“Am I also right in assuming that you’ve been listening carefully to every word we’ve said?” I asked.
Again she shot a glance at Hannah before nodding.
I reached into the inside pocket of my brown leather coat and retrieved a wallet. Inside the wallet was an off-white business card printed with my name and cell phone number.
“My experience,” I said, “mothers don’t care nearly as much about professional ethics as they do about the safety of their children.”
I offered the card to the woman. She took it without looking at her daughter.
“If she’s in danger because of this Hayes guy, you call,” I said.
“Mother,” Hannah said.
The woman ignored her daughter and dropped the card into her bag.
“Thank you,” she said. She offered her hand and I shook it. “I’m Esti Braaten.”
“Esti?”
“My parents were planning to name me Esther after my grandmother. At the last moment, though, they decided they wanted a more modern name, so they called me Esti, instead. E–S–T–I.”
“A pleasure, Esti,” I said.
I turned to leave. Hannah stopped me.
“There’s a man standing behind you,” she said. “A tall man. African American…”
Mr. Mosley? my inner voice asked.
“He says … no, no, wait, wait, don’t go.” Hannah sighed. “He hung up.”
“Who was he?”
“He didn’t give me his name.”
“What did he say?”
“Semper fi. I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s short for semper fidelis, ‘always faithful’ in Latin. It’s the motto of the United States Marine Corps.”
FIVE
I thanked both women for their time and moved toward the exit of the community center. Hannah and Esti followed me outside, staying far enough behind that someone conducting surveillance in the parking lot wouldn’t think that we were together, yet close enough that I could hold open the door for them without looking creepy.
I turned left and walked toward the Mustang. I could see my breath, but twenty-nine degrees in Minnesota wasn’t cold enough to bother with gloves and a hat. Hell, the girls on the Nicollet Mall were probably still wearing their summer skirts.
My car was parked in the far back row of the lot. The Braaten women, however, had managed a spot in the front row near the entrance. Hannah was driving a white BMW X5 Sports Activity Vehicle, what the Germans call an SUV, and I thought being a psychic medium must pay pretty damn well, a $60,000 car.
I had just reached my own vehicle when the X5 drove past me on its way to the exit. A half beat later, another SUV, this one a black Chevy Tahoe, also passed me, going much faster than it should have in a parking lot. I watched as it took a hard right onto Vine Hill Road and accelerated, staying close to the rear bumper of Hannah’s X5, and I thought, Really?
I hopped into the Mustang, fired it up, and began following the two vehicles, staying far enough back not to rattle the driver of the Tahoe. I wasn’t convinced yet that he was actually following Hannah. Still … What was the name of Hannah’s seminar? Trust Your Instincts?
We went south on Vine Hill Road, speeding past Old Excelsior Boulevard, until we reached Minnesota Highway 7. The X5 drove east with the Tahoe close behind. I accelerated into the intersection to avoid being trapped by the traffic signal, quickly decreased my speed so as not to alert the Tahoe, and continued following them.
Hannah was driving five miles above the speed limit. The Tahoe kept pace, remaining only a couple of car lengths behind her, which meant either the driver wasn’t actually tailing Hannah and I was just being my usual paranoid self or he wasn’t very good at it. I stayed well behind the Tahoe and in the next lane over.
My Mustang was equipped with all of the latest technology, so it didn’t take much effort to activate my hands-free cell phone and place a call. A couple of moments later it was answered.
“Special Agent Brian Wilson.”
“Hi, Harry,” I said, which was Brian’s nickname, bestowed on him because of his uncanny resemblance to the character actor Harry Dean Stanton.
“Hey, McKenzie, what’s going on, man?”
“I’m tailing a Chevy Tahoe that’s following a BMW X5 east on Highway 7.”
“Here I thought you had tickets to the Wild that you were willing to share.”
“Next Monday, I promise.”
“Do I really want to know what’s going on?”
“It does involve the commission of a federal crime, so…”
By then we had passed County 101 and were fast approaching Williston Road in Minnetonka. I had three things to watch—the Tahoe, the X5, and the traffic ahead of both of them. Highway intersections with traffic lights, exit and entrance ramps, construction sites, and suddenly congested traffic all triggered choke points that would eventually force me to either close the distance between my Mustang and the vehicles I was following or risk losing them.
“What federal crime?” Harry asked.
“Interference with commerce by robbery.”
“Where?”
“Since the bank doesn’t actually exist anymore, the question should really be when.”
“All right—when?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
We blew past Williston and headed toward the busy I-494 interchange. I closed the distance, moving to a couple of car lengths directly behind the Tahoe. I was hoping that the driver was too concerned with what was in front of him to worry about what was behind.
“Twenty-two years ago?” Harry repeated.
“Uh-huh.”
“There’s a legal term, what is it now? Oh, yeah. It’s called the statute of limitations.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“For bank robbery, it’s five years.”
“Actually, it was an armored truck robbery.”
“Nonetheless.”
