by P. J. Tracy
Throw a Monkeewrench into the works—and see what people say.…
“A sizzling thriller … a killer read in every way … with its menacing suspense, snappy dialogue and techno edge.… Thriller fans will go ape.”
—People (Critic’s Choice)
“[A] standout … written with such skill and polish that you would think it could be Tracy’s tenth.… The Minneapolis setting of Monkeewrench and the expertly rendered search for a serial killer are reminiscent of the fine work of best-selling author John Sandford, whose fans definitely will want to pick this one up. Tracy represents a strong new voice in the thriller genre. Monkeewrench is clearly positioned atop the ranks of debuts so far this year.”
—USA Today
“[A] smart thriller.… Grace and her four geek partners in the software company they call Monkeewrench add real flavor to the proceedings with their colorful jargon and quirky personalities. These technonerds may be freaks—and one of them may even be a killer—but they have style.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Fast, fresh, funny, and outrageously suspenseful, Monkeewrench is the debut thriller of the year.”
—Harlan Coben
“Monkeewrench is funny and convincing. P. J. Tracy’s taut storytelling makes me jealous.”
—Robert B. Parker
“An exhilarating roller-coaster ride of a story, a novel that has both edge-of-the-seat suspense and a cast of fascinating, intriguing characters. When I realized that I was holding my breath as I turned the pages, I knew I had been hooked.… Monkeewrench made me an instant P. J. Tracy fan. Can’t wait for the next book!”
—Jayne Ann Krentz
“Not only original but genuinely funny. The characters are fresh, the plot is intricate, and the ending is absolute dynamite … a truly satisfying, terrific read.”
—Nevada Barr
“Even the most overly confident reader will be delightfully surprised at the ending. A.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A thriller to remember … an exciting first novel.”
—New York Daily News
“A fresh and exciting talent … [an] inventive, deftly written, and thoroughly satisfying thriller.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“A resounding, page-turning success. The writing is both assured and seamless.… Exceptional character development, dialogue and lots of local detail make Monkeewrench a winner.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A soundly plotted thriller that fires on all cylinders.… Tracy covers all the bases in this debut thriller: an accelerating, unpredictable plot that combines police procedural with technogeek-speak, an array of well-drawn characters, and, most important, witty repartee.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fast, fun … highly readable.… The writing is bright and fast.… The characters are well realized, and the many subplots swirling around the main plot are fun to follow.”
—Tallahassee Democrat
“In addition to the unusual premise, Tracy has peopled this mystery with likable, colorful characters.… Tricky plotting, unique suspects, and believable cops have been cleverly interwoven into a first-rate first novel.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Clever plot twists … [an] impressive first-time thriller.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Smart, stylish, suspenseful, surprisingly funny, and wholly satisfying. Inventive, too. Tracy … deftly juggles several plotlines and a large cast of well-differentiated characters.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Some great characters, clever dialogue, and suspense.”
—The Daily Oklahoman
“The two teams of detectives—one from the big city and one from the small town but both with their own quirks, love interests, and insights—provide the sparkle in this engaging debut thriller by a mother-daughter writing team who lace their suspense with humor à la Harlan Coben.”
—Booklist
“[An] entertaining nail-biter.… Late-night alert: Don’t settle down with this … at your bedside till you’ve cleared your schedule for the following morning.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A stylish debut thriller incorporating secrets old and new that keep the reader guessing into the last chapter.… This is a well-written novel with an imaginative premise, which uniquely combines the disparate elements of a technothriller with the conventions of a murder mystery.”
—The Boulder Daily Camera
“The best first novel I have ever read, an exciting thriller filled with misdirection and secret agendas … a suspense thriller that allows no time-outs.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An exceptional debut thriller. Each and every character is well crafted.… This book is not just for fans of the suspense genre but for everyone who enjoys a really good read. I predict that P. J. Tracy will soon be a household name and rightfully so.”
—Rendezvous
“A breakout first novel.”
