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Chapter Eleven
When he arrived back at his truck, Gator stowed his skis in the back, got in, started it up, and cranked the heater all the way over. He blew on his chilled fingers, stroked the warmth on his right side, where the kitty nestled in his pocket. Lit a Camel.
While he waited for the heater to kick in, curious, he removed the folder from under his jacket. Flipped it open.
Hmmm…
Suddenly he didn’t need the heater to warm up.
Gator, who considered himself as an entrepreneur, had done time for transporting cocaine, which he saw as a purely economic gamble. A way to make a lot of money fast to finance his own shop. He’d accepted prison as a penalty for flawed planning. He’d never used coke or anything stronger than the occasional social beer. He believed that stuff about genetic predispositions; given his old man, he eventually gave up even the beer and drew the line at caffeine and nicotine. So he’d never really felt a drug rush.
Maybe this hot trickle fanning out inside his chest was how it feels coming on…
’Cause, no shit! The folder was full of old search warrants.
Fingers trembling, he squinted to make out a handwritten memo. Right there on the top, stapled to the front page. His lips moved, reading the personalized heading: “From the Desk of Dennis Lurrie, Chief of Narcotics Division, Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension …”
Then, oh boy…
To Special Fucking Agent Phillip Broker.
Thanks again for the inside work, Phil. I know you won’t get credit, but we couldn’t have pulled this off without you. It’s an argument against your critics, who think you’ve been out there too long in the cold.
Gator held his breath. This must be how it feels to be in a spotlight, onstage. He paused to stroke the kitten squirming in his pocket.
Lucky black kitty.
He started to read. The deepening cold was forgotten as he struggled through the clumsy cop legalese.
DISTRICT COURT
STATE OF MINNESOTA, COUNTY OF WASHINGTON
STATE OF MINNESOTA )
)SS.
COUNTY OF WASHINGTON )
APPLICATION FOR SEARCH WARRANT
AND SUPPORTING AFFIDAVIT
Sergeant Harry Cantrell, being first duly sworn upon oath, hereby makes application to this Court for a warrant to search the premises….
Boring, the way they write this stuff. God…
Since 1994, law enforcement officers, including BCA investigators, investigators of the Washington County Sheriff’s Office Narcotics Division and the East Metropolitan Area Narcotics Task Force have been involved in an investigation of alleged large-scale drug dealing by John Joseph Turrie, aka “Jojo,” and several other persons…
Holy shit!
JOHN JOSEPH TURRIE, AKA “JOJO!”
The type jumped off the page.
Quivering, his lips moved as he skipped back and forth, rereading the name, the date, the address. February 1995. Little over eight years ago.
Everybody in the joint knew about that bust in Bayport. The night Danny Turrie’s kid, Jojo, got shot to little pieces by the cops. Resisting arrest, they said. But, Danny T. Holy shit, man; his biker gang ran all the drugs in the joint. Had a regular empire on the streets…
He went back to the top of the document and read it again in the gloomy light. Speed-reading now. Racing over the printed pages…
…A single-family dwelling located at 18230 Fenwick Avenue, City of Bayport, Washington County…
Pages and pages that detailed buys, repeated mention of an undercover operator…all the meticulous constructed ratfuckery the narcs gloried in. Gator dropped the Camel butt that had burned down and scorched his fingers, lit another. Continued to wade through the tortured blocks of type until he came to the last paragraph:
WHEREFORE, Affiant requests a search warrant be issued commanding Sergeant Harry Cantrell and other officers, including an undercover BCA officer under his direction and control peace officers, of the State of Minnesota, to enter without announcement of authority and purpose between the hours of 7:00 A.M. and 8:00 P.M. to search the hereinbefore described premises motor vehicle person for the above described property and things and to seize said property and things and keep said property and things in custody until the same can be dealt with according to law.
Gator read the last entries on the page. This Cantrell guy’s signature sworn before a judge of the District Court on this 20th day of February, 1995.
