Pretty Girl Gone

by David Housewright

  “I’ll take care of Donovan.”

  Schroeder chuckled loudly.

  “You didn’t get suckered into doing another favor, did you, pal? When are you going to learn?”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me pal.”

  “McKenzie.”

  “Better. I spoke to Mrs. Rogers, Elizabeth’s mother, before I left.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told her that Coach Testen killed her daughter because he was afraid she would distract Jack Barrett from the big game. I didn’t mention what happened to her before she was killed.”

  “What did Mrs. Rogers say?”

  “She said she’d pray for him, pray for Testen. Can you imagine that?”

  “Not really.”

  “She said something else that kinda threw me.”

  “What?”

  “She said it looked like God picked the right emissary to do his will.”

  “She said that?”

  “She believes in that sort of thing.”

  “What do you believe, McKenzie?”

  “I pretty much make it up as I go along. How ‘bout you?”

  “I’m the same, I guess.”

  “I suppose I should thank you. For saving my life, I mean. I didn’t get the chance before.”

  “It was my pleasure. Now I have a question for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you visit Grace Monteleone?”

  “Are we about finished here, Greg?”

  “Yeah, we’re done. You have to admit—it was fun while it lasted.”

  “You have a strange idea of what’s fun, Greg.”

  Schroeder chuckled.

  “I suppose I do. I’ll see you around, McKenzie.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  I deactivated the cell and dropped it on the bucket seat next to me. I watched Schroeder through my rearview mirror as I gave him a backward wave. He flicked his high beams. I downshifted into fifth gear and accelerated, leaving him far behind me.

  The streets of North Oaks all had soft names that made the place sound like a nature preserve—Wildflower Way, Birch Lake Road, Red Forest Heights, Long Marsh Lane, Catbird Circle, Mallard Road—and I doubted I had been the only visitor who questioned the sobriety of the men who had mapped them. The few times I had driven the streets I had become hopelessly lost. Members of the city’s private police department were forced to give me directions—after first running my plates for wants and warrants and demanding that I explain exactly what I was doing in North Oaks in the first place since I wasn’t sporting the tiny black reflector on my rear bumper that indicated I belonged to the exclusive community. Fortunately, no one stopped me as I negotiated the troublesome streets looking for Troy Donovan’s address at nearly one in the morning, which made me wonder: They paid extra for this kind of security? Given the late hour, my appearance, and the condition of the Audi, the cops should have been on me like I was doling out free Krispy Kremes.

  I took me awhile, but I finally located Donovan’s house, a sprawling two-story, white, with black trim and shutters. I parked on the street and walked to his front door. It was late, yet there were plenty of lights burning inside.

  “One last promise to keep,” I said aloud before leaning on the bell.

  Donovan examined me carefully through the spy hole before he opened the door, the safety chain in place.

  “Mr. McKenzie? What is it? Do you know what time it is?”

  “May I come in? There is something important I need to discuss with you, sir.”

  “With me? I suppose.”

  Donovan closed the door, removed the chain, and reopened it. I stepped across the threshold.

  “Are you alone?” I asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  I hit him under the jaw with a palm fist, driving him backward into the house. I followed him inside, closing the door behind me.

  At some point in his life, Donovan must have actually been in a fight because he didn’t act surprised and indignant the way some people do when confronted with unexpected violence, demanding an explanation before attempting to defend themselves, asking “Why are you doing this?” while their opponent pummeled the hell out of them. Instead, after regaining his balance, Donovan actually threw a punch at me. It didn’t amount to much, but I admired the effort.

  I blocked the punch with my left forearm, stepped in close, slid my right arm under his left arm and around his body, swept his leg out and up, and threw him over my hip and down solidly on the hardwood floor. The move took his breath away, immobilizing him long enough for me to grab his right leg.

  I hauled him across the floor to a chair while he gasped and coughed. I propped his heel on the edge of a chair and braced it against my leg so he couldn’t pull it off. I removed my Beretta from my inside pocket, made sure he saw me chambering a round, and pressed the muzzle against his knee.