—The Rake (Minneapolis)
Monkeewrench
P. J. TRACY
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. This is an authorized reprint of a hardcover edition published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons. For information address G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
First Signet Printing, April 2004
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Patricia Lambrecht and Traci Lambrecht, 2003
A Conversation with P. J. Tracy copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc, 2004
Excerpt from Live Bait copyright © Patricia Lambrecht and Traci Lambrecht, 2004
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-64300-6
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For Edie and Don Hepler
We remember
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Live Bait
Chapter 1
The brandy had been absolutely essential. It always was on Sunday nights, when Sister Ignatius took it upon herself to cook and serve Father Newberry a “proper meal.” In this part of Wisconsin, that usually translated to hamburger cooked in canned cream soup.
The shape varied with the good sister’s whims—sometimes meatballs, sometimes meat loaf, and on one memorable occasion, rolled tubes that looked disturbingly like a casserole of severed penises—but the basic ingredients and the resulting indigestion were always the same.
Father Newberry had learned long ago that antacids couldn’t touch it. Only the brandy helped, blessing him with a quick sleep where he passed the time in happy oblivion while his stomach fought the demons of Sister Ignatius’s kindness.
On this particular Sunday night the demons had been multiple. In some sort of aspiring gourmet fit the sister had baked meat loaf in God only knew how many different kinds of canned soups. When he’d asked her to name the ingredients of this daring culinary experiment, she’d tittered like a schoolgirl and locked her lips with an imaginary key.
“Ah, a secret recipe.” He had smiled at her rosy face, greatly fearing that clam chowder lurked somewhere in the ocean of oily liquid in which the meat loaf had drowned.
And so it was that the juice glass had been filled with brandy for an unprecedented second time, and Father Newberry had fallen fast asleep in the recliner facing the television. When he next opened his eyes, the screen was a snowfield of jittery flakes hissing static, and the clock face read five a.m.
When he went to turn off the lamp by the window, he saw the frosty car in the church lot and recognized it immediately. It was a Ford Falcon of indeterminate age, dying slowly of the cancerous rust that devoured old cars in a state that salted roads as liberally as they salted food.
In a moment of weakness, he wished he could just sneak off to his warm bed and pretend he’d never seen it. His only sin was in the wish, however, for he was already moving toward the door, tugging his cardigan close around his abused belly before stepping out into the dark chill of an October morning.
The church was old and almost Protestant in its plainness, for these rural Wisconsin Catholics eyed all things magnificent with deep suspicion. The Blessed Virgin wore the gleam of plastic and bore an unsaintly resemblance to the mannequin in the window of Frieda’s House of Fashion on Main Street, and the only stained glass window was oddly placed on the north side, where the sun could never set it afire with brilliant color that might offend.
A dour place in a dour parish in a dour state, thought Father Newberry, missing the California of his youth, nearly forty years gone now, speculating again that all bad priests were sent to Wisconsin.
John and Mary Kleinfeldt were kneeling in a middle pew, heads resting on folded hands, utterly still in a devotion the Father had always thought almost obsessive. It was not unusual for the aging couple to visit the church during off-hours—sometimes he thought they preferred solitude to the company of fellow parishioners they believed corrupt with sin. But to the best of his knowledge, they had never come so early.
It did not bode well for a rapid return to the cozy rectory, and Father Newberry was loath to ask what trouble had brought them here this time, since he already knew the answer.
He sighed and moved slowly down the aisle, reluctantly propelled by a sense of duty and a good heart. “Good morning, John. Good morning, Mary,” he would say. “What troubles you today?” And then they would tell him they had discovered yet another homosexual in his congregation—a man whose lashes were too long or a woman whose voice was too deep, for this was proof enough for them.
It wasn’t simply homophobia; it was a zealous crusade against what they called the “abhorrent, unnatural offense to God’s eye,” and listening to their self-righteous accusations always left him feeling sad and somehow soiled.