Officers under his control and direction…including an undercover officer…
Looked at the memo on the front again.
Fingers shaking, he took out his cell phone. No service. Had to get closer to the town tower. He put the truck in gear and drove a few miles down the road until his phone display picked up extended area. Thumbed the number in St. Paul. Hit send. Watched the display connect…
Shit. Wait. Think.
There were rules. Getting ahead of himself, like the dummies in the joint. He ended the call, dropped the cell in his lap, and continued to the north end of town until he came to the Last Chance Amoco station and general store. He pulled up to a pump, started the gas, set the automatic feed clip, and walked to the phone booth at the edge of the parking apron.
Dropped in six quarters and punched in the St. Paul number.
Got the machine. Sheryl Mott’s voice, sounding very officious, like she was a high-powered executive secretary in some corporation instead of a waitress at Ciatti’s in St. Paul.
“I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message.”
He pictured Sheryl’s apartment off Grand Avenue in St. Paul. Like the cosmetics aisle at Target tipped over. He’d been unable to get it together in her space. Went in her bathroom one morning and couldn’t find the sink, it was so covered with cosmetics and shampoo bottles. But, on the other hand, when she road-tripped…
So, grinning, he left the message: “Hiya, Sheryl, this is Joe at Rapid Oil Change. You’re overdue on your three-thousand-mile service. Probably need your fluids checked, too.” Then he left a made-up number and ended the call. She’d like the humor. Wouldn’t like it if he came off all hyped up.
He went back to his truck, reseated the nozzle in the pump, and went in to pay. Remembering the kitty in his pocket, he grabbed a gallon of whole milk and a sack of Chef ’s Blend Cat food. After paying for the gas and items, he walked back out to his truck. A black Ford Ranger had pulled in behind him to gas up, and he nodded at Teedo Dove, the hulking Indian dude who stood watching the numbers tick off on the pump. Teedo gave him back one of those great stone-face barest of nods. Ugly fucker looked like one of those Easter Island statues. Worked for Harry Griffin, on his stone crew. Small world.
Then he climbed back in his truck. Heading back up 12 toward his farm, he imagined Sheryl swinging her butt between the tables, balancing a tray on her shoulder.
Man, he needed another set of eyes to look over his find, to vet it. And what Sheryl had going for her, among other things, was a steel-trap mind.
Oh, boy.
Cassie, you got no idea what you and Jimmy just stumbled your foolish asses into. Danny Turrie was one of the Great Monk Crooks, but he’d never get out of Stillwater because he killed two North Side Minneapolis dealers. His deepest desires were twofold: One, naturally, to get out of jail. And that would never happen. The other thing he craved, and would pay a lot for, was the name of the unknown snitch who set up his kid and got him killed.
Bouncing in his seat, reaching down frequently to caress the magic kitty, he drove back to the farm and parked next to the shop. First, he jogged to the house, went straight for the kitchen cupboard, got two bowls, and took them back to the office in the front of the shop. He placed the bowls on the floor, filled one with kitty chow, and poured some milk in the other. Then, carefully, he removed the skittish kitten from his jacket pocket, checked between its hind legs. She. He placed her next to the bowl.
“Go on, Magic, pig out.”
Had to calm down.
So he resorted to ritual. He poured the dregs from the Mister Coffee into a cup, selected a yellow number-two pencil off his desk blotter, and walked to the alcove off the office. It had originally been a bathroom. Gator had removed the door and put in a cot along the wall. Just the toilet and the cot.
His thinking place.
He sat on the floor next to the commode and snapped the pencil in half. Then, slowly, he peeled away the wood pulp with his thumbnail and eased out two lengths of graphite. Wrapped the ends in toilet paper.
He fingered a Camel from his chest pocket, then carefully inserted the pencil lead pieces into the wall outlet and crossed them. When they sparked and the paper ignited, he bent, placing the cigarette to the flame, puffing, until he had a light. Then he sat back and savored the cigarette. Smoke had never tasted so good. Or old reheated coffee. He could almost hear the night murmurs of the joint.
