Operation Indigo Sky

by Lawrence Ambrose

  I cruised into a poshish neighborhood overlooking the St. Croix, considering my angle of attack. I could take the direct approach and ring her doorