Broken Ice--A Novel

by Matt Goldman

  “No. It’s all right. That’s over. We can communicate now.”

  “Are you sure? You seemed pretty adamant about it last year.”

  “I was. But that’s passed.”

  Micaela smiled something sweet and nodded. “All right. Have a safe trip.” She pushed open the heavy service door and walked out.

  25

  I called Mel and told her where I was headed and why and that I’d like to see her when I got back. An hour later, I embarked on a journey with two giants. With good weather and coordinated bathroom breaks, we’d make it to Winnipeg in plenty of time to chat with Guy Storstrand.

  Char road shotgun. Jameson sat with his back on the rear passenger-side door and his legs across the backseat. I’d complained a hundred times about my new Volvo being too big. Now it was barely big enough. We’d only driven fifteen minutes north when my dear friend, Woodbury PD detective Jamie Waller, phoned. I took the call on Bluetooth.

  I said, “Hey, stranger. Whatup?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Where is whom?”

  “Quit fucking around, Shapiro. Is it why you didn’t show yesterday?”

  “I didn’t show because you didn’t answer my texts at the Warroad game. Your nonresponse ended our agreement to cooperate. Read the fine print of our contract.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. Our agreement to cooperate has nothing to do with you giving an official statement about the double murder on Crestmoor Bay.”

  “I walked through the whole thing with you at the crime scene. Your insistence on me coming down to the station is harassment plain and simple.”

  I looked at Jameson in the review mirror. He nodded his approval.

  “Are you with him?”

  “It depends who him is?”

  There was a long pause. Char mouthed “Kozjek?”

  “You still there, Detective?”

  “If you’re with him, you’ll do time in Stillwater. I’ll make it my life’s mission.”

  “Still no idea what or who you’re talking about.”

  “I need you in the station right now.”

  “Sorry. Out of town.” Technically, that was true. We’d just crossed into Maple Grove, a suburb of box stores with big signs facing the freeway to prove it. “What’s this about?” Another long pause. “Don’t tell me you lost Kozjek.” No answer. “I saw you at the X Thursday night sitting next to Bad Haircut. Half of SPPD was there. You got to be kidding me, Detective. When Kozjek got ejected from the game, an army followed him into the tunnel. How the hell did you lose him?” Waller hung up.

  Char said, “Kozjek ran?”

  “Sounds like it. And lost two dozen police officers in the bowels of the Xcel Center.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “He played five seasons for the Wild. He knows the locker rooms and facilities down there well enough.”

  We brought Jameson up to speed. He said, “Char, you should call that Warroad cop who’s got the hots for you. See what he’ll tell you. Bet he knows what’s going on.”

  Char dialed Officer Tony Stensrud as I explained to Jameson that no one says “got the hots” anymore. Stensrud took her call and confirmed that Coach Kozjek went AWOL after being ejected from the game. Stensrud wouldn’t say more.

  We made our first stop in Fargo at Doolittles Woodfire Grill, where we ordered lunch to go. Jameson redressed my shoulder in the men’s room while we waited for the food. We got back on Interstate 94 for a few minutes then kicked north on Highway 29, leaving the banks of the Red River then reuniting with it an hour later in Grand Forks. We stopped again in Pembina, ND, for a bathroom break in case we got hung up at the border. We didn’t. Ten minutes later, we entered Canada.

  Char and Jameson tapped their sports world connections, and we learned the Montreal Canadiens stay at The Fairmont. We arrived just after 4:00 and sent Char to the front desk, where she informed the clerk she had an urgent message for Guy Storstrand from Linnea Engstrom.

  While the clerk called up to Guy’s room, Jameson and I sat in comfy lobby chairs like a couple of husbands waiting for our wives to try on clothes. Those men, God bless them, have lost the game of life. Where do the losers in the game of life go? The comfy chairs outside women’s dressing rooms.

  Char took a seat in the lounge. A few minutes later, Guy Storstrand joined her. She stood and shook his hand, then the two sat. Jameson and I walked over and joined them.

  I said, “Hi, Guy. Glad you could join us.”

