Jelly's Gold

by David Housewright

  “More coffee?” I asked.

  She nodded, and I topped off her mug. “You still haven’t answered my questions,” she said.

  “Which questions?”

  “All of them. Take your pick.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “Lieutenant Dunston said he expects to make an arrest in the Berglund killing within twenty-four hours, but he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

  No, he wouldn’t, my inner voice said. Not Bobby. I glanced at my watch. “When did he say it?”

  “Yesterday, about five thirty for the six o’clock newscast.” Damn. You ’re running out of time.

  “You and Lieutenant Dunston are pretty tight,” Bressandes said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The way he spoke about you when I interviewed him the other day. He said you were an unscrupulous miscreant with morally questionable judgment, except I could tell that he didn’t mean it.”

  “Oh, he meant it,” I said.

  “Bobby—Lieutenant Dunston is married, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Bressandes nodded as if I had confirmed a rumor she had heard. “Did you ask him that question?” I asked.

  “One night, he was giving me background on a case. You might say I broached the subject.” “And?”

  “He closed that door pretty quickly.”

  Good for Bobby, I thought. “I bet you knew that,” Bressandes said. “It’s never come up in conversation,” I said.

  Bressandes nodded again. “Lieutenant Dunston is an honorable man,” she said.

  “I suppose.”

  “Are you an honorable man, McKenzie?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are some women who could turn anyone into an unscrupulous miscreant with morally questionable judgment. You’re smart enough, pretty enough.”

  “McKenzie, are you flirting with me?”

  God, no, my inner voice shouted, and then, Yes, you were, weren’t you? You just can’t help yourself. It’s a wonder Nina puts up with you.

  I said, “Ms. Bressandes, I’ll answer your questions, but only off the record.”

  “Oh, c’mon.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. You can fill in the blanks and do with it what you will.”

  Bressandes fluffed her hair again.

  “It’s a great story,” I said.

  “Start with the man who was arrested for breaking into your house,” she said.

  “His name is Allen Frans. He works for Timothy Dahlin, although he’ll probably deny it.”

  “Timothy Dahlin the wealthy former home mortgage guru, that Timothy Dahlin?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What does he have to do with all this?”

  “The letters Allen was looking for were written by Dahlin’s mother and mailed to her sister about seventy-five years ago, most of them before Dahlin was even born. Some people, including Dahlin, got it into their heads that these letters would somehow lead them to a cache of gold bullion.”

  “The gold Frank Nash was supposed to have stolen and hidden in St. Paul before he was killed,” Bressandes said.

  “Exactly.”

  “These are the letters that Berglund was killed for?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “This Allen Frans, you say he works for Dahlin.”

  “Yes.”

  “You say he killed Josh Berglund.”

  “Nice try,” I said. “No. I never said that. Never even suggested that.”

  “He could have, though, right?”

  ‘There are a lot of people who could have.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’re going to have to ask the cops about that.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Bobby Dunston has interviewed at least nine viable suspects in addition to Dahlin and Allen Frans,” I said. “All of them have motive. You should ask Bobby for a list.”

  Oh, he’ll love that, my inner voice said.

  “The letters,” Bressandes said. “Why do people think they indicate where Nash hid his gold?”

  “Nash had a lot of friends among St. Paul’s high society. Dahlin’s mother was one of them. She and a few others spent time with Nash in a nightclub the evening of the day Nash pulled the robbery, and some people think he might have told her something.”

  It was an abbreviated version of the truth, of course; my plan to embarrass Dahlin and implicate him in a murder didn’t include denigrating his mother. A small distinction, I suppose, yet one I would honor nonetheless.

  “Where are the letters now?” Bressandes asked.

  “You could say they’re in the custody of the St. Paul Police Department.”

  Bressandes studied my answer for a moment before asking, “When did they gain custody?”

  I glanced at my watch. “About a half hour after you leave,” I said.

