Russian Roulette dh-1

by Mike Faricy

  Chapter 28

  The main impound lot for the St. Paul Police is located on Barge Channel Road. The perfect location for one of the most depressing experiences a person can have. The following morning I thought it not the best idea to call Heidi for a ride to spring my car and so I took a taxi instead. My driver didn’t speak English and I had to point, nod, and shake my head as I gave directions. A few times we came to a complete stop in the middle of an intersection but eventually we arrived. But he knew exactly what he was doing when it came time for me to pay my fare and understood perfectly my directive to keep the change.

  Over the course of the past thirty or forty years St. Paul, like most municipalities, had put at least some effort to make dealing with city employees a quasi-pleasant experience for the taxpayer. Such was not the case with the impound lot. On the other hand, I assume most people arriving here would, right from the get-go, not be in the most positive frame of mind.

  The lot itself was surrounded by a ten-foot-high cyclone fence crowned with miles of concertina wire. You walked a fifty-foot corridor of fencing with razor wire strung across the top to get to the front door. Just beyond the front door a narrow staircase with worn carpet rose between grimy walls. At the top of the staircase a large window made up of a half dozen layers of bulletproof glass protected employees from taxpayers.

  It was mid-morning, already hot and humid. I quickly concluded the heavyset woman ahead of me on the staircase hadn’t showered for the better part of a week. Including her, there were eight people in front of me. Amazingly, none of them could understand why their car had been towed, not that it mattered to the attendant behind the glass. Over the course of forty minutes I inched my way up the staircase until I confronted the pale, humorless clerk behind the glass.

  He was actually more sallow looking than pale, about one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and in need of a shave. He wore rumpled jeans and a stained, wrinkled T-shirt with a hole in it that he had probably pulled on a week ago. He had the look of someone who’d slept in his clothes, regularly. I’m guessing he hated his job. Who could blame him? Although he’d probably stick with it for forty years. The place seemed to have leached all humanity from his soul.

  “License number,” he mumbled, not looking up at me.

  “Minnesota, IAB 114.”

  He typed my plate number into the computer. I saw a screen flash in the reflection of his glasses, and a moment later he wheeled around on his desk chair to grab a sheet coming out of a printer.

  “Three twenty-five,” he said, still not looking at me.

  “Hunh?”

  “Three hundred twenty-five dollars,” looking down at his desktop.

  “But it just got here yesterday.”

  “Ticket, tow charge, two days in the lot, processing, and tax,” he said in an expressionless, practiced manner as his head sunk a little lower.

  Arguing would only waste more of my time, and they’d probably charge me by the minute so I nodded, slid my debit card into the metal tray and prayed.

  He retracted the tray beneath the thick glass panel and ran my card.

  “Access denied, sorry,” he mumbled, sounding like he wasn’t, looking straight ahead at his computer screen.

  “Oh shit,” a disgruntled voice from somewhere back in line wafted up the staircase.

  “I just came from the damn bank,” I lied.

  “Might want to get it checked out then. You got a credit card we can run?” Still completely disinterested and now focused on the wall behind me.

  I handed him my credit card, then prayed I wasn’t already over my limit.

  “I’ll need proof of insurance before I can release the vehicle.”

  “It’s in the car.”

  He nodded, maybe he’d heard some of this before.

  “Show the attendant this, along with proof of insurance,” he said returning my credit card with the invoice stamped paid in the metal tray. He never looked up at me.

  Chapter 29

  The Rolodex was still in the front seat. I phoned Sunnie as I exited the impound lot.

  “Sunnie, I’ve got that Rolodex you wanted.”

  “Oh, when can you get it to me?”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “No later, Dev, I’ve got a lecture at eleven I have to review for.”

  “Any idea how long this might take?”

  “The lecture?”

  “No, finding the password.”

  “No, I ran some programs yesterday, without much luck. We’ll just have to see. It’s a little like asking what the weather is going to be like in three weeks. Who really knows?”

  Twelve minutes later I handed the Rolodex to Sunnie at her front door as she said, “Look sorry, don’t take it personal but this is my crazy day. I’ve got a lecture at eleven and then I’m working labs all afternoon. You interested in a late dinner, say seven tonight?”

  “Yeah, I can do that, what are …”

  “Don’t ask what I’m serving.”

  “I was going to ask what can I bring?” I lied.

  “Just your good company. See you at seven, I gotta run,” she said and closed the door.

  Chapter 30

  I phoned Aaron from in front of Sunnie’s house and left a message.

  He phoned me back about fifteen minutes later just as I was driving past my house. I noticed a red Lexus across the street, the right front end looked mangled and scraped, like it had hit something. Maybe a wheelchair?

  “Where are you?” Aaron asked.

  “You know those red paint chips taken from Da’nita Bell’s wheelchair?”

  “Yeah?” Aaron sounded curious.

  “Well, I was chased yesterday by three thugs in a red Lexus, an SUV. There’s one parked across the street from my place right now, and it’s got a damaged front end.”

  I heard some paper rattle before he answered.