  “Hey, what is this?” said Guy Storstrand. The hockey player in him stood. He had a sandy blond mop that fell to his shoulders and Sir Walter Raleigh facial hair. If he weren’t a broad-shouldered six-foot-three hockey player you might mistake him for an overgrown minstrel or tights-wearing juggler. He had soft Norwegian periwinkle eyes. They looked feminine contrasted with all that muscle and bone.

  “My name is Nils Shapiro. I’m a private investigator.” His expression changed to a curious what the hell? “Roger and Anne Engstrom hired me to find Linnea. I’m sure you’ve heard she disappeared in St. Paul Tuesday night.”

  Guy Storstrand hesitated then cough, cough, cough followed by an exaggerated blink of the eyes then cough, cough, cough. The sufferer of Tourette’s looked at Jameson and said, “Who is this, your bodyguard?”

  “No. My nurse.”

  “Nurse practitioner,” said Jameson. He extended his hand to Guy, who took it. “Jameson White. Played fifteen years for the Montreal Alouettes. Next time I’m back I’ll take you for a corned beef at Schwartz’s.”

  Jameson laughed his big laugh. Guy smiled and sat back down.

  I said, “I’m concerned about Linnea’s safety and hope you have some information on where Linnea might be.”

  Cough, cough, cough. Blink. “What makes you concerned for her safety?”

  “Well, for one, she’s missing. And her father was murdered Thursday.”

  “What?” Cough, cough, cough. Blink. “What are you talking about?”

  Char and I explained what happened at Crestmoor Bay. Guy’s coughs and blinks fired more frequently. I said, “I think Roger was into something he shouldn’t have been. I’m worried Linnea got herself mixed up in it.”

  Guy placed a hand on his stubbly cheek and said, “Mixed up in what way?”

  “She took a hundred thousand dollars in cash from Roger. I don’t know if he brought the money down to St. Paul or if he picked it up in the Cities to bring back north. My guess is the night Linnea disappeared, she hid out at Winnie Hass’s house in Woodbury. Next morning, she heard her father come over and stashed the money in Winnie Haas’s laundry chute then ran.

  She planned to go back for it but couldn’t after the murders—the place was crawling with police. I’m concerned the money didn’t belong to Roger and whoever it does belong to thinks Linnea still has it. They want it back and could be looking for Linnea. I’d like to find her first.”

  “Jesus,” said Guy. Cough, cough, cough. Blink. Throat clear. Cough, cough, cough. Blink. “Do you really think she’s in danger?”

  “In a couple of ways.” Guy shut his eyes and shook his head. “Did you see her in St. Paul when you were in town to play the Wild?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she tell you she was going to run away?” He nodded. “Do you know where she went?”

  Throat clear. “I don’t know if I should talk to you anymore without a lawyer.”

  “I’m not a cop, Guy. I don’t care if you helped a friend. I’m just trying to find her.”

  He looked at Jameson in his matching sweats and the supermodel-like Char Northagen and knew we couldn’t be cops. “Okay. I saw Linnea in St. Paul. She told me her friend Miguel was in Canada. He needed some outdoor stuff. She gave me a list and four thousand dollars in cash.”

  “Do you know why Miguel wanted the outdoor equipment?”

  “No, but he was here in Winnipeg yesterday. By himself. I had the day off, so we met at Tim Hortons then went shopping.” Cough, cough,
cough. Blink.

  Char said, “What did you buy?”

  “Winter outdoor stuff. Clothing and camping equipment and food. Dropped thirty-five hundred Canadian at Wholesale Sports. I gave Miguel the change, and he took the pack all loaded up.”

  Jameson said, “Did Linnea say what Miguel wanted all that stuff for?”

  Cough, cough, cough. Blink. Throat clear. Throat clear. “No.”

  Char said, “Got any guesses?”

  “Yeah.” Throat clear. “Miguel will try to sneak across the border into the States. Linnea will meet him when he does. You really think someone else is after her?” Blink.

  I said, “Someone’s missing a hundred grand or the goods or services it was supposed to pay for.”

  Guy wrinkled his forehead and scratched his Shakespearian goatee. Cough, cough, cough. “Hey, I should go. I have to get to the arena.”