  “McKenzie, you have the letters. Let me see them.”

  I shook my head. “The letters are personal. They don’t even hint at the gold. Why people think they do is beyond me. Just grasping at straws, I guess.”

  “If you let me see them—”

  “It would be unfair to Dahlin’s family.”

  “McKenzie—”

  “You could always talk to Dahlin himself,” I said. “He loves publicity. He’s writing a book, you know.”

  Bressandes leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been at this long enough to know when someone is trying to manipulate me, McKenzie,” she said. “You want me to pursue the story. You want me to put Dahlin in the spotlight. Why?”

  “You misjudge me, Bressandes.”

  “Do I?”

  “Hey, you called me, I didn’t call you.”

  “You know, McKenzie, I asked around,” she said. “People tell stories about you. They say you’re some kind of freelance troubleshooter. Helped the Feds, the cops; mostly you help friends, though. For free. What’s that about?”

  “What can I say? I’m a helluva guy.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Bressandes, when the story breaks—and it will—I’ll make sure you get an exclusive.”

  She weighed my promise for a moment. “Call me Kelly,” she said. She fluffed her hair.

  I sat in the kitchen after Kelly Bressandes left, thinking how tired I was, thinking how nice it would be to go upstairs and take a nap. Only the phone rang; the display told me that Heavenly was calling again.

  “Now what?” I said aloud before I picked it up.

  “The two men, they came back,” Heavenly said. Her voice had the same breathless quality as the first time she called. “I knew they would come back. They’re outside. They’re trying to get in—”

  “Call the police,” I said.

  “McKenzie, help me. McKenzie—”

  The phone went dead.

  I started to punch 911 into my keypad, but something made me stop after the second digit. The first time Heavenly had called me, she was genuinely frightened. This time there was fear in her voice, but somehow it didn’t sound the same. It sounded like she had practiced what she was going to say before she said it.

  I took a chance and hung up the phone without finishing the call. I cleaned up as quickly as I could, grabbed my keys, and headed for the Audi after first making a quick pit stop in my basement.

  18

  Because of my earlier visit, I knew exactly where Heavenly’s duplex was located. Instead of having to search for it on Fifth Street and maybe tip my hand to anyone who might be watching, I was able to park the Audi, cut through a few yards, and approach it from behind.

  I was carrying a 9 mm Beretta in a holster on my right hip; I had retrieved it from the safe recessed into the floor of my basement and concealed it beneath a black sports jacket. It had been a pleasant morning, about sixty-five degrees—average for May—and I didn’t feel warm in the jacket until I was leaning against the white stucco wall on Heavenly’s side of the duplex. I wiped sweat off my hands before I pulled the Be
retta and thumbed off the safety.

  I remembered what I had told Ivy and Berglund back at Lori’s Coffeehouse. I’m not going to shoot anyone. Let’s be clear about that, kids. No guns. Yet there I was.

  I began moving slowly along the wall; some of the white rubbed off onto the shoulder of my jacket, although I wouldn’t notice that until much later. There was a small window that revealed Heavenly’s empty kitchen. I ducked beneath it and slid forward, carrying the Beretta in a two-handed grip, until I reached two windows that faced the dining and living rooms. I looked quickly, then pulled my head back. There were two men, one standing at the front window near the door, watching the street. The second was standing in that space between the two rooms, watching his friend watch the street. Their backs were to the window, so I looked again.

  The first man seemed impatient, grunting at nearly every car that passed the duplex without slowing or stopping. He was holding a revolver—I couldn’t identify the make or model. He kept tapping the barrel against his thigh. The window was open, and I could hear him through the screen. “Where the hell is he?” he said. “You called him, right? You did call him?”

  He turned when he spoke, and I pulled my head away from the window. I recognized him instantly—Ted. He hadn’t changed much since I tried to frighten him at Rickie’s.

  “I called him,” a female voice spoke urgently in reply. “You heard me call him.”

