A Hard Ticket Home (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels)

by David Housewright

“Where did that come from?” The smile on her face told me she didn’t mind my declaration at all.

  “This has been one of the hardest days of my life. Yet seeing you tonight makes it all seem—easy.”

  “That might be the finest compliment anyone has ever given me. Must be the bourbon talking.”

  “It’s not, Nina. Truly it’s not. Believe me, please.”

  “I do, McKenzie. Thank you. It’s just that I’m thirty-seven years old now and when I hear a compliment I tend to look to see what’s beneath it.”

  “We’ll have to work on that,” I told her.

  “First we’ll have to work on your timing.” She moved to shield me from view. I peeked around her at the staircase. Now I knew what mallard blue looked like.

  Hester was wearing an ankle-length silk dress that clung to her devious curves like plastic wrap. It was the bluest blue I had ever seen and if the dress had a button, zipper, or snap, I couldn’t find it anywhere—and believe me, I looked hard. Nina gave me a “Hrumph” as I slid off my stool.

  “Strictly business,” I promised her.

  I feared that Hester might be more alert than Cook had been and search for a tail so I decided to make my move before she and her date made theirs. I brushed past them just outside the door. I gave Hester a hard look but she must have been used to stares from strange men and didn’t acknowledge it. Her date didn’t notice me, either. I went to the Cherokee, which I had parked in the stall directly behind her Audi—her license plate number was already in my notebook. I was on my way to the Paradise Motel before they unlocked the doors of Mr. Tweed’s Volvo.

  I parked in the Paradise Motel lot in front of Bungalow Seven and waited. I didn’t wait long. Less than five minutes after I arrived, the Volvo turned in and drove directly to the stall in front of number sixteen. Mr. Tweed walked across the lot to the office. I watched him as he went past. About thirty-five. Sandy-blond hair. Carried himself like he had done this sort of thing before. I waited until they were both inside the bungalow and then jotted down the Volvo’s license plate number. Twelve minutes later I was in the parking lot adjacent to Rickie’s.

  I thought about going in for another Booker’s but decided Nina would be too much of a distraction. Besides, I was afraid of bumping into young, beautiful, and smart as hell Jeannie. Nina had promised to call her. Instead I turned on my CD player and listened to some early Johnny Cash while I waited. I should have gone inside. It was almost ninety minutes before Hester and her date returned. Well, at least this one got his money’s worth.

  Mr. Tweed opened the passenger door for Hester, walked her to the Audi, borrowed her keys to unlock it, then held the door open as she slid inside. He leaned in and kissed her. She smiled at him. He closed the door, waved as he went back to his car. He started up, but didn’t leave the lot until Hester was under way. Chivalry lives, I told myself.

  They both drove west on Selby Avenue but at Dale Hester went north toward the freeway while Mr. Tweed turned south. I followed Hester. A few blocks later she caught I-94 and headed west toward Minneapolis. I replaced the Man in Black with the Brian Setzer Orchestra on the CD player and cranked the volume—a little traveling music.

  I stayed five car lengths behind her as she sped past the downtown exits, drove through the Lowry Hill Tunnel, crossed over to I-394, and left the city behind. We stayed on the freeway for over twenty miles, cruising through Golden Valley, St. Louis Park, Hopkins, and Minnetonka, passing such landmarks as Theodore Wirth Park, General Mills, Ridgedale Shopping Mall, and the Carlson Companies’ twin office towers, as well as a dozen strip malls featuring generic restaurants and shoe box theaters. The farther west we traveled, the more exclusive the neighborhoods became until we crossed over into Wayzata. Hester left the highway and led me through a maze of twisting streets with barely enough room for two cars to pass, streets with names that ended in Pointe, Wood, View, and Dale. I lost track of the names. It was all I could do to keep up with her. She drove like she had just stolen the car.

