as if we were about to share a secret. I forced my voice to drop a few octaves, tried to make it sound menacing.
“The favor is this—I’m going to let you both walk out of here in one piece. All you have to do is promise to quit following my friends. They don’t like being stalked by a couple of amateur goons. I don’t like it, either. It stops. Now. Drink your beers. Move along. If I see you again—you really don’t want me to see you again.”
Wally pushed his chair back from the table as if he were about to leap out of it. He opened his windbreaker and gave me a good look at the gun in the holster on his left hip, positioned for a quick cross-draw. He smirked and said, “Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”
“Yes, you are. Didn’t I sound scary just now?”
He moved his hand until his fingers were brushing the butt of the gun. He watched my face, wondering what I was going to do. When I did nothing, he began to drum a monotonous rhythm on the wood grip. I was perfectly willing to let it slide, but when I asked, “Would you really pull a gun on me?” Wally wrapped his fingers around the butt and smirked.
I turned to Ted. “Is he really going to pull a gun on me?”
Wally said, “Wanna see, asshole?”
I answered by driving the point of my elbow against the point of his nose, hitting him just as hard as I could—hey, I haven’t spent thirty-seven years playing hockey without learning something. I felt the cartilage snap; blood began flowing freely. Wally forgot his gun and brought both of his hands to his face. I wasn’t surprised. I’ve been hit hard in the nose, and it hurts so much that sometimes you’ll even forget your name. I reached down and yanked the gun out of its holster. It was a snub-nosed .38. A wheel gun. You don’t see many of them anymore. Most people prefer automatics. I glanced down at Ted. His hands were flat on the table. He hadn’t moved, and when I was certain that he wasn’t going to move I broke open the gun and dumped the five cartridges on top of the table.
Jelly's Gold Page 2
