He smiled mightily, selling me like he did the rest of the crowd.
“Oh, does she play tennis?”
“Tennis?” Cook started to laugh. He patted my shoulder. “Tennis?” he said. “Yeah, you should see her serve.”
We were pals now, talking dirty in the locker room.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Jamie Bruder,” I told him.
“Unbelievable, isn’t it? Such a lovely woman. Terribly tragic.”
“Good for business, though.”
“Sad, but true. I thought I would take some of my profits and start up a memorial in her name, something like that. Such a lovely woman.”
“You were there the evening she was killed.” I made it sound like an accusation.
The smile froze on his face and he brushed a hand through his hair. It was hard hair, not a strand moved out of place. “No.”
“No?”
“I was invited for drinks, but I stayed for only a few minutes.”
I stared at him without blinking, waiting for him to blink, which he did several times before looking away altogether.
“You’re not with the police,” he reminded himself more than me.
“I’m doing a favor for the family.”
“Family?” The word seemed to frighten him more than my name did.
“Jamie’s family,” I clarified. “Were you thinking I meant the Family Boyz?”
Cook lost his smile completely. He began flexing the fingers of his hands without purpose. “Family Boyz? What are you talking about?”
I was on to something and kept pressing. “I’m talking about conspiracy, murder, drugs, guns …” On the word “guns” Cook’s eyelids began to flicker.
“I have nothing to do with any of that,” he insisted.
“Aren’t you and Bruder and the Boyz all members of the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club—same as Katherine Katzmark?”
“Katherine,” he whispered, like it was the first time he had heard the name. Cook moved quickly away from me. I thought he was going to make a break for it, but he stopped at the door and spun to face me.
“I’m very upset about Katherine and Jamie.” My take was that he was telling the truth. “But I can’t help you. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Of course, you did. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cook.” I extended my empty hand. He shook it vigorously like he was relieved about something.
Quickly, I slapped my left hand over the back of his right, making sure my thumb was over his wrist and my fingers underneath. I stepped in with my left foot and brought his hand up in a counterclockwise motion over his head. I pivoted my body in a complete circle, locking his shoulder. I let go with my left hand, clutched his elbow at the point and pulled up hard, arching his back. And that, boys and girls, is how you execute a shoulder-lock come-along.
“Stop it, that hurts,” Cook bellowed.
“No doubt about it,” I said, giving the hold a little extra pressure. I walked him face first into the wall. I bounced him a few more times before releasing him and pushing him away. I pointed an accusing finger at him.
“You and the Family Boyz killed Jamie and tried to kill me,” I hissed through my teeth. “I’m going to get you for it.”
Cook shouldn’t have even known who I was, yet he was afraid of me. I had decided to use that, accuse him, muss him up some, then sit back and watch what he did. If he was completely honest and totally innocent, he’d scream bloody murder, maybe even call the cops. If he wasn’t, his outrage would be overshadowed by fear—a fear he might want to share with whoever else was involved. When he did, I would be there.
Napoleon Cook rubbed his wrist vigorously. “You’re making a big mistake,” he told me as I went through the door.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
I left the parking lot but didn’t go far, idling on Penn Avenue where I could get a clear view of the front door to the community center with my binoculars. Cook didn’t come out right away and I speculated that he was making a phone call. Despite the cool air, the sun beat hard through my windows and I began to feel sweat on my back.
At about six-thirty-five, Napoleon Cook left the building and walked to his own car, a black Porsche. The vanity license plate read IMCUKN. It took me a while to figure it out. I’m Cookin’? He paid an extra hundred bucks for that? Still, I admired the vehicle. I followed it onto I-494, staying eight lengths back and to his right as we went east toward St. Paul at ten miles above the speed limit. We followed I-494 until it became West 7th Street, continued east to Lexington, went north, turned east on Summit, then north again on Dale Street, stopping for a light at Selby Avenue, not far from a restaurant where August Wilson wrote some of his plays and a bar where Scott and Zelda used to party. We hung a right. Too many turns, I told myself. Cook should have made me long ago, but apparently he wasn’t paying attention.
Cook drove Selby until he reached the parking lot adjacent to Rickie’s, a jazz club that was developing a nice reputation for displaying gifted performers on their way up—Diana Krall had played there early in her career, but I had missed it. Minneapolis may have had the best rock, but by far St. Paul had the best jazz in the Twin Cities—Artists’ Quarter, Brilliant Corners, Blues Saloon, a new joint called Fhima’s. I had frequented them all, yet I had neglected Rickie’s because the name reminded me of Rick’s Café Americain in the movie Casablanca. I’m not a big fan of retro.
I gave Cook a two-minute head start and followed him inside. Rickie’s was lightly populated—I had caught the seam between the one-drink-before-I-go-home and the let’s-get-dressed-and-go-out-tonight crowds. When I didn’t see him downstairs, I went upstairs. A dozen steps past the door, a spiral staircase with red carpet and a shiny brass railing led to a comfortable second-floor dining and performance area. I peeked just above the landing. An elevated stage was set against the far wall, a baby grand and several microphone stands sitting unattended in the center. A couple dozen small, round tables were arranged immediately in front of the stage and a second ring of larger square tables covered with white linen and set for dinner were strategically placed beyond them. About a dozen booths and another bar lined the remaining three walls. Cook was leaning into a booth in the corner, bussing the cheek of a woman with raven hair. Even from a distance the woman looked expensive. I retreated downstairs.