The X5 slowed and then the Tahoe slowed and then I slowed, until we all entered the cloverleaf and one by one maneuvered onto the ramp that led to I-494 north. The X5 accelerated until it was going five miles above the posted speed limit again; apparently that was one of Hannah’s driving habits. The Tahoe kept pace, again staying only a couple of car lengths behind her. I dropped back and gave them plenty of room.
“Anyway,” I said, “the miscreants involved all paid the price decades ago, so that’s not an issue.”
“I’m afraid to ask—what is the issue?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Take your time,” Harry said. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. I mean, besides supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic.”
I started to explain. By the time I reached the part where Hannah was telling Shelby that I was in danger, our little caravan was fast approaching the I-394 interchange. Again I closed the distance between my Mustang and the Tahoe, again hoping that a driver who was tailing someone else wouldn’t be too concerned about being tailed himself. The three of us took the gentle curve that led from 494 to 394 and headed east toward Minneapolis.
“I didn’t know Shelby was into all that paranormal stuff,” Harry said. “Last I heard she was taking classes to become certified as a scuba diver.”
“The girl has eclectic interests.”
“Remember when she helped map that huge cave in southeastern Minnesota? That would have scared the hell out of me, and I carry a gun.”
There were a lot of places where we could have left 394, and all of them made me nervous—Plymouth Road, Hopkins Crossroad, Louisiana Avenue, and Highways 169 and 100—yet we kept heading east toward the Cities. I continued telling my story.
“I didn’t know about Leland Hayes,” Harry said.
“It’s not something you talk about, is it?”
“We’ve been friends a long time.”
“I didn’t even tell Nina until last night.”
> The traffic where 394 met Interstate 94 on the edge of downtown Minneapolis was aggravating even during the best of times and positively brutal during rush hour, which now started at about 3:00 P.M. I was forced to attach myself to the Tahoe’s bumper as we negotiated our way through the bottleneck, around the never-ending construction sites, and past the intersection with I-35W.
“You’re telling me all of this because—why exactly?” Harry asked.
“Don’t you want to recover the $654,321?”
“The money that a ghost—”
“Spirit.”
“That a spirit is allegedly offering to pay his ex-con son if he shoots you?”
“What do you mean, allegedly?”
“We in the FBI tend to be careful when throwing around accusations of criminal behavior, even at ghosts. So what exactly do you want from me, McKenzie?”
“I’d thought you might contact the Bureau of Prisons and find out where Ryan Hayes is living these days. Oh, and if he’s driving a Chevy Tahoe with Minnesota plates.” I recited the number that I had already memorized.
“Ahh, no.”
“It’s a simple request, Harry.”
Our three-car caravan followed 94 east across the Mississippi River into St. Paul. Both the X5 and the Tahoe stayed in the far right lane, however, which meant I had to stay there, too, or risk cutting myself off from all of the exits that we were fast approaching. I felt better about it when a Hyundai Sonata managed to squeeze between me and the Tahoe, but only until I realized he was driving as if it were Sunday and he wanted to be late for church. I passed him right away to make sure I wouldn’t lose the Tahoe and again hoped the driver didn’t notice.
“Is Ryan Hayes a wanted criminal?” Harry asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you a member of the federal law enforcement community, or any law enforcement community, for that matter, engaged in an ongoing criminal investigation?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, then?”
“Do you know how much I pay in taxes, Harry?”
“As little as possible, like everyone else.”
Hannah finally left the freeway system, maneuvering her X5 up the exit ramp toward Cretin-Vandalia. The Tahoe stayed close behind her. I followed the Tahoe and wondered which way they would turn. I found out when I reached the top of the ramp—right on Cretin Avenue. The traffic light went to yellow just before I reached it. I accelerated, passing through the intersection as it turned red. Instead of looking forward at the Tahoe, I glanced in my rearview mirror looking for a cop.
“What do you expect me to do?” Harry asked. “Knock on the door of the special agent in charge and say, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I’d like to open an investigation into a dead bank robber who’s threatening a friend of mine from the grave?’ I like this job, McKenzie. I like working in Minnesota. Besides, you don’t really believe any of this shit, do you?”
“How did Hannah know about Agatha and Mr. Mosley?” I asked.
“Mr. Mosley was murdered, wasn’t he? You tracked down his killer, didn’t you?”
“That was six and a half years ago.”
“It made the papers, though, didn’t it?”
“Not the part about how I was stung sixteen times.”
“McKenzie, give me twelve hours and I can find out everything I need to know about anyone in the country. You could do it, too, but it would take you longer because you don’t have my resources. C’mon.”
“You sound like Nina.”
“I can live with that.”
I was now a few car lengths behind the Tahoe. Cretin started as a busy two-lane avenue that quickly became an even busier one-lane street as it passed the University of St. Thomas. It also had a number of traffic lights in fairly close proximity to each other. I knew it was a matter of time before I was stopped by one. It was like the old folk song “Sixteen Tons,” about a man with one fist of iron and the other of steel—If the right one don’t a-get you, the left one will. In this case, I managed to stay with the Tahoe through three lights before I was halted at Grand Avenue by a fourth—that and a vehicle filled with college kids from St. Thomas that discouraged me from attempting to break yet another traffic ordinance. Fortunately, Cretin ran straight and level, so I could track the black SUV as it receded into the distance while I waited out the light. I caught a break when it was also halted by a traffic light, this one at St. Clair Avenue, although I could no longer see the X5.