  “One last question,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m having a hard time getting a sense of Linnea. Sometimes she seems like a heroine who rescues people and animals, and sometimes she seems like a selfish, entitled shit.”

  Guy smiled. “Yep. That’s Linnea.”

  26

  Outside Winnipeg we caught Highway 12 South and continued into Steinbach, where Jameson cleaned and changed my shoulder in the Volvo while parked outside the A&W. Then we jogged southeast toward the border, bouncing along the two-lane highway of cracked asphalt. Windbreaks of tall pines protected the barns and farmhouses studding the flat, dormant land. The low gray cloud ceiling seemed just out of reach. The Volvo’s dash read thirty-eight degrees. We smelled soft earth and cattle through the car’s open vents.

  I asked Jameson and Char if they’d rather catch a flight back to the Twin Cities, but neither did. Keeping me healthy was Jameson’s job, he said. And Char was in no rush to get home. She’d been suspended with pay. She could not get paid anywhere. Besides, she said, she might be of help with Officer Stensrud.

  Jameson said, “You sure you still want to find this girl? She’s the reason you got shot with an arrow. Her dad’s dead. He’s not going to pay you. Her mom probably won’t either. And the food on this trip has been less than spectacular. And it sure as hell ain’t going to get any better in Warroad.”

  I answered with a smile as we crossed the border where Canada’s Highway 12 turns into Minnesota State Highway 313. Northern Minnesota looked no different from southern Canada. Five miles later we passed a small airport and the Warroad Estates Golf Course. A mile after that, Highway 313 T’d into Highway 11. The intersection had it all: the Marvin Windows Visitor Center, Lake Country Chevrolet, and Dairy Queen. Welcome to Warroad. Population: Not a Whole Fucking Lot.

  Char had turned off her phone in Canada. No sense paying roaming charges when you’re about to be off the payroll. She turned it back on. It dinged and donged with emails, texts, and voice mails.

  She said, “Just got a report on Winnie Haas. No evidence of sexual activity. And she tested positive for W-18.”

  I said, “What the hell is W-18?”

  “Some bad shit,” said Jameson. “Synthetic opioid. Originally out of Canada. Hundred times more powerful than fentanyl. And fentanyl’s a hundred times more powerful than morphine.”

  “It’s tough to detect in toxicology tests,” said Char, “but you asked me to look for oxy, so we looked for all opioids.”

  I said, “Where would a suburbanite get her hands on W-18?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just starting to blow up.”

  “God damn pain pills,” said Jameson. “Getting people addicted. Messing ’em up bad.”

  Char looked at her phone and said, “This is weird. Winnie snorted the W-18. But they found no excipient.”

  “What the hell is excipient?”

  “It’s the inactive ingredients in pills. The stuff that binds them together and gives the pill enough bulk.”

  “Shit,” said Jameson. “She got it pure. It’s a miracle she didn’t OD.”

  I said, “That explains why Winnie had a pill bottle full of oxycodone. No need for that if she had W-18.”

  We turned left, passed a Super 8 motel, and pulled into The Patch Motel and the attached Izzy’s Lounge & Grill. The single-story structure sat on a hunk of asphalt behind an expansive brown lawn. Even this far north, the only remaining snow existed in dirty, plow-made piles in parking lots.

  Inside Izzy’s we sat in vinyl upholstered swivel chairs surrounding a square, fake wood grain Formica table. Izzy’s was half full, the mood subdued because of Warroad’s recent loss or just because that’s the way it is in Izzy’s. Three men leaned on pool cues near a pool table as a fourth bent over the felt, surveying his shot. A fire danced in a gas fireplace and strips of blond wood ran on the ceiling.

  The place was a shrine to Warroad’s champions on ice. Both for hockey and fishing. Large photographs commemorated championship teams and trophy fish next to framed jerseys and mounted pike. Models of float planes hung from monofilament. Two Christian Brothers hockey sticks were mounted in an X paying homage to Warroad’s once thriving hockey stick factory. The bar featured tap handles of beer you could buy anywhere: Coors, Bud Light, Sam Adams, along with Minnesota brews Surly and Bent Paddle.

