“No trouble at all,” he replied.
Lila didn’t say anything and probably wouldn’t until the blood returned from her feet.
Devanter was nowhere to be seen as I cautiously made my way to the Jeep Cherokee, but I could hear the lawn tractor. It sounded a long way off, behind the house. I turned the SUV around and headed down the drive, under the arches, onto the private lane and drove to where it intersected the main road. I found an unobtrusive spot in the shadow of a large oak tree and parked.
Casselman had made a mistake. He should not have trusted his wife to provide an alibi—she had been with Bruder on Tuesday and Cook on Friday. Apparently, he didn’t know.
I switched on my radio, found jazz station KBEM, and waited. During the news break at the top of the hour I learned that one of the three people wounded during the attack on David Bruder had died earlier that morning at the Hennepin County Medical Center. I switched off the radio. That made eight dead since this all began. Good God in heaven.
I waited near the intersection for nearly two hours before Casselman sped past me driving the same Audi Lila had piloted the previous evening. He was alone. I was tempted to follow him as I had followed Napoleon Cook. Instead, I returned to Birchwood.
I parked close to the house and watched for Devanter. I didn’t see him and he didn’t answer when I rang the bell. Nor did Lila. I circled the house, discovering a twenty-five-foot-high wall of red, pink, and yellow roses climbing a trellis fixed to the south face. Beyond the house I found a carefully manicured lawn about the size of a football field that sloped leisurely to Lake Minnetonka. The lake was blue and quiet—boats in the distance gave it a picture postcard appeal. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Closer to the back of the house I found Lila standing next to a lounger by a swimming pool the size of a volleyball court. Why she needed a swimming pool when there was a perfectly good lake only a hundred paces away was beyond me.
She saw me approach but pretended not to, becoming the seductress I saw at Rickie’s, slowly discarding the oversize black shirt to reveal a white, scoop-neck tanksuit with shimmery gold straps lacing the back. A swimsuit not designed for water. She pivoted slowly, tugging at this and smoothing that, locking her fingers behind her neck and stretching, giving me a good look at her strong, sleek body, playing me like one of the strippers at Déjà Vu. She sat on the lounger and, with her back to me, slipped the straps of the swimsuit off her shoulders before lying back and stretching out. I stood watching her, not liking the way she made me feel.
“See anything you like?” she asked, her eyes closed.
“One or two things,” I admitted.
She moved her hands up her body, taking her time, guiding them to her breasts. She began gently massaging herself with fingertips and palms, her lips parting with a sigh.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you say so? Most men do.”
“I hate to follow the crowd.”
She smiled slightly, licking her thin lips with the tip of her tongue as she slid her hands off her breasts, across her flat stomach to her thighs. At the same time a German shepherd puppy trotted across the lawn. He sniffed at my leg, wagged his tail, then found a cool spot in the recliner’s shadow. The dog broke Lila’s spell. I stepped backward, took a deep breath, and asked, “Does this act work with everyone?”
“So far,” she said, smirking.
I shook my head, telling myself more than her, “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“I still want to know where your husband was Tuesday night, the night Jamie was killed.”
“He told you. He was with me.”
“You were with David Bruder.”
The smirk froze on her face.
“Bruder Tuesday. Napoleon Cook Friday. And Geno Belloti last night.”
The smirk thawed quickly into a soft smile, but her eyes remained hard and shiny. She reminded me of a cat, the kind you find behind the reinforced glass at the Como Zoo, a predator.
Lila swung her long legs off the lounge chair. “Napoleon was sure we were being followed. You?”
I nodded.
She reached down and very deliberately scratched the shepherd’s ears. “What I was doing at the Paradise Motel is my affair,” she said without irony.
“True. But where your husband was is mine.”
The shepherd’s wagging tail brushed her ankle. “Sic ’em,” she shouted suddenly, pointing at me. “Kill. Tear him up.”
I reached for my Beretta but didn’t pull it from the holster. No need. The dog jumped at Lila’s hand, wagged his tail furiously and let loose with a string of low, playful barks. Just a confused puppy.
Lila scratched his ears again. “Some watchdog. Well, I guess I’m going to have to talk to you after all.”
“Where was your husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t bother you, not knowing?”
“Should it?”
“Maybe he was with Jamie.”
Lila giggled. “You think Warren killed Jamie and Katherine?” She giggled harder.
“Just a thought.”
“Well, think again.”
“Was your husband having an affair with Jamie Bruder?”
“Sweet, adorable little Jamie? Sugar and spice, everything nice Jamie? Get serious.”
“Why not? You were sleeping with David Bruder.”
“I was sleeping with all of them. I even slept with Katherine.”
“Why?”
“To prove a point about all those wonderful, true-blue, one-for-all, all-for-one lifetime friends of the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club.”
“The point being?”
“They’re hypocrites and they can’t be trusted.”
“What about all the other men you’ve slept with?”
“Some people collect stamps.”
“You’re a wonderful human being, you know that?”
“Mr.—McKenzie, is it? I don’t think I care to answer any more of your questions.”
“Would it change your mind if I threatened to tell your husband about your activities with his friends?”