  We were circling Lake Minnetonka now. The lake is the semi-exclusive province of bankers, corporate raiders, department store owners, and professional athletes with guaranteed contracts. I say semi-exclusive because on any given day the public landings are choked with all manner of pleasure craft brought in by less than well-to-do boat owners who, for an afternoon at least, can get a taste of the good life, their Lund Americans bobbing in the wake of yachts and cigarettes. The swells who actually reside on the lake once demanded an ordinance that would limit access. They wanted to restrict the number of “nonresident” boats allowed, citing noise pollution among other things. The result was a flood of letters to newspapers and local politicians, protest marches, signs that read, “Lake Minnetonka—Please Wipe Your Feet,” and even more boats. Personally, I didn’t see the attraction. There’s no fish in the damn thing.

  Finally, we reached a stand of ten mailboxes at the mouth of a gravel road. Hester turned onto the road. A sign just inside warned, DEAD END.

  I took a chance and kept following. We passed nine driveways. A brick and metal arch spanned the entrance to the tenth. There was a name written in the metalwork across the top of the arch that I couldn’t read in the dark. Hester swung the Audi under it, setting off a succession of motion detectors as she went—spotlights flicked on one by one, following her all the way to a four-car garage about seventy-five yards from the gravel. I went straight, stopping my car at a black-and-white striped traffic barrier. Real inconspicuous. A concerned citizen probably had started dialing 911 before I turned the engine off. “Officer, there’s a strange vehicle on my private road and I’m sure it’s more than two years old.” I ran back up the road, gravel crunching under my Nikes. The moon was hidden behind a bank of slow-moving clouds but with all the lights, it could have been Yankee Stadium. I watched Hester move to the front door. More lights went on. She unlocked the door and went quickly inside, leaving the door open. It took a few seconds before she returned to close it. Must’ve punched a code into an alarm system, I reasoned. An inside light went on. And off. I waited a few moments and ran across the lawn toward the house. I gambled that anyone alerted by the lights would have stopped watching once they had identified Hester.

  Just as I reached the structure, still another indoor light flicked on. I moved toward it. The moth and the flame. The light shone through a kitchen window. I peeked above the sill. Large kitchen—white walls, counters, cabinets, appliances, and tile floor. Hester was standing at the center island, a brilliant blue flame surrounded by all that whiteness, her profile to me, removing silver earrings. Suddenly, a man appeared, darkness behind him—I have no idea where he came from. The man was dressed in pale green briefs and nothing more. He was tall and strong, muscles rippled as he moved. I ducked down. He didn’t see me, but then, he only had eyes for Hester.

  The man came up behind her. She didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t acknowledge his presence at all until he wrapped his powerful arms around her, cupping her breasts through the silk of her dress. Hester arched her back and he kissed her neck as he slowly worked the dress up and off her. Her lace brassiere was the color of her dress and barely contained her. Her matching panties had less material than my handkerchief. He popped her breasts out of the cups and caressed them with one hand. With the other he firmly stroked the front of her panties. She turned in his arms and kissed him hard, opening her mouth to him. He held her tight, but not so tight that she couldn’t wriggle free and kiss his neck, his chest, his stomach, his waist. She lowered herself to the floor and, kneeling before him, hooked her fingers over the elastic of his briefs while he played with her hair. I could hear their sharp, erratic breathing through the closed window as the briefs came down. Or maybe it was my own breathing.

  The yard lights behind me flicked off one by one. I couldn’t tell you how long they had been set for. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been three days. I had lost all track of time as I squatted at the windowsill. I felt considerably safer s
pying on Hester from the darkness, yet it also made me feel creepy. Time to leave, I decided. If I wanted to see more I could always surf the Internet. I turned my back to the window and dashed across the lawn, setting off the lights again as I made my way to the SUV. I doubted Hester and her friend noticed.

  13

  They buried Napoleon Cook in a hurry. Dead Friday night, in the ground Tuesday morning. Apparently, the Hennepin County ME didn’t see any reason to keep his remains, what was left of them after his twenty-seven-floor swan dive. I would have missed the funeral altogether if I hadn’t read the brief notice next to the story about Bruder’s murder—bless them, neither the Star-Tribune or Pioneer Press mentioned my name. I doubted the powers gave it to them. I wondered about that as I drove to the cemetery off Highway 36 in Minneapolis, across from the Francis A. Gross Golf Course.