  “That’s not red, it’s Nobel Spinel, and the vehicle isn’t an SUV it’s a Lexus LX11.”

  “Oh that’s just great, and the three thugs?” I asked.

  “They in it now?”

  “No it’s empty, actually. I’m going around the block. Hell, as far as I know they could be waiting inside my place for me.”

  “They chased you yesterday, you said?”

  “Yeah, fortunately I fell into the gentle caring hands of a couple of your guys, with the help of that jackass Peters.”

  “Peters? The Fed?”

  “The same. Look, I’ll tell you about it later. How soon can you get here?”

  “Okay, I’m there in six minutes, pull over. I’m sending a squad to meet you. Don’t let them do anything until I arrive, clear?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. See you in six,” I said and pulled to the curb.

  The police squad arrived about five minutes after Aaron. I was finishing up telling him about my previous day and the interaction with officers Jorgensen and Elling.

  “And they told you they spoke to Peters?”

  “Yeah, said they contacted you, or tried to, Peters answers, tells them about a task force and that they might be saving the city a lot of money by getting me in custody so soon. They were thinking they made a big score.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes, me, that’s beside the point. From the way they talked, could that jerk have answered your phone? I mean how else would they even know about the guy?”

  “Possible, I was going over some stuff in homicide with Hale for ten or fifteen minutes. Call could have come through then, I guess.”

  “Hale, the I.C.E. guy?”

  Aaron nodded, deep in thought.

  “Here’s your squad, pulling up behind us,” I said watching in my mirror as a squad car came around the corner.

  We used our three vehicles to box in the Lexus against the curb, then approached my house. The two uniformed officers went into the backyard. Aaron and I went up onto the front porch.

  “I feel like I may have done this once or tw
ice before,” he said, pulling his pistol and jiggling my front-door handle. It was locked.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have your key, would you?”

  I unlocked the door, pushed it wide open, then quickly stepped back behind Aaron.

  “Police,” Aaron called.

  No one answered.

  “Police,” he called again, this time much louder.

  We went through the place cautiously, room by room, and found nothing except my breakfast dishes. He called the officers out of my backyard, walked with them over to the Lexus.

  “Run the plates on this damn thing,” he said to one of them, then turned to me. “I think this is an unfortunate coincidence. I said LX11, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He pointed to the chrome model number on the rear of the vehicle.

  “This is a GX 460, the lower-priced version. Goes for something like fifty-five grand, about twenty less than the LX.”

  “So, you’re saying this is the wrong car? In front of my house and with the damage to the right front?”

  “I think so, hell of a coincidence but I’m guessing it’s not your pals.”

  “Well, it sure as hell got my attention.”

  “Never hurts to play it safe,” he replied.

  “Oh Officer, did the insurance company send you?”

  A small woman carrying a dozen different shopping bags called from about fifty feet away.

  “I ran into my daughter’s bicycle, didn’t even see the thing in the driveway. Of course she left it where it wasn’t supposed to be. I have to say, all of you here to investigate the damage, I’m really impressed.”

  Chapter 31

  Since Sunnie wouldn’t tell me what she was serving I picked up two bottles of wine. One red, one white.

  “Oh gee Dev, you didn’t have to do that. It almost makes up for all the headaches you’ve given me over the past few days,” she said when she opened her front door. She wore cutoffs and a T-shirt, “I heart St. Paul” emblazoned down the front. I followed her back into her kitchen waiting for the headache explanation that never came. The house smelled wonderful, garlicky.

  “I don’t know what you’re cooking but it smells absolutely delicious.”

  “Garlic chicken.”

  “Any luck on that password?”

  “Well, I thought of a half dozen different programs I could try on the thing. They could take up to a week, maybe longer, it’s hard to say. And, it’s not like I don’t have other things to do.”

  “More than a week?”

  “Yeah at least, and even then there’s no guarantee. So instead, I just checked the Rolodex you dropped off, under “P” for password. Any idea who DB + DB is?”

  “That’s the password?”

  “Yep, took about ninety seconds. I suppose I shouldn’t have told you and just hung on to the laptop for a week then sent you my exorbitant bill.”

  “DB + DB was a heart-shaped tattoo on her left breast, Da’nita Bell plus Darius Bell. It’s Da’nita’s laptop you’ve been working on.”

  “Was a heart-shaped tattoo? Did she have it removed?”

  “She passed away and we couldn’t, my client that is, couldn’t access the computer files.”

  “Dead with tattooed boobs, how charming. I’m not sure I want to know much more.”

  “Okay. So could you get into the files?”

  “Well yes, such as they are. There aren’t too many of them on there. It looks like some sort of appointment calendar. A phone directory and a couple of dreadful homemade pornographic videos.”

  “You watched them?”

  “Only long enough to know they were dreadful. Honestly how can anyone find that sort of thing even remotely appealing?” She took the pan with the garlic chicken out of the oven and then set it on a cooling rack. She looked really sexy in the cutoffs and probably didn’t even know it.

  “Did you open any wine or did you just stand there and stare at my butt?”

  “I could tell you I was looking for an opener, but your butt took priority.”