  “Kiss it good-bye,” I said.

  “No, no, please, no,” he screamed. “Stop. Oh, God. Why are you doing this?”

  I ground the muzzle against his kneecap.

  “No! McKenzie, please.”

  “Do I have your attention?”

  “What? My attention? McKenzie, don’t shoot me. Please. Why are you, why are you . . . ?”

  I tried to keep all emotion out of my voice.

  “You really want to stay away from Lindsey Barrett from now on,” I said. “Don’t see her, don’t talk to her, don’t write her, don’t even think about her. These are the new rules you live by. Break the rules and one of two things will happen. Either I’ll come back and put you into a wheelchair, or I’ll inform Mr. Muehlenhaus that you’ve been endangering his investment. Personally, I think the second prospect is more frightening than the first, but that’s just me.”

  “McKenzie, please . . .”

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Maybe you think you can say anything now and forget about it later.”

  “No.”

  I rapped Donovan’s kneecap hard with the barrel of the gun. I didn’t damage it permanently, but he’d be walking uncomfortably for a few days, and that would give him something to think about.

  I released his leg. Donovan folded it neatly against his chest and caressed the knee.

  “Why, why?” he whimpered.

  “Just doing a favor for an old friend,” I told him and returned the Beretta to my pocket.

  I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.

  Two of North Oaks’s finest were standing fore and aft beside my Audi.

  “Is this your vehicle, sir?” the one in front asked as I made my way across Donovan’s icy sidewalk. All things considered, I was surprised he wasn’t shooting first and asking questions later.

  “Yes, it’s my vehicle,” I said. “Such as it is.”

  “Sir, it is a violation of city ordinances to park your vehicle on the street.”

  “I apologize. I’ll move it right away.”

  “Sir, may I see your ID?”

  “Officer?” Donovan was calling from his front door. He was leaning heavily against the frame, favoring his left leg. “Officer?”

  “Mr. Donovan,” the officer replied. I wondered if the cops knew everyone who lived in North Oaks by name or only the seriously wealthy.

  “Officer”—I was sure that Donovan was going to burn me. He didn’t—“it’s all right, officer. Mr. McKenzie is a friend of mine. I should have told him about the rules. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine, sir.” The officer nodded at me. “Mr. McKenzie, you’re free to go.”

  I gave Donovan a nod. Apparently, Donovan got the message, which meant I could forget about him. And I so much wanted to forget about him, about all of them. I felt crummy about frightening him with the Beretta and wondered for a moment if I would have actually done what I had promised. In any case, he brought it on himself.


  “Thank you, officer,” I said and climbed into the Audi.

  “What happened to your car?” the officer asked as I fired it up. “There’s a lot of damage here.”

  “I was sideswiped on the freeway by a snowplow.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “It was such a nice car, too.”

  Was?

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that a bullet hole?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said before driving away. “Who would want to shoot at me?”

  Just So You Know

  On Saturday a few hundred people crowded into the St. Mark’s Elementary School gymnasium to support about a half dozen nonprofit groups. There was a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, a raffle, cakewalk, something called a “bottle blast,” various games of chance for the entire family, and, of course, sno-cones, popcorn, and mini-donuts. The corner where Girl Scout Troop 579 was ensconced had been hopping the entire day—we had to send Bobby Dunston out to get more paper bags for the mini-donuts, which gave me a great deal of pleasure.

  “You scoffed when I bought the donut machine,” I reminded him and Shelby. “Now what do you say?”

  They admitted that making a hundred dozen mini-donuts per hour just about met the demand. On the other hand Shelby asked, “Have you ever even come close to making this many donuts before?”

  I told her, “Just knowing that I could was enough.”

  On Sunday morning, I drove my Jeep Cherokee to Rickie’s and had brunch with the boss. There was a jazz trio playing soft and mellow and they were pretty good. They were also college kids and you could tell they were itching to cut loose, only Nina wouldn’t let them. Apparently she was concerned they would disturb the digestion of her older, after-church customers. She did promise them a Monday night gig to see what they could do and that seemed to encourage them.