“He probably already knows. He’s not a fool.”
“What if I told him about you and Devanter?”
“I don’t think Devanter would like that. Would you, Devanter?”
I didn’t know he was behind me until he slammed his fist into my spine. He hit me harder than I had ever been hit before—the pain made me cry out. My entire body went numb and I folded like an accordion. Devanter lifted me by my shoulders and threw me in the general direction of Lake Minnetonka. I hit the ground with my face and upper chest. He picked me up and threw me again. This time I landed on my neck and shoulders. I tried to roll into some kind of fighting stance, but he caught me and tossed me around some more.
Lila sat on the lounge chair and watched, scratching the shepherd’s ears, the shepherd licking his paw.
Devanter must have been getting tired because he grabbed my shoulders and held me. “I told you, didn’t I?” He butted my head. Blood spilled over my face. He butted me again. He smiled. I could see my blood on his teeth. Suddenly, there was a heavy weight in my hand. We both looked down. It was my Beretta. Don’t ask me how I managed to wrest it from the holster, I couldn’t even feel the grip. I thrust the barrel into Devanter’s groin. He wasn’t impressed. Instead, he grinned. And those eyes. He didn’t give a damn. Maybe Lila did.
“Call him off!” I yelled.
“Devanter,” she said softly.
Devanter let go of my shoulders and stepped back. I crumpled to my knees, reaching out my left hand to keep from tumbling over. I managed to keep the gun pointed at him.
“Devanter,” Lila said again, and he turned and walked toward the house. She rose from the recliner and patted his head as he went past. Just a playful puppy.
Lila came to where I knelt on her lawn, standing
before me, the sun directly behind her. Backlit like that she seemed beatified, a halo of light around her head like you see in Renaissance paintings of the Virgin Mary. The sight hurt my eyes. I lowered my chin against my chest. Lila gently stroked my hair.
“You must leave, now,” she said.
I nodded and tried to wipe the blood from my eyes.
“Men,” she muttered and stepped away. The front of her white suit was stained with my blood. She walked back to her house, the shepherd trailing behind. I kept the Beretta trained on her until she was inside.
With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I pushed myself vertical and staggered to my vehicle. I set the Beretta on the passenger seat and slowly pulled the handkerchief from my hip pocket—everything I did was at quarter speed. I mopped the blood from my face and surveyed the damage in the mirror behind my sun visor. There was a four-inch slice along my hairline. I touched it. That was a mistake. The shooting pain made me both dizzy and nauseous.
I shouldn’t have tried to drive, but I had to get out of there. I turned the wrong way on the gravel and followed it to the black-and-white-striped traffic barrier. Dead end. I turned off the engine and fell out the door. I rolled a few yards, struggled to my feet and pushed myself over the barrier and through the trees to the lake shore. The shore was rocky—I tripped on it several times, tearing the knees out of my jeans. I pushed myself until I reached the water.
You must leave now, I heard a voice say from far away, and I started to weep again.
“Concussion,” I told myself. “Stay awake.”
I dropped to my knees and crawled into the lake. I splashed water onto my face. It was cold and I began to shiver. Finally, I lay on my back in the water and watched the sun behind the trees. I stopped weeping and started a long, rambling conversation with myself, discussing whether or not the Timberwolves had the depth to go the distance this season, if the Vikings had finally learned how to defend against the run, what it would take to bring peace to the Middle East, if I had a future with Nina Truhler. I talked to myself for a long time.
Eventually, the nausea and dizziness subsided—my mind cleared. I tried to stand. My knees creaked and my back demanded relief, which I attempted to provide with pressure from both hands. I walked only slightly upright to my SUV. The door was hanging open. It took what was left of my strength to climb in and pull the door shut. The bleeding had stopped long ago—I worried about stitches. Only instead of doing the smart thing and driving to a hospital, I went home. I would rather die in bed.
The light from the refrigerator stung my eyes. I had thought a glass of milk might help relieve the throbbing in my head and settle my queasy stomach. Yeah, right. It was so cold my brain froze—I damn near passed out on my tile floor. Eventually, I made my way upstairs, the house lights off, moving by touch and habit alone. I removed my jacket, shoes, and gun, but stripping off the rest of my wet clothes didn’t seem worth the effort.
Later that night I found myself wide awake, shuddering at the thunder and lightning and high wind that shook the trees outside the window. I was surprised but not fearful when a young woman with golden hair crept silently into my bedroom, her white gown shimmering with a light that seemed to come from within. She sat on the edge of my mattress and patted my hands that were holding the blankets tight to my throat. I couldn’t make out her face. She told me not to be afraid, that the storm wouldn’t harm me, that she wouldn’t allow it. She told me my trials would soon be over. She said she was proud of me. I asked her name. In reply she bent to kiss me. As our lips touched I awoke with a start to find that my room was empty and the night was still.
To this day, I don’t know if it was Jamie Bruder’s apparition that had appeared to me, or my mother’s.
14
The mid-morning sun was streaming through the bedroom windows as I stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting the damage inflicted by Devanter, furious that I had allowed him to toss me around like a lawn dart.