  “Opener’s right next to the wine glasses, on the counter in front of you. God,” but she laughed so I knew I was safe.

  Her son Josh wasn’t around, probably confined to a dark corner in the basement. I didn’t bring up her car. We talked about everything and nothing over a candlelight dinner. After we finished eating she gave me a quick tutorial on how to access Da’nita’s laptop files. She was right, there were only a handful of files. I decided I could spend most of tomorrow going through them, not that I knew what, exactly, I’d be looking for.

  Chapter 32

  I woke the following morning still tasting the garlic from the night before. I was going through Da’nita’s files while still on my first cup of coffee. I felt pretty sure the numeric code next to each phone number represented a client name. Probably guys who’d paid for an escort in the past. That didn’t mean they knew or had even met Kerri or Nikki. On the other hand I guessed that at least one of them might have information that could help me, whether they knew it or not. Now, if I could just get them to talk to me.

  In order to talk to me they had to accept my call. Of the first seven phone calls I placed, three were disconnected, one was busy, two never answered and had no message center and one simply hung up. All of which was probably fine because I was still attempting to figure out exactly what I was going to say if someone did answer.

  A polite male answered call number 8.

  “This is Wayne Lentz.”

  “Mr. Lentz, my name is Devlin Haskell. Your name came up in an ongoing investigation of a woman by the name of Nikki Mathias. I’d like to meet with you, privately, see if you could be of any help.”

  “Investigation?” he said sounding concerned.

  “Yes, let me stress, you’re not being investigated. We’re just attempting to get some general background information on Miss Mathias.”

  “What’d she do?”

  “She didn’t actually do anything that we’re concerned with. She’s been missing and we’re trying to locate her.” I was a little surprised I’d gotten this far and expected him to ask me if I was the police.

  He didn’t, instead he said, “Yeah, okay, but not here. How about later this evening?”

  “That’ll work, you just tell me where and I’ll meet you.”

  We agreed on the Depot bar, I knew the place, about as out of the way as you can get. The next dozen calls I made resorted to pattern, no answer or a hang up once I’d stated my purpose. I decided to wait awhile, and not make any more calls until I spoke to Wayne Lentz.

  Chapter 33

  The Depot bar sits on a busy corner across the street from one of the uglier parking ramps in St. Paul. A little one-story brick hovel, forgettable from the moment it was built back in 1953. On an average day close to ten thousand people probably walk or drive past. Which is what people do all day, every day, none of them ever giving a second thought to entering.

  I guessed it was a pretty busy night once I walked in the side door. There were two people sitting at opposite ends of the bar. One was a disheveled older woman with frizzy gray hair who appeared to have been drinking since breakfast. The other resident was a lean bald guy in some sort of green work uniform, the name Gene sewn above his shirt pocket in white letters. Gene continued to stare down at his half empty beer, looking neither left nor right.

  A guy occupied a booth against the wall, alone. I guessed his age at maybe forty-five. He was big, but not fat, heavy in a labor sort of way, solid. He had a crew cut, light brown hair going a little gray at the temples, oxford blue shirt with a button-down collar. His tie had been pulled off but a gold tie clasp was still attached to his shirt. I figured him for a tradesman, maybe a cabinet-maker, a plumber or electrician all dressed up to meet a police detective. As I approached I noticed the large hand that was wrapped around his beer mug wore a wedding ring.

  “Wayne?”

  He nodded, then indicated the other side of the booth.
<
br />   “I’m Devlin Haskell. Get you another while I’m up?” I asked.

  “Leinne’s,” he said.

  I returned with two mugs, slid into the booth across from him.

  “Wayne, I appreciate you taking the time to see me. Like I said, we’re just trying to get some background information on Nikki Mathias.”

  “You’re not gonna arrest me or anything?” he only half joked. His voice just a little shaky, I could tell he was worried.

  “No, I can assure you I will not arrest you. Look, neither one of us needs that headache. I’m really am just trying to get some background information is all. Anything you could tell us would help.” I didn’t see any point in telling him I wasn’t a cop. He’d made that assumption on his own, and I figured it could only help once I put him at ease.

  We chatted for a few sips about the weather, the Twins, vacation. Wayne wasn’t too eager to give up a lot of information but I had the feeling he was resigned to a certain fate and was answering me truthfully, hoping this could just all stay nice and private in the back booth at the Depot bar.

  “So Nikki Mathias, how long have you known her?”

  “Maybe a year and a half. I haven’t seen her in probably three or four months. I really don’t actually know her that well, except on a, sort of business level.”

  “See her often?”

  “I suppose a few times.”

  I gave him a look and was about to ask him to define “a few.”

  “Okay, about every three or four weeks,” he quickly added in response to my look.

  “This isn’t going to get out, is it? Should I have a lawyer present?” he asked, looking more than a little worried.

  “No, you don’t need a lawyer, Wayne, honest. You’re not under investigation here, nor will you be. I’m not going to pass your name on to anyone else investigating this.” I didn’t add because there is no one else. I don’t think any of what I said offered much in the way of relief. I noticed beads of perspiration dotting his pink forehead.