By the time he finished the cigarette, the kitty had edged out from under the desk and dipped her whiskers in the milk.
See. Like a sign.
Gator refilled the cat’s bowl, brought the milk carton back into the house, and put it in the refrigerator. Then he took a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and heated a fast Hungry Man dinner in the microwave. After he bolted the food, he paced.
Calm down, wait for Sheryl to call.
He glanced out the window, across the yard at the lights in his shop, the spotlight illuminating the tractor in the front. Lot of hard work went into putting that operation together—even if it was a front for something more ambitious.
You gotta keep your eye on the overall plan. Go off half cocked, and you’re just like those institutionalized fools on a revolving door. Wait for Sheryl to call. The way it worked, that meant another drive to the phone booth; this time the one in town, outside Perry’s grocery.
They communicated strictly by pay phones. She’d call at six. He had some time, so he made a cup of instant coffee and slit the cellophane on a fresh pack of Camels. When the coffee was ready, he sat down at the kitchen table and worked on a difficult corner of the puzzle.
He was good at waiting.
Three end-to-end Camels later, he pulled on his coat, went out, got back in his truck, and drove back toward town. At 5:55 P.M. he was standing in the booth at Perry’s IGA on Main Street. He always called her from the Amoco; she always called back at this phone at the grocery store.
The phone rang. Gator snatched it off the hook.
“You called,” Sheryl said.
“I got something big for you,” Gator said.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“No, I mean I found something big-time serious. It could affect everything. But I need help figuring it out.”
“So, tell me.”
“Uh-uh, too complicated. You gotta see it. Can you be here tonight?”
“Aw, bullshit,” Sheryl said.
Gator heard the stretch in her voice. Reluctant. After the strain they’d been through two weeks ago. “C’mon, Sherylll—”
“Okay, but tonight’s out. I was at work all day. I’ll leave in the morning.” She sounded final.
“See you then,” he said and hung up. Back in the truck, driving, thinking; there were words for this expansive feeling. Found money. Luck. Fucking destiny. Whatever.
Nothing to do now but wait for her.
So go home, kick back. Which is what he did. He debated whether to bring the cat into the house. Nah, let her get used to the shop. So he went into the house, tossed a bag of popcorn into the microwave, and set the timer. As the corn started to crack, he went into the living room, thumbed the TV remote, and slipped a Sopranos DVD into the machine. While the teaser to the show ran on the screen, he retrieved his popcorn, dumped it in a bowl, and opened a cold can of Mountain Dew. He came back into the room, sat down in the recliner. Put up his feet.
First, the edgy theme music. Tony lighting his big cigar, working down the toll road out of New York City, heading for Jersey. The second season, still had the World Trade Center towers in the New York skyline.
Pleased with himself, he addressed the image on the televison. “Thing is, Tony, you were born with a silver coke spoon in your mouth ’cause your dad was a made guy. Me, I’m a self-made man.”
Gator settled back and grinned.
It could work. If the right pieces fell in place. Yes it could. Special Agent Broker. Uh-huh. Man, I got a feeling you’re gonna make a big difference in my life.
When the phone rang, he dived for it, thinking it was Sheryl, breaking the rules, changing her mind, coming up tonight.
“Gator, it’s Cassie…”
Oh shit.
“You said you were going to bring me something.”
Chapter Twelve
Nina, holding it together, coached Kit through supper. When Broker came back into the house, she was ushering Kit from the kitchen, heading for the stairs, getting ready for bed. For once, Broker was almost thankful for clinical depression; Nina struggled with the most fundamental tasks, like sleep. Getting dressed. Exhausted, focused inward, she missed nuance, mood.
Once she would have spotted the change in the way he moved and nailed him the moment he came through the door. What’s up, Broker? You’re all jagged.