Please let it be something else this time, Lord, he prayed as he drew near the middle pew. I have, after all, already endured the penance of good Sister Ignatius’s meat loaf.
And indeed it was something else. What was troubling John and Mary Kleinfeldt this morning was not the suspected presence of homosexuals in the parish, but the indisputable presence of small, tidy bullet holes in the backs of their skulls.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t the first homicide in Kingsford County since Sheriff Michael Halloran had pinned on his star five years ago. Scatter a few thousand people over the northern Wisconsin countryside, arm a good half of them with hunting rifles and skinning knives, throw a hundred bars into the mix, and eventually some of them are going to end up killing each other. That’s just the way it was.
It didn’t happen very often, and for the most part they were the kind of killings people up here could get their heads around: bar fights, domestics, and the occasional suspicious hunting accident, like when Harry Patrowski said he shot his mother through the kitchen window because he thought she was a deer.
But an old couple gunned down in a church? Now that was something else, something senseless and evil that wasn’t supposed to happen in a little town where kids played outside after dark, nobody locked their doors, and corn wagons still lumbered down Main Street on their way to the feed mill. Hell, half the people in the county thought smoking a joint meant lighting your elbow on fire, and you still had to drive ninety miles south and east to Green Bay just to see an “R” movie.
This murder was going to change everything.
Four of the five squad cars on third watch were already in St. Luke’s parking lot by the time Halloran arrived at six a.m.
Great, he thought. I’ve got one car left on the road patrolling over eight hundred square miles of county. He saw Doc Hanson’s ugly blue station wagon sandwiched between two of the squads, and off in a corner, an ancient Ford Falcon in an ominous rectangle of yellow crime-scene tape.
Deputy Bonar Carlson walked out of the church and waited on the top step, tugging at a belt that had no hope of ever again making it up to his belly button.
“Bonar, that holster hangs much lower you’re going to have to kneel if you ever need to get at your weapon.”
“And I’d still beat you at the draw.” Bonar grinned. It was true. “Man
, you’re ugly this early. Good thing you don’t work the third. You’d scare the other boys.”
“Just tell me you’ve solved this already so I can go back home to bed.”
“Way I figure, Father Newberry did it. Forty years of listening to confessions and sniffing incense and then one day, poor bastard just snaps and shoots two of his parishioners in the back of the head.”
“I’m going to tell him you said that.”
Bonar stuffed his fat hands into his jacket pockets and snorted a frosty exhale, serious now. “He didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything. Fell asleep in front of the TV after dinner, didn’t even know the Kleinfeldts were here until he looked out the window at five a.m. and saw their car. Went over to see if he could help, found the bodies, dialed 911, end of story.”
“Neighbors?”
“We’re working on it.”
“So what’s your take on it?”
It wasn’t an idle question. Bonar might look and talk and act like another good old Wisconsin boy, but there were some scary processing chips in that head of his. He could take one look at a crime scene and tell you things the state forensics boys would never find with all their fancy equipment.
He and Bonar had both done a yearlong stint in Milwaukee right out of the academy before hustling back home and jumping into county uniforms. They’d seen a lot in that city they were still trying to forget, but they’d learned a lot, too.
Bonar sucked at the inside of his cheek for a minute, thick eyebrows working like a pair of caterpillars. “Actually, it looks like a hit, which makes about as much sense as the padre doing it. I don’t know. My gut tells me psycho, but it seems too clean for that.” He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.
A lifetime of conditioning made Halloran’s hand twitch as he passed the font of holy water, but it was only a twitch, the last contraction of a dying thing.
Father Newberry was sitting in a back pew, motionless, tiny, old. Halloran touched his shoulder as he walked up the aisle, felt the answering brush of dry fingertips on his.
Two deputies were stringing yellow crime-scene tape from pew to pew in a terrible parody of the white satin ribbon draped for a wedding. Two others were on their hands and knees with flashlights, searching the floor.