  Cook’s funeral, like most funerals I’ve attended, was a quiet, tedious affair attended by people who would rather have been somewhere else. There was a large crowd in attendance—Cook had considerably more friends than I had supposed—yet no one seemed to be genuinely grief-stricken over his demise. For the most part, the mourners were impassive, merely going through the motions, fulfilling an obligation. That included the Roman Catholic priest who officiated. True, he spoke impressively about Cook’s generosity and his concern for others. Still, it was obvious he had never actually met the man and didn’t feel any regret about putting him into the ground. The only time his words actually seemed to touch the crowd was when he mentioned that although circumstances forbade Cook from attending, the annual Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club Ball would proceed as scheduled and we could all rest assured that he would be there in spirit.

  “It’s going to be one helluva party,” a mourner said to no one in particular.

  The priest stood behind Cook’s coffin, which was carefully set on a platform in front of the grave. Behind him stood four of Cook’s pallbearers, each of them dressed in identical black suits and wearing white gloves. They stood soldier-fashion shoulder to shoulder like backup singers waiting for their cue. The other pallbearers and the rest of the mourners had fanned out in a semicircle around the graveside. Alone at one end of the arch stood the woman who had given Cook his last glimpse of Paradise. Despite her sunglasses and large floppy hat there was no mistaking Hester. She looked like a fashion model pushing funeral attire.

  “Astonishing, isn’t she?” a voice said. The voice belonged to a woman, about five-foot-nothing with a small face, mostly eyes, and a pleasant mouth that smiled as if it had had a lot of practice. She had strawberry hair, a petite figure, short legs and, in keeping with the occasion, she wore black.

  “A true freak of nature,” she added.

  “Who?”

  “The woman you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes?”

  “She reminds me of someone I know.”

  “Your kid sister, no doubt,” she said and giggled. The nearest mourners looked at her with barely disguised contempt. Imagine, laughing at a funeral?

  “I’m Charlotte Belloti,” she announced.

  The name was familiar, yet I couldn’t place it. She extended a gloved hand. I took it. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

  “Don’t even think of calling me Charlie,” she said.

  “Never.”

  “The woman you’re staring at is Lila Casselman. She’s married. Not that she lets it interfere with her dating, if you’re interested. Rumor has it she was spending quality time with the dearly departed. Were you a friend of Napoleon’s?”

  “We were acquainted. You?”

  “Napoleon was primeval slime and I hope he rots in hell.” Strong words, yet delivered with a surprising lack of rancor.

  “I take it you were close.”

  “He was my husband’s friend. Personally, I don’t know what Geno saw in him. Napoleon was a rutting pig, one of those guys who never leaves the house without a condom in his wallet because he always feels lucky. He tried so hard to get me into bed you’d think he sold mattresses. He and Lila were made for each other.”

  “She doesn’t seem too distraught.”

  “Who knows? Behind those big sunglasses she might be crying real tears—not!”

  “Do you think her husband knows about her and Cook?”

  “Warren?” She gestured toward the quartet backing up the preacher. “That’s him, third from the left, with the rest of the Entrepreneurs. What’s left of them anyway. Can you believe it? They’re dropping like flies. Poor Jamie. And Katherine. And Napoleon. And yesterday it was David’s turn. It’s getting kinda scary.”

  While she spoke, I studied Warren Casselman. He was five-ten and looked like someone who played racquetball twice a month and figured that was enough. He had sandy hair cut short, thin features, and eyes of indeterminate color. While the rest of the mourners bowed their heads to receive the priest’s blessing, he kept his straight and level, staring at something over the priest’s shoulder.

  “Warren probably knows about Lila’s extracurriculars but pretends he doesn’t,” Charlotte continued. “If he ever admitted he knows, he’d have to do something about it, wouldn’t he? It’s not about love or honor or jealousy or even pride of possession. Somebody messes with your wife, you’re supposed to do something about it. It’s expected. Am I right?”