  No one took our order, so I walked up to the bar and ordered three bottles of Moosehead. The fortysomething woman bartender, a home-dyed blonde with green eye shadow and a pleasant face, hobbled to the glass-doored fridge and retrieved the bottles. She opened them and asked if I was in town for Marvin.

  “No, just visiting. A lot of people come up for Marvin?”

  “Every day,” she said. “Mostly contractors and design-and-build folks come up to see what’s new and place custom orders. All sorts from all over.”

  “Never a dull moment around here, then.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She did not smile.

  “Sorry about the loss to Wayzata.”

  “Thanks. It hurts, that’s for sure. But you count your blessings and move on.”

  I returned to the table with the Mooseheads. We had to leave the lounge to order food from a concession stand–like window in another part of the building. I don’t know why. They brought the food to us fifteen minutes later.

  After we ate, I left my tall companions, walked through the lobby, and approached The Patch Motel’s front desk. A heavy-set woman in her sixties stood behind the desk watching TV on her laptop. She had a jet-black perm, ten-year-old eyeglasses, and plenty of vacancies.

  I said, “Three rooms, please,” and gave her my credit card.

  She said, “Are you with Marvin?”

  “No, but I must look like a contractor. You’re the second person to ask me tonight.”

  “Oh, you don’t look like anything in particular. It’s just there’s almost no other reason to visit Warroad. Unless you’re a fisherman or hockey scout, but it’s the wrong time of year to be one of them. I asked because Marvin visitors get a discount. You should have said you were with Marvin.”

  “What about NorthTech visitors?”

  Her smile disappeared. “You visiting NorthTech?”

  “Nope. Just driving through on my way back to Minneapolis. Read about NorthTech in a trade magazine. For some reason it stuck in my head they’re in Warroad.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “They’re not doing well?”

  She peered over the top of her glasses and said, “You hear about that murder down in the Twin Towns?”

  “No. I haven’t been paying much attention to the news lately.”

  “Two people got killed with arrows.”

  “What?” I said, forcing an incredulous expression onto my face.

  “Yep. One of ’em was Roger Engstrom, the man who founded NorthTech.” She gave me the details of the murder, most of which were wrong. My favorite was both bodies were found naked. She then went on about NorthTech being a fishy company with rumors of money troubles and no clear successor to Roger.

  “A
ny other places you’d recommend in town for a guy to grab a beer later?”

  “Well, don’t tell anyone I mentioned it, but my favorite is Craig’s Bar and Grill. That’s a real fun place. It’s Saturday night. They’ll have live music going ’til 2:00.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  “Oh, and if you have any single dollar bills, bring ’em along. People like to stick ’em on the ceiling.”

  27

  A little after 8:00 P.M. we dumped our luggage in our rooms, Jameson changed my bandage, then I left my tall traveling companions to entertain themselves and headed to Craig’s Bar & Grill. I parked on Lake Street and walked toward an old brick building. I could hear the Warroad River, full of snowmelt, flow behind me. The building lay under so many coats of paint it looked rubberized. The current color appeared gray in the streetlight. The front consisted of a steel door between a pair of square windows that reminded me of Anne Engstrom’s eyeglasses. The building looked old and weathered. The windows looked new. Nice to live in a company town where the company makes windows. Neon beer signs filled the right window. A neon CRAIG’S BAR & GRILL lit up the left.

  I couldn’t hear the band until I stood a foot from the building. Marvin makes a good window. I opened and entered a bar like a million other bars in small, midwestern towns. Year-round Christmas lights and neon signs, trophy deer, pheasant, ducks, and fish on the walls. Photographs from all over the world featuring regulars wearing their Craig’s Bar & Grill T-shirt or windbreaker. I breathed in eighty years of spilled beer and sloe gin fizzes. All the bleach in the world couldn’t make it go away nor would you want it to.

  Craig’s Bar & Grill was comfortable but not all that friendly. In a town of two thousand people, you felt the eyes not recognize you. Not that they had anything against anyone. I was just a stranger who’d walked into a place they frequented so often it felt like their living room. The heavy drinkers sat at the bar with their drinks and coins they’d stacked into dollar-worth columns. You didn’t run a tab at a place like Craig’s. You paid as you went, and the more you went the drunker you got, so better have those coins precounted to make paying easy.