To my delight, the decor was about as far away from Casablanca as it could get. In fact, the first floor of Rickie’s reminded me of a coffee house. A large number of comfortable sofas and stuffed chairs were mixed among the tables and booths. A small stage big enough for one or two performers was erected near a fireplace. There was even a large espresso machine behind the bar. The sound system played Hoagy Carmichael and Cole Porter. There wasn’t a TV in sight.
I made a quick pit stop at the men’s room—I didn’t know when I would have another opportunity. Afterward, I found a spot at the far end of the bar where I could watch the staircase and front door without seeming conspicuous. The bartender was busy serving a woman who ordered a champagne cocktail in a pleasant, somewhat aristocratic voice. The bartender refused to serve her. “Do you have an ID?”
“What?”
“An ID? A driver’s license?”
“Are you kidding?” asked the woman. “I’m over twenty-one.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. C’mon, let’s see it.”
The woman tried to act indignant but couldn’t quite pull it off. She unfolded her wallet and flashed her license at the bartender. He studied the photograph on the license, glanced at the woman, went back to the photograph and said, “Yeah, right. Tell your big sister I said, ‘Hi.’” He made the drink and served the woman. The woman left a bill on the bar and drifted to the table where her friends sat. “You’re not going to believe this,” she told them, a happy grin on her face. The bartender pocketed the bill and came over to me. I ordered a Grain Belt and club sandwich.
“Something else?”
“How much did the woman give you?”
“A ten.”
“How much was the drink?”
“Four-fifty.”
“Nice.”
The sandwich was served by a handsome woman with the most startling silver-blue eyes I had ever seen, made even more luminous by the short jet black hair that framed them. She reminded me of the actress Meg Foster. You know who I mean. She did The Scarlet Letter on PBS a while back as well as The Osterman Weekend and Leviathan, been on TV a hundred times.
Just in case Cook started to move, I told the server I wanted to pay my tab right away. She seemed to read my mind.
“Whatever you say, shamus.”
“Shamus?”
“Isn’t that what they call private eyes these days?”
I didn’t think they ever called detectives that except in the movies. “What makes you think I’m a detective?”
“I saw you come in, saw you follow a man upstairs, saw you watch him over the railing while trying not to be seen yourself, and now you’re sitting here, a little mouse in the corner, paying up front in case you need to make a quick getaway.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes, I am,” she told me, her silver eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Why not a cop?”
She pointed at the Grain Belt.
“Cops don’t drink on the job—well, most of them don’t.”
“Amazing,” I repeated.
“Besides, I figured someone like you would be along sooner or later.”
“Someone like me?”
“The woman that met the man you’re following? She’s married. Wears a ring the size of a grade AA jumbo egg. Yet she comes in once, twice, sometimes three times a week, sits alone in the same booth and waits for a man to meet her. Rarely the same man twice. None of them her husband.”
I didn’t ask her if she was sure. Why insult the woman? Instead, I asked, “What’s her name?”
“She doesn’t pay, the man always pays, so I’ve never seen her name on a check or credit card. But she reserves the table under the name Hester, just Hester, no last name. I figure it’s a private joke.”
“Why?”
“Hester Prynne.”
I shook my head.
“The adulteress in The Scarlet Letter.”
“Oh, okay, sure. Say, has anyone ever told you that you have eyes just like Meg Foster?”
“Who’s she?”
“A pretty good actress.”
The woman shook her head.
“Never mind.”
“So, are you working for the woman’s husband or what?”
“I’m following the man. I don’t know anything about the woman.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Following the man.”
“It’s a complicated story.”
She leaned an elbow on the bar. “That’s what bartenders are for, to listen to complicated stories.”
“Who are you?”
“I own the place.”
“You’re Rickie?”
“Nina. Nina Truhler.” She offered to shake hands, her grip was firm. “Rickie’s my daughter, also known as Erica.”
“McKenzie.” I didn’t tell her I wasn’t a private investigator. Why ruin the illusion?
“Pleasure.”
“Where’s the namesake?”
Nina looked at her watch and said, “Erica should just be getting home from dance class now. She’ll read my note telling her to eat a decent meal, ignore it, grab some Lucky Charms and eat them dry from the box like peanuts while she decides if she’ll go cruising with her friends tonight or simply curl up with a good book. I’d say it was fifty-fifty.”
“No gentlemen callers?”
“She’s fourteen. Boys bore her.”
“Boys bored me when I was fourteen, too.”
“Are you gay?”
“No,” I said way too loud. “I was just making a joke.”
“Oh, funny.” She rolled her eyes and moved down the bar.
