I inspected Montgomery’s left hand. The butt of a revolver was resting on the palm. However, the fingers were not wrapped around it, gripping it tightly like they would if he had suffered a cadaveric spasm. There was no gunshot residue that I could detect. A watch was wrapped around his left wrist. Typically right-handed people wear their watches on the left wrist and left-handed people wear them on the right wrist.
I began chanting, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” until I covered my mouth with my hand. It seemed so disrespectful to curse like that.
Eventually, I stood, took a couple of deep breaths and looked around as best I could without actually moving. It was not a big house, more like a cabin in the woods. There were no telltale signs of a struggle. All the drawers in the kitchen and the living room that I could see were firmly closed, although a couple of cabinet and closet doors were wide open. The place had been searched, I decided, for something fairly big.
The left side of my brain wanted to search the house myself. The right side wanted to get out of there just as fast as it could. I went with the right side.
* * *
My cell didn’t work; I was out of range of the nearest tower. I had to drive back toward Grand Marais to get coverage. Along the way I reminded myself that it would be an easy matter to just keep driving. Don’t even stop for Nina’s donuts. If it was still open when I got there, I could pull off the highway at Betty’s Pies just outside of Two Harbors instead and get her a French cherry or a five-layer chocolate pie. She liked cherries. She liked chocolate. Except—Two Harbors …
The proprietor of Second Hand Treasures in Two Harbors will remember you, my inner voice said. He’ll remember giving you Montgomery’s name and address. The proprietors of all those other antiques stores will remember you, too. So will Louise Wykoff. And Jennica Mehren. And the neighbor, Peg Younghans.
“Yes, they will,” I said aloud.
Besides, you don’t actually retire from the cops, do you? You just leave active duty, am I right?
“That’s what is said about cops.”
You knew you weren’t going to take off.
“Dammit!”
* * *
Once I got near enough, I used an app on my smartphone to locate a low-slung red stone building on the Gunflint Trail just outside of Grand Marais. A woman in her late forties or early fifties and wearing beige khakis and a black fleece jacket with the words COOK COUNTY LAW ENFORCEMENT CENTER embroidered above her breast greeted me just inside the entrance. She had a pleasant if somewhat tired smile. It occurred to me that she must smile all day long at people who were undeserving of the energy it took and was now giving me her best effort following an eight-hour shift.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sir?”
“I need to report a murder.”
The smile went away.
“Sir, is this some kind of joke?” she said.
“What’s your name?”
She answered as if she wasn’t sure she should—“Eileen.”
“Eileen, is there anyone on duty?”
The woman summoned a deputy. He was a full decade younger with an expression on his face that suggested he didn’t like being disturbed just before his shift ended. His name tag read WURZER.
“All right, all right, what’s all this then?” he said. I had to stifle a laugh thinking about all those Monty Python skits making fun of Scotland Yard cops I saw when I was a kid. He noticed the effort and was not amused.
“Sir, have you been drinking?” Wurzer asked.
I told him that David Montgomery was dead.
“Who?” he asked.
I did everything but draw him a picture of the crime scene. He didn’t seem concerned. Eileen covered her mouth with a hand and looked away as if what I described was taking place directly in front of her.
“Sir, there are laws against filing false police reports,” the deputy said.
I turned toward the woman in the fleece jacket.
“Eileen, are there any adults working here?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“Call the sheriff.”
Three minutes later, Deputy Wurzer locked me inside a holding cell.
* * *
I spent the next few hours examining my life choices. Except for committing to Nina Truhler now and forever, none of them seemed particularly well thought out.
I was resting uncomfortably on a one-inch thick blue mat stretched over the top of a two-foot high concrete bed with no pillow when the door opened. I stood abruptly. My jeans slipped down and I nearly lost one of my Nikes because they had taken away my belt and shoelaces along with my watch, keys, wallet, and cell phone.
The man who entered the holding cell was old enough to be my father if my father had children in his late thirties. He was taller than me and dressed in a crisp white shirt with dark brown epaulets and a dark brown tie that matched his slacks. There was a five-pointed star above his pocket and a gold pin that spelled SHERIFF on his collar. I noticed that he didn’t close the door behind him.
“Mr. McKenzie, I’m Sheriff Bill Bowland,” he said. He extended his hand. I extended mine. Instead of shaking it, though, he took me by the wrist and pulled it close. After giving my hand the once-over he said, “Let me see the other.” I gave him my left hand to examine.
“Those Smith and Wesson wheel guns kick out a lot of soot,” Bowland said. “Your hands are nice and clean. ’Course, you could have washed before coming over.”
“What bothers me is that Montgomery’s hands were nice and clean, too.”
“You noticed that?”
“I did.”
“How come you noticed that?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Of course you are.”
“Kinda puts me in a difficult position. I mean, I’d like to cooperate…”
“This is where most people try to talk themselves out of trouble.”
“Most people are idiots. I’d rather you arrest me and read me my rights so I can call my lawyer because I have no intention of answering any questions without my lawyer present. Actually, I’m kidding. I have no intention of answering your questions whether my lawyer is present or not—if I’m a suspect.”
“Spoken like a hardened criminal or an ex-cop who did eleven and a half years with the St. Paul PD before retiring to collect a multimillion dollar reward on an embezzler you tracked down.”
I felt better knowing that Bowland had checked me out. ’Course, a lot of cops were angry that I accepted the reward. They say I sold my badge. It occurred to me that he might be one of them.
“I know how bad it looks,” I said. “The guy I was hunting is found dead.”
“An apparent suicide.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think the odds are that a right-handed person would shoot himself with his left hand?” the sheriff asked.
“About the same that he would be holding the gun afterward without having a cadaveric spasm.”
“You talk like you’ve seen this sort of thing before.”
“I have seen it before, haven’t you?”
“We had a killing down in Tofte about four years ago. After a holiday party, two men bumped into each other in a parking lot. Words were exchanged. One of the men was high on booze and grass. He pulled a forty-five and started shooting. Eventually, he pled guilty to second-degree murder. He’s currently doing twelve and a half. Do you know when the last murder in Cook County took place before that?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. That’s how long it’s been. I’ve already contacted the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Why?”
I didn’t mean to say that out loud, it just kind of slipped out. The sheriff gave me a look that said I was questioning his command and that he didn’t like it.
“We don’t have the resources for this kind of investigation,” he said.
Resources or confidence, I thought but this time was smart enough not to so say.
Don’t antagonize the man while you’re a guest in his holding cell, my inner voice suggested.
“It’s sending a team up from its field office in Duluth, should be here in a couple of hours,” the sheriff added. “You can talk to me or wait on them.”
“Since I’ll probably have to talk to the BCA, anyway…”
“My intention is to maintain the integrity of the crime scene, and you, until they arrive. You are not under arrest, McKenzie, but I’m not kicking you loose, either. According to the book I can hold you for thirty-six hours before I need to charge or release you. You can stay here or I can transfer you to the county jail. You decide where you would rather spend the rest of the evening. We have plenty of room.”
“I’ll stay here. You never know what kind of riffraff you might meet in jail.”
“Make yourself comfortable. It’s going to be a while.”
“Sheriff, I’m sorry about all of this.”
Bowland nodded his head like he believed me.
“I knew Dave,” he said. “One of the reasons I’m handing the case off. I knew him personally. His little girl played baseball on the team I coached. He couldn’t get along with his wife so they divorced, but he got along with everyone else. A nice guy.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry. I really am.”
Bowland stepped out of the holding cell. This time he did close the door.
FIVE
It didn’t occur to me that I hadn’t had anything to eat since eleven that morning until about eleven that night. I had expected the BCA to be all over me by then, only no one came to the door, no one bothered to check on me, no one asked if I was hungry.
Just think, my inner voice said, instead of languishing in a holding cell, you could be at Nina’s jazz joint, sitting at a table in the big room, drinking free liquor, and listening to Sophia Shorai singing the blues.
“Don’t remind me,” I said aloud.
Funny, though, how things turned out.
Yeah, I told myself. If Louise was correct about the last time she had seen the paintings, Montgomery could have and probably would have unloaded the merchandise he’d stolen anytime during the past week, only he hadn’t. Instead, he waited until this morning, one day after I had complained to Perrin Stewart that I didn’t have a clue to go by.
Still, I didn’t mention my confusion to the BCA when its agents dragged me out of the holding cell bright and early the next morning. Possibly it had something to do with the way the agent woke me from a fitful sleep by shouting, “Hey, you,” and half dragged, half pulled me to a conference room.
I was seated at one end of a long table. There was an audio-recording device with a microphone set up in front of me and a video camera set on a tripod pointed at my face. One of the agents started both the recorder and camera before joining his partner and Sheriff Bowland at the other end of the table. The BCA agents looked as if they had pulled an all-nighter. The sheriff, on the other hand, looked refreshed, if not invigorated. The creases on his trousers and shirt were sharp enough to cut butter.
“State your name and address,” an agent said.
I remained silent. That seemed to confuse him.
“I said…”
“Good manners is how we show respect for one another,” I said.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
Apparently, Bowland thought so because he chuckled.
“McKenzie,” he said. “This is Agent Larry Plakcy and Agent Patrick Krause from the Duluth field office of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Which is which?”
“I’m Plakcy,” an agent said.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I don’t suppose any of you know where a guy can get a cup of coffee. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in almost twenty hours.”
“I apologize for that,” Bowland said. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black.”
The sheriff left the conference room. I stared at the BCA agents.