Kit’s fast eyes picked up on his edge but channeled it into an extension of her current personal drama. “Ditech?” she asked.
“I’m still looking, honey,” Broker said.
“We had a talk,” Nina said, her voice thready, as if unraveling with the effort. Then she signaled Kit with a raise of her eyebrows.
Kit balked, pursing her lips, then recited, “If Teddy Klumpe bothers me again, I should use my words and get help from a teacher. No hitting.”
“And?” Nina prompted.
“—and tomorrow after school I have to vacuum all the rugs in the house.”
“Good,” Broker said. “We’ll go over it again in the morning. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Kit huffed, folded her arms across her chest, and marched off toward the stairs. He turned to Nina, lowered his voice. “Maybe you should bunk with her tonight, until I find the kitty.”
“There’s wolves in the woods,” Kit called out. “They’ll eat her.”
“The wolves don’t come down this far,” Broker said, and immediately regretted it.
“That’s a lie, Dad; you showed me the tracks.”
“I’ll go out with a bowl of food and shake it. I’ll find her. And the elusive rabbit.”
“I heard that,” Kit sang out, a room away. “She ain’t an eloosof rabbit. She’s a toy. She’s not real, Dad.”
“Sorry,” Broker said. The kid had eyes like a hawk, ears like a bat. “Mom’s gonna sleep with you.”
Kit did not respond. Dejected, she trudged up the stairs. Nina shrugged, turned, and followed Kit.
First Broker scouted every room on the ground floor, looking for a sign that someone had been in the house. The new Dell computer was undisturbed on the small porch off the kitchen. Living room TV and DVD player still in place. Griffin’s old stereo system was still stacked on a wall shelf.
It was a revealing walk-through. He had not, until this crisis, really appreciated how stark their living space was. Three stacks of boxes lined a living room wall where they’d been placed in January, when they moved in. The living room was strewn with the weights Nina used to rehab her shoulder. Triage dictated Broker’s housekeeping efforts. Kit was not a TV kid, so, except for Nina’s weights, not much went on in the living room. Broker concentrated on the kitchen, the only room in the house that needed to function every day.
His personal pile of boxes filled a corner by the desk. Books mostly, mementos, a
few old piles of dusty paperwork stuffed among novels he hadn’t read in years. A yearbook from Grand Marais High, circa 1970, poked from the top box. Boxes that had followed him, from closet to closet, for decades. Except now they were in plain view.
He raised the desk blotter. Bill statements verifying the automatic withdrawals on the Hong Kong Visa. A few letters. Nothing seemed disturbed. Then he spotted the letter from John E. at Washington County, the note and remainder of a pay voucher. Shook his head. Once he’d never have kept anything around that hinted at his past in law enforcement. He reached out his left hand and raised the letter, let it drop, feeling the lingering ache as he extended his fingers. The ragged scar was still slick red where he’d taken a .38 slug through the fleshy pad of his left palm. Last July, disarming a crazy woman in Stillwater. On the Saint Vigilante Thing.
The day after he got shot, he’d followed Nina into the North Dakota Thing.
The North Dakota Thing had played out on a real bad day at the Prairie Island Nuclear Power Plant.
Now here they were in Glacier Falls, eight months later, still trying to fit the pieces back together.
Broker turned away from the gloom that linked these thoughts. Continued his inspection.
If someone had come to rob, they were out of luck. He kept very little cash on hand. Used plastic for their groceries and expenses. The question of rent hadn’t really come up with his friend Griffin. Griffin took care of the utilities. They’d settle up later.
Think. Sometimes Kit played with the kitten outside and put food in a bowl on the back porch. Maybe that’s how…
Immediately he walked through the kitchen and opened the patio door. And there, just outside the door, he saw the orange pellets of Kitty Chow sprinkled on the snow. Back inside, he stared at the phone on the kitchen wall, an old rotary Bakelite model that Kit regarded with awe. A cordless set was plugged into the wall on the counter near the stove.