I liked her. I liked everything about her. I liked the way her movements were smooth and effortless when she served her other customers—a dancer who knows all the steps. I liked her clear, unaffected voice and the way she spoke as if she was in the habit of speaking up for herself. I liked it that her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and generous mouth required little makeup. I liked her outfit—a brandy colored turtleneck sweater under a matching long-sleeve cardigan, the sleeves pushed up, and a pleated, charcoal gray skirt. I even liked it that she was ten pounds over what the New York fashion designers decreed was her ideal weight—a woman who cared about her appearance but who wasn’t going to starve herself over it.
“Okay, good, not gay,” she said when she returned. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
I was beginning to think Bobby was on to something. Maybe I was a catch.
“How about you?” I asked.
“Divorced.”
“Happily?”
Nina chuckled. “Very.”
“Rickie your only offspring?”
“Yes, thankfully.”
“Thankfully?”
“Believe me, Erica is enough to keep both hands full.”
“And all this,” I said, gesturing at the club.
“The business is starting to run itself, now. I could probably even sneak away on a Saturday night and not be missed.”
“Is that a proposition?”
Nina blushed, something rarely seen in a mature woman. I found it entrancing. She glanced away, looked back.
“Try me.”
I think maybe we should start seeing other people. It seemed to me I heard someone say that not too long ago.
“Ms. Truhler, I would be delighted if …”
“Call me Nina.”
“Nina, I would be … Damn!”
Napoleon Cook was coming down the staircase.
I pretended I was a photograph on the wall. Nina did an interesting thing. She positioned her body to conceal me from Cook as Cook swept the room with his eyes. How could I not like her?
When Cook reached the bottom step, he shot an impatient glance upward. Hester had halted halfway down the staircase and leaned against the shiny brass railing, posing like a model in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, looking just as alluring, just as inviting as any of the women you’ll find there. Cook watched her. I watched her. Nina watched her. The bartender watched her. So did everyone else. Now I know what is meant when they say, “A hush fell …”
Hester’s hair was long and black, blacker than Nina’s if that was possible. Her eyes were the color of flawless jade. She wore an oriental-style jacket, carefully fitted at the waist, with a floral tapestry on a hunter green background, a high mandarin collar, antique gold buttons, and slightly raised shoulder pads. Below the jacket was a very short, very tight black skirt—it could have been painted on—and black hose and heels. The ensemble didn’t look like something you ordered from Spiegel.
Hester glided—I’m not exaggerating—to the bottom of the staircase. Cook said something to her. She grinned at him. Cook moved to the door. I swear she winked at the room before following him out. I waited a few beats and followed, too. I covered half the distance before turning back. Impulsively, I told Nina, “I’ll call you when I can.”
“Please do.”
The way she said that made me blush.
Cook and Hester went to Cook’s Porsche. I headed for the Jeep Cherokee. Cook didn’t notice me two rows back. I guessed he had something else on his mind. He started the Porsche, went west out of the parking lot. I gave him a reasonable head start.
I began to think about the woman. I placed her in the midtwenties, five feet eight or nine inches tall, one hundred twenty pounds, with the kin
d of face and figure usually featured on the cover of women’s magazines found at supermarket checkout lines. The way she had moved—if Merci Cole could move like that she’d be rich.
The Porsche went north on Dale to I-94, followed the freeway west two miles, took the Snelling Avenue exit and headed north again. I followed, punching it through the yellow on University Avenue to keep up. We went north past Hamline University, past Midway Stadium where the St. Paul Saints play, past the state fairgrounds, to a low-slung motel with green neon flashing the name PARADISE between two pink flamingos. The Paradise was what they used to call a “motor lodge,” with a dozen or more rooms each facing an asphalt parking lot. A man in shirtsleeves was busy hosing down the driveway. He waved as the Porsche passed him and parked at the far side of the lot in front of the last room. I hid my face as I drove past, stopping down the street.
Cook left the car and walked toward the office—walked like he was trying hard not to run. Hester waited in the Porsche. Shirtsleeves decided he had given the asphalt enough water, shut off the hose, pulled it to the side and, wiping his hands on his trousers, followed Cook into the office. A few minutes later, Cook worked the lock of the room directly in front of the Porsche. Hester stayed in the car until the door was opened. The light did not go on until both were safely inside. It stayed on for only a few moments.
I glanced at my watch. Seven-thirty-three.
I flipped a U and parked the SUV in the street next to the motel parking lot. I turned on the radio and worked the tuner until I found WCCO-AM, joining the game in progress. The Rangers were shredding the Minnesota Twins’ pitching staff, knocking out a long reliever I hadn’t even heard of with three singles, a double, and back-to-back dingers justlikethat. The Twins were forced to bring in a third pitcher and it was only the bottom of the second. Damn. It looked like the eight-game winning streak was about to end. Still, the team had a sixteen-game lead over the Chicago White Sox in the American League Central and were cruising into the playoffs. It was just like the glory days of Puckett, Hrbek, Gagne, Gladden, Bush, Newman, and Larkin—the seven players who were on both the 1987 and ’91 World Series championship teams. I found myself humming the Twins’ fight song.
A Hard Ticket Home (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 13