“So, guys,” I said. “Have you been to Grand Marais before?”
Neither of them responded.
“Beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?”
They had no answer for that, either.
“Everyone says you should try the Angry Trout if you’re hungry for fish but I recommend Dockside Fish Market right next door. Best fish and chips I’ve ever had outside of England. And Boston. And Clearwater Beach in Florida. It’s really good.”
Silence.
Sheriff Bowland returned to the room followed by Eileen, still wearing her khakis and black fleece jacket. Her clear eyes, coiffed hair, and ready smile suggested that, unlike me, she had slept in her own bed. She set a white mug in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
A couple thoughts sprang to mind, but I said, “No, thank you,” just the same.
“Eileen,” the sheriff said.
Eileen smiled at me and turned to leave. I took a sip of the coffee. I was surprised how good it tasted and said so as she headed for the door. Eileen stopped.
“I’m glad you like it,” Eileen said. “What I do—”
“Eileen,” Bowland repeated.
Eileen shrugged and left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
“Are we ready now?” Plakcy asked. “State your name and—”
“Am I under arrest?” I asked.
“What? No.”
“It feels like I’m under arrest. If I am, you should read me my rights.”
Krause turned to look at the sheriff. Bowland spread his hands wide and said, “I told you.”
“No, Mr. McKenzie, you are not under arrest,” Plakcy said.
“So, I’m not legally obligated to answer your questions. I am in fact free to go if I wish.”
“Theoretically,” Krause said. His voice was low and menacing, the team’s bad cop.
“Then say please.”
Krause gave me one of those smiles that were meant to scare the bejesus out of a guy.
“McKenzie, you know how it works,” he said. “Quit fucking around.”
Sound advice, my inner voice said. All things considered …
I took another sip of coffee before speaking. “What do you want to know?”
“Start with your movements yesterday.”
“I left Minneapolis at about eight thirty A.M. I arrived in Duluth at approximately ten thirty where I gassed up my car and had a Yukon Scramble at the Amazing Grace Bakery and Café—do you know it?”
“I know it,” Plakcy said.
“I didn’t keep my receipts but I paid with a credit card and you have my permission to check my account. I left at about eleven and drove straight to Grand Marais, without stopping, arriving at around one P.M.”
I explained about encountering Jennica Mehren and the documentary film crew, meeting Peg Younghans at approximately one thirty, and chatting with Louise Wykoff before leaving on my journey along the North Shore at just before two, arriving at Second Hand Treasures in Two Harbors at five thirty and leaving there at six.
I explained what I had been doing for Louise and why in detail—never lie to the authorities my lawyer keeps telling me. ’Course, I neglected to mention that the paintings I was looking for were actually painted by Randolph McInnis and not That Wykoff Woman. Why complicate matters needlessly?
“I have the photographs Ms. Wykoff gave me in my jacket pocket and the tea set and candlesticks behind the front seat of my car.”
“We’ll want both,” Krause said.
“Did you contact Ms. Wykoff and tell her what you had learned?” Plakcy asked.
“I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“She has no idea that it was Montgomery who burgled her residence, then?”
“As far as I know.”
“When did you arrive at Montgomery’s home?”
<
br /> “It was about seven thirty, seven forty-five.”
“Did you touch anything?” Krause asked.
“Front doorknob going in and out. Nothing else.”
“We’ll want to take your fingerprints anyway.”
“They’re already on file.”
“That’s right.” Plakcy glanced at Sheriff Bowland when he added, “You were with the St. Paul Police Department.”
I was glad the sheriff had told him so I didn’t have to.
“I have a question,” I said.
“What?”
“Did the county coroner rule that Montgomery’s death was a homicide?”
“She has yet to make an official determination.”
“What’s keeping her?”
“The BCA does not rush to judgment. An exacting postmortem examination will be conducted, under our supervision mind you.”
I bet the coroner will love that, my inner voice said.
“As well as a thorough review of the crime scene before we make an announcement.”
“Do you at least have a time of death?”
The two agents glanced at each other before Krause answered “We’ve been informed that the coroner had established a preliminary postmortem interval of between ten A.M. and two P.M., although that has yet to be confirmed officially.”
“So, that pretty much lets me off the hook, doesn’t it?”
“Theoretically.” Apparently, Krause liked saying that word.
“Montgomery was in Two Harbors selling his swag at ten A.M.,” I said. “That took a half hour. It’s a ninety-minute drive from there to Grand Marais at the posted speed limits. Add a few more minutes to his house. What are we talking about? Noon plus ten? That should narrow the window somewhat.”
“Are you telling us how to do our jobs?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I took a big sip of coffee, rested my elbow on the table, and propped my chin in my hand before sighing, “Hmm.”
“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
“Yes, McKenzie,” Plakcy said. “Do you have something more to say or are you just making noise?”
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