  I took a chance and glanced through the screen again. Ted had returned to his vigil at the front window. I moved my gaze to the second man. He turned to his left and looked down. It was Wally. He also had a gun in his hand, probably his .38, I decided. He was looking down at the woman seated next to him.

  Heavenly’s arms and legs had been bound to a wooden chair with duct tape. Her hair was artfully disheveled, and she had changed clothes since I saw her last and was now wearing a ruffled white top and a frilly white gauze skirt—the perfect outfit for a damsel in distress.

  “It bothers me that McKenzie isn’t here,” Wally said. “Are you sure he’ll come?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” Heavenly said. “He’ll be here. He can’t help himself. He’s a born hero.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Would you relax? He’ll be here. Just remember, no one gets hurt.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Wally said. He pointed at his face. “He broke my nose. He’s going to pay for that.”

  “No. Listen. Both of you. All we want is the letters. You pretend to threaten me. He gives you the letters. You leave. We meet up later. That’s the plan.”

  “Na-uh.” Ted was shouting from the window. “Na-uh. So-and-so threatens us, pushes us around—he hurt Wally. No, we’re going to open up a can of whoop-ass on that boy.”

  I almost laughed out loud when I heard that.

  “Yeah, whoop-ass,” Wally said. “He broke my nose.”

  “You’re behaving like children,” Heavenly said.

  Ted turned away from the window again. This time I didn’t bother to hide. I didn’t care if he saw me or not. Truth was, I came very close to just leaving the three of them there, maybe calling Heavenly in a couple of hours and asking her how things worked out, when something happened to make me think better of it.

  Ted walked slowly to Heavenly’s chair and leaned in. “You don’t think we can handle him, do you?” he said.

  “It’s not necessary,” Heavenly said. “All we want is the letters.”

  “You think he’ll open a can of whoop-ass on us.”

  “If you push him, yes, I do. That’s not the point.”

  Ted made a fist and drove it hard into Heavenly’s mouth. Her head snapped back with the blow, then fell forward. She made a low, painful, guttural sound and rested her chin against her shoulder. Blood trickled from her mouth and stained her white shirt.

  “Whoa, Ted,” Wally said. “Whoa, whoa, whoa …”

  Ted stepped backward. “Ow,” he said, and shook his hand the way some people do when they hurt it. He then clenched it into a fist again and waved it in Heavenly’s face. “You deserve it. Do you hear me? I am so tired of you. Being insulted by you. Being used by you. You wave your backside in our faces and you think we’ll do whatever you ask, put up with whatever crap you give us. I got news. You ain’t that pretty.”

  “Well,” said Wally.

  Teddy shot him a glance that could have killed ducks in flight.

  “No, no,” Wally said. “Not even a little bit.”

  Heavenly raised her head. “Teddy,” she said.

  He responded by slapping her with the flat of his hand.

  “Shut up,” he said. “You just, you just… You aren’t in charge anymore. We’re running things now.”

  Ted looked at Wally.

  Wally nodded. “Fuckin’ eh,” he said.

  “We’re here for one thing,” Ted said. “The gold. Those letters you say McKenzie’s got, they better lead us to the gold. If they don’t”—Ted grabbed the lapel of Heavenly’s shirt—“we’ll just have to settle for something else.” He yanked hard. Material tore and buttons flew.

  “Ted,” Wally said. There was a note of astonishment in his voice. “Really?”

  “Don’t, don’t,” Heavenly said.

  Ted stepped back. He and Wally stared down at the helpless woman, at her white lace bra and milky skin, at the red scratch marks Ted had made above her breast.

  “Don’t do this,” Heavenly said.

  Ted sighed deeply. I could hear him all the way across the room and through the window screen. He pointed at Heavenly. “Remember what I said,” he told her.

  “Wally, Wally,” Heavenly chanted. “Talk to him. You have to make him understand what he’s doing.”