“You’re a great disappointment to me, Harry,” I said. “I might have to rethink those Wild tickets next week.”
“Yeah, well, call anytime, McKenzie. I haven’t had this much fun since the last time they shut down the federal government.”
Once the light changed, I maneuvered around the college kids and accelerated at a speed that invited arrest. I closed half of the distance between me and the Tahoe before the light on St. Clair changed. The Tahoe sped forward and turned right. Only I wasn’t close enough to determine exactly where he turned; there were three side streets between St. Clair and Jefferson Avenue, the next busy intersection. I turned onto the first, Berkeley Avenue.
I was now in the heart of a high-income residential neighborhood, Macalester-Groveland or Highland Park, I didn’t know exactly which one, only that it possessed an eclectic selection of expensive homes. It also seemed to be Christmas Central; nearly every home had some kind of oversized decoration out front. I was more interested in the cars lining the narrow street, though. I slowed to get a good look at them as I drove past and found nothing that interested me.
I kept going until the street came to an end at Mount Curve Boulevard, where I caught another break. All of the side streets halted there; there were no through streets between St. Clair and Jefferson.
I hung a left and drove half a block before I found what I was searching for, a white BMW X5 SAV parked at the top of a short driveway next to an English Tudor–style house with a steeply pitched roof, tall narrow windows, a ground floor built of red bricks, and a top floor of white timber. The black Chevy Tahoe was parked directly in front of the house, the driver still behind the wheel.
I made a point of not looking at him as I drove slowly for another half block before pulling over and turning off the engine.
A car has plenty of mirrors, and I angled mine so that I could use them to watch the Tahoe, the driver, and the house, without turning around in my seat. I could have parked the Mustang on the other side of the street, of course, and watched them straight on through the front windshield, but I was less likely to attract the attention of the driver I was following if he could only see the back of my headrest.
I waited for a solid twenty minutes for the driver to exit the Tahoe while my inner voice wondered, Is that Ryan Hayes? Why did he follow Hannah? Are Hannah and her mother in danger? What are you going to do about it?
That’s when the front door of the house was opened and Esti Braaten stepped outside. She was wearing a blue Eddie Bauer down jacket that she held close with her left hand as she moved quickly down the cobblestone sidewalk to where the Tahoe was parked on the street. She leaned down so she could talk to the driver through the passenger window.
She sure doesn’t look frightened, does she?
Esti and the driver chatted for less than three minutes by my watch before Esti turned around and moved back up the sidewalk to her house. The driver started up the Tahoe and drove off before she had a chance to open the door and disappear inside. I ducked down so the driver wouldn’t see me, giving it a long ten count before peeking up to make sure he was gone.
A couple of scenarios buzzed through my head to explain all of this. I didn’t like any of them, though. The driver could have met Hannah at the community center and requested a private reading; Hannah had an opening in her schedule and invited him to follow her and Esti home but later changed her mind. That might work. Or he could have been a bodyguard hired to escort Hannah to and from the event and parked on the street until he
was dismissed by his employers. Except, if that were true, he would have been in the BMW with them, would have escorted them from the center to the Beamer, would have been hovering nearby when I accosted Hannah in the corridor, would have searched the house before he allowed them to enter. Wouldn’t he?
Unless he sucked at his job.
I started up the Mustang, moved along Mount Curve Boulevard to Stanford Avenue, hung a left and followed it to Cretin Avenue. I pointed the Mustang north. As I drove, I considered how I was going to learn the name of the owner of the Chevy Tahoe. Back in the day, I would have been able to contact the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles, fill out a form, pay a few bucks, and voilà, I’d be rewarded with the owner’s name, address, and phone number. If I was in a hurry, I’d contact one of my law enforcement pals and ask for a favor.
Only that was before a particularly fetching Twin Cities morning news anchor filed a lawsuit when she discovered that her license information had been accessed more than 3,800 times during a ten-year period. That was before a former member of the Department of Natural Resources pleaded guilty to a criminal charge of misconduct by a public employee after he was accused of illegally searching the database about 19,000 times over five years. Most of the people he looked up were women and included police officers, celebrities, and politicians.
As a result, you are no longer allowed to run the license plate of someone else’s vehicle in Minnesota unless you have a damn good reason that can be put into writing. Which raised the question my inner voice asked: Who do we know who’s willing to commit a criminal act for you on short notice?
Apparently not Harry. I knew better than to ask Bobby, too. Instead, I accessed the cell phone in my car. I made a call. A few moments later, a man answered, identifying himself with the name of the building that he was hired to protect.
“Is this Smith or Jones?” I asked.
“Jones. McKenzie? What’s going on, man? Anything exciting?”
Smith and Jones—I could never tell them apart without reading their name tags—worked the security desk in the building where Nina’s and my condominium was located. They had both made it clear when we moved in nineteen months ago that they had checked me out—acting under building management’s orders, of course; it was SOP for all new tenants—and they knew who I was and what I did.
From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel Page 5