  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” I told her.

  “Precisely. So he pretends he doesn’t know so he doesn’t have to do anything. I guess I can understand. Him and Napoleon and the rest of the Entrepreneurs have been together since, God, since school. It’s tough to throw away that kind of friendship, even for your wife.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Charlotte smiled broadly. The smile turned into laughter and drew even more disapproving stares.

  “You’re cute,” she told me.

  “Why? Because I don’t wink at adultery?”

  “That, too. Who are you, anyway?”

  I hesitated, remembering the effect my name had on Cook.

  “I’m McKenzie.”

  “Are you one of the associate members of the club?”

  “No.”

  “Another plus,” Charlotte said, padding my account.

  “Tell me about the club.”

  “The Northern Lights Entrepreneurs? Nothing much to tell. I think there’s like three hundred associate members now. The founders, all eight of them, went to college together, became successful in their various pursuits at about the same time, and then decided they were important.”

  “But who are they?”

  Charlotte sighed like it was a topic she had grown tired of long ago. “Do you really want to know these people?”

  “I’d like to know about them. I might do some business with them.”

  “Besides my husband, there’s Warren, of course. You know Warren.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You never heard of Warren Casselman? To hear him talk about it, you’d think he’s the most famous attorney in Minnesota.”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, first of all, he’s the attorney for all of the Entrepreneurs, the founders I mean—handles their personal legal stuff. But his big claim to fame is that he keeps suing all those corporations. You must have read about it. What he does, he waits until there’s bad news in the press about a company—an announcement over a big loss in earnings, something that causes their stock prices to fall. Then he sues the company on behalf of the shareholders. He says where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. So he sues the company, saying the corporation’s executive officers made misleading statements or failed to disclose important information and thereby defrauded investors. He uses the lawsuit to gain access to the company’s documents and he searches through them until he finds something he can use in court. Geno says the first few times Warren filed a suit, the companies fought him and lost big. Now when Warren files, the companies usually settle out of court and when they do he gets a third off the top. We’re tal
king millions of dollars here. Personally, I think it’s a lot like extortion.”

  “An awful lot. How about the others?”

  “Standing to Warren’s right is Brian Mellgren.”

  If Casselman seemed soft, Mellgren looked as hard as fired brick. Lean features, his eyes squinting in the light even though the sun was behind him—he looked like a guy who hated baby ducks, slow dances, and first kisses. His suit jacket was too tight across his chest and I noticed the slight bulge under his left armpit. He was packing.

  “He owns all those home stores—you’ve heard of them,” Charlotte added. “Sells appliances and stuff. Refrigerators. Microwaves. All sorts of stuff. Sells it at a discount. Makes a ton.”

  Why would a man bring a concealed weapon to a funeral ? I asked myself. Because three of his friends have been murdered within a week. Oh, yeah. Then I remembered that I was armed, too, and pushed the question from my head.

  “Next to Brian is Collin Kamp,” Charlotte said. Like Casselman, Kamp was in shape once and could be again if he made the effort before too much more time had passed. “CK Computers.”

  “I heard of them.”

  “The stores are everywhere. Collin sells at a discount, too. They all sell at a discount. Even John Whelpley …”

  I eyed the fourth man. He wore a full beard flecked with gray. Compensating for the lack of hair on his head, I reasoned.

  “He sells top-of-the-line fashions from Europe at real low prices. Some of it is awfully chic, too. I often wonder how he does it. Then there was poor Katherine Katzmark. She sold discount kitchenware. And David Bruder sold used cars.”

  “What about your husband?” I asked.

  “Geno? Geno owns an export packaging company,” she answered proudly. “He’ll pack anything for shipment anywhere in the world and back again—pack it to withstand all conditions, from Minnesota winters to Saudi summers, the vibration of airplanes, the rolling of ships, that sort of thing. It was his company that brought the window-washing equipment over from Germany that they put on top of the IDS Tower. You should have seen it, with the helicopters and everything. It was on the news.”