  While we ate, I told Nina everything that happened in Victoria, without pause or hesitation, starting with my meetings with Lindsey Barrett and the Brotherhood. The question Donovan had asked in Muehlenhaus’s conference room—“Can we rely on your discretion?”—flashed in my brain without leaving an impression. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Nina the same question.

  Nina seemed surprised that I had been so forthcoming.

  “Usually you keep these things to yourself,” she said.

  “I met two kids in Victoria. They were young and they were in love, and the girl, who reminded me a little of your daughter, she told me that she and her lover had no secrets between them and I thought that’s the way it should be.”

  Nina hugged me and kissed my cheek and thanked me for including her in that part of my life and I should have been glad for it, except I wasn’t. Probably because I was holding out on her. I didn’t tell Nina about Jack Barrett and Grace Monteleone or the child that they conceived together, a crime for which I easily forgave myself.

  I also didn’t tell her that I had slept with Danny Mallinger. Or that I had kissed her before I left Victoria and reminded her that we still had a standing dinner date. “Give me a week or two to heal and I’ll call you,” Danny said from her hospital bed.

  No, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that.

  On Monday I went to see Muehlenhaus. I entered his lobby and walked past the receptionist, through the glass doors into the inner office area, found the long corridor and marched to the conference room at the end of it. I did it without stopping—not even to admire the Degas—for fear someone would ask who I was or where I was going. Walk purposefully and with confidence, I told myself. You’d be surprised how far you can get.

  I entered the conference room without bothering to knock. I was in luck. Muehlenhaus was there, along with Donovan, Glen Gunhus, Carroll Mahoney, Prescott Coole, and a half dozen other men I didn’t recognize. If the room had been empty, I wasn’t sure what I would have done.

  “Hey, everyone’s here,” I said. “Good to see you all. No kidding. Troy, Mr. Muehlenhaus . . . Norman, how’s the shoulder?”

  Norman had been sitting in a chair near the door. He was standing now, his arm held in a white sling over his dark blue suit coat.

  “No need to get up, I won’t be staying long,” I said.

  Norman didn’t sit down. He looked like he wanted to attack me. One thing you had to say about him, he was a gamer.

  There was plenty of muttering. Someone wanted to know who the hell I thought I was. Muehlenhaus raised a fragile hand and silenced the table.

  “Gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting your meeting,” I said. “However, I think you should know that I am going to vote for John Allen Barrett. I am going to contribute money to his campaign. If I find the time, I’ll even deliver campaign literature door to door. Unless he’s weak on crime—an issue that’s suddenly become quite important to me—I can think of no reason why he shouldn’t be elected U.S. senator from the state of Minnesota. Maybe even president.”

  Troy Donovan was on his feet. He looked like he wanted to say something. I didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “There was a slight problem involving Mr. Barrett’s wife that might have become an impediment to his campaign,” I said. “However, I believe it has been satisfactorily rectified.”

  Donovan sat down slowly.

  “What problem was that?” Muehlenhaus asked.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said and left the room.

  I retreated from the office along the same path I had come. When I reached the lobby I was stopped by the woman with the smart brown eyes that I had met, God, was it only a week ago?

  “Mr. Muehlenhaus would like to speak with you,” she said. “He’s coming now.”

  “He’s coming to me?”

  “Yes.”

  That I wanted to see.

  While I waited, I examined the Degas. I decided I understood the ballerina a little bit better than the first time I had encountered her.

  A moment later, Muehlenhaus arrived. He offered his hand and I shook it. I was surprised by the strength of his grip.

  “You did an excellent job in Victoria,” he said.

  “I didn’t do it for you.”

  “Nonetheless, we are very pleased.”

  “Makes you wish you hadn’t tried to kill me, doesn’t it?”

  I spoke loud enough for at least a half dozen people to hear me, yet no one behaved as if they had.

  “I was wondering, Mr. McKenzie. How would you like to do a favor for me?”

  You can guess what I told him.