  “Shut her up,” Ted said.

  “How?” Wally asked.

  “Use the tape.”

  Wally found the duct tape and peeled off six inches while Ted returned to his window.

  “Wally, no,” Heavenly said. She rotated her head around, trying to stay out of his reach.

  “C’mon,” Wally said. “Be still.” Finally, he grabbed a fistful of golden hair and held her motionless while he sealed her mouth. “There. Maybe now we’ll get some peace and quiet.”

  Ted chuckled from the window. After a moment he said, “Where the hell is McKenzie?”

  Where indeed.

  Looks like Heavenly needs rescuing after all, my inner voice said.

  I retreated to the back of the duplex. Heavenly hadn’t secured her screen door—another security breach to go along with the cheap lock on her interior door that I managed to loid in about ten seconds with a credit card. The door swung open silently, and I slid into the kitchen, my Beretta leading the way.

  I waited for a few seconds, heard nothing, and eased to the arched doorway that led to the dining room. I poked my head past the opening and quickly pulled it back again. It was the same scene as before, Ted watching the traffic outside the front window, Wally watching Ted.

  I brought the gun up in a two-handed grip until my knuckles were grazing my cheek and turned into the room. I came up swiftly and silently behind Ted, leveling the Beretta at the back of his head with both hands. He didn’t hear a thing until I said, “Hey.”

  Wally turned toward me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I dropped my hands down and swung the Beretta up in an arc toward his face like a ballplayer swinging for the bleachers. I caught the base of his nose with the barrel of the gun and swung through. I heard cartilage crack as Wally’s head twisted, followed by the rest of his body. He fell as if he had leapt backward, diving into an end table, breaking the table and the lamp that stood on top of it, and rolling onto his side. He dropped his revolver and brought his hands up to cover his face. Blood spewed through his fingers.

  I kicked the gun away and turned toward Ted. He was still standing at the window. The sounds of the table and lamp smashing and Wally’s moaning turned him around, but other than that, he hadn’t moved.

 
I went into a pyramid stance, feet about sixteen inches apart, knees slightly bent, both hands holding the Beretta directly in front of me, my arms forming a triangle with my chest, and set the sight on Ted’s face. The idea of blowing Ted’s head off appealed to me greatly, except out of the corner of my eye I could see Heavenly’s terrified eyes, and I could hear her screams, muffled by the duct tape. That influenced me enough to lower the sight until I was aiming the gun at Ted’s lower left side just above his hip. There were no major organs on that side of his body and no arteries to blow. Odds were good that if I shot him there, he wouldn’t die.

  Only I didn’t squeeze the trigger.

  “Wally,” Ted said.

  He didn’t look at me; I couldn’t testify that he was even aware that I was there. Instead, he dropped his gun on the carpet and ran to his partner’s side. He knelt next to Wally and gently raised his head.

  “Oh, Wally,” he said and lowered Wally’s head into his lap. “He broke your nose again.”

  “No, Teddy,” Wally said. “You’ll get blood on your pants.”

  “Shhh, shhh,” Ted told him.

  I lowered the Beretta and turned toward Heavenly.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She spoke loudly, but the tape over her mouth turned her words to mumbles. I carefully eased the torn fragment of her shirt back over her breast and shoulder. Heavenly mumbled some more.

  “Give me a sec,” I said. I holstered the Beretta and gathered up Wally and Ted’s guns. I unloaded them and dropped them into the pockets of my sports jacket. Neither Ted nor Wally protested. They were both more interested in each other then they were in me.

  I smiled at Heavenly. Impatience glittered in her eyes.

  I peeled a corner of the tape off her mouth. Heavenly tensed, waiting for me to give the rest a swift yank. I didn’t. Instead, I knelt in front of her.

  “Before we go any further, you should know”—I gestured with my head toward the window—“I heard everything. I know what the plan was. I know it was your plan. So let’s keep the lying to a minimum, okay?”