“It’s not the size of the dog in a fight that matters, it’s the size of the fight in the dog,” I said out loud, which was still another of the lessons my father had attempted to teach me. Standing there, examining the bruises that spotted my body like an ugly connect-the-dots puzzle, I decided Dad was full of it. I also vowed that no one would ever beat on me like that again.
Everything hurt—my spine, my hip, both shoulders, neck, my head especially. The cut under my hairline wasn’t nearly as bad as I had originally thought, only an inch long and not very deep. I doubted it would leave a scar. I also was surprised that no black-and-blue splotches marred my face. Since the other bruises would be easily concealed under clothes, I was starting to think that, all things considered, I looked pretty good. Until my eyes wandered to the other places on my body where errors in judgment had left their mark—a scar on my thigh, another at the point of my shoulder, the nickel-size spot above my right ear where hair will never grow again. Maybe Kirsten was right. Maybe I should try to get a job with the Minnesota Opera Company.
I spent a long time in the bathroom cleaning myself up. I tried not to think. Thinking gave me a headache. So did tossing corn to the ducks. The mere act of wheeling my recyclables to the curb caused my entire body to tremble with pain, my back especially. I went for a walk. I was afraid if I sat down I wouldn’t have the strength to get up again.
I strolled through St. Anthony Park like I didn’t have a care in the world, like people weren’t trying to kill me. I made my way east, past Murray Junior High School, to the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota and south to a small park filled with children and young mothers who eschewed the just-put-your-kids-in-daycare work ethic currently popular in the land. I watched the mothers watching their children and thought of Jamie. No, don’t do that, I admonished myself. Don’t think.
To divert my attention, I turned north, found a tennis court, and stopped to watch a pair of college kids. But that only made me feel old as well as out of shape. I meandered to the corner. As the traffic light switched to yellow, I heard the hard acceleration of a vehicle. I glanced up and saw a black van shooting through the intersection just as the yellow went red. It wasn’t even a Chevy, yet I was on the ground just the same, hiding my head behind the light pole.
“This is going to stop,” I vowed.
I hurried home and changed into my work clothes—Nikes, blue jeans, white shirt with button-down collar, sport coat, and Beretta. I popped a couple of aspirins and installed myself in the office. I spread my notes across my desk—the ones I had addressed to Bobby Dunston and the others in the event of my sudden departure from this earth—and studied them as I sipped my coffee. Who killed Jamie Carlson Bruder? And Katherine Katzmark? And Napoleon Cook? And David Bruder? Why were the Family Boyz trying to kill me? So many questions. So few answers.
I put some Rolling Stones on the CD player and decided they were too distracting, I couldn’t concentrate. I replaced them with Bill Evans, whose mellow piano more closely fit my mood. I fired up my PC and searched the file on my hard drive. Nothing. I studied my notes some more. I played with the facts I had gathered, rolled them into a ball, bounced them on the floor and off the walls before smoothing them out again. After a couple of hours I realized that I kept coming back to the same thing. My business card. The one I had given Jamie. The one the Minneapolis cops found on Cook. How did he get it? Did Jamie give it to him? Why would she do that? Maybe she didn’t. I had left the card on the patio table. Jamie said that her husband was bringing a business associate home for drinks—around the pool! Maybe Cook found it there. Maybe he palmed it. Palmed it because it proved that Jamie was talking to someone she shouldn’t be …
A knock at the door. I was careful when I answered it. A courier with a special delivery. The courier was legit. I hid the gun behind my back as I signed for the package, an outsize envelope. I opened the envelope and found a hand-addressed, gilt-edged invitation to the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club Ball. The names of the ei
ght founding members were listed on the inside in alphabetical order. And at last, I understood.
“McKenzie, a pleasure to hear from you,” Charlotte Belloti said when she answered the telephone.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, but that certainly can be arranged.” Her giggle had a sort of sad ring to it this time around, or maybe it was the way I heard it. I wondered for a moment if Charlotte knew that her husband was cheating on her.
“As it turns out, I’m going to the Entrepreneur’s Ball after all. I was wondering if I would see you there.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” she told me.
“How about your husband? Is he still in Russia?”
“As a matter of fact, I just spoke to him not ten minutes ago. He’s in Montreal with these ex-commie Russian capitalists—at least that’s what he calls them. He said he won’t be home until late, late, late tonight, sometime after the ball, anyway. So, you lucky dog, I’ll be all yours.”
“There’s a thought,” I said, and Charlotte giggled some more.
Thirty minutes later I found Merci Cole. She was dressed in the same white and black outfit, sitting on the same stool at the same bar and conversing with the same bartender as the evening I had first met her. Only the ice in her rum and Coke was different.
She swore between clenched teeth as I approached.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“David’s dead.” Her tone accused me.
“I know.”
“You bastard.”
“Cut it out.”
“He went to you for help.”
“How do you know?”
“Just keep away from me.”
“Stop it.”
“I said get away from me.”
“You heard the lady,” the bartender said.
“This is a private conversation, okay, pal?”
“Beat it, chump.”
A Hard Ticket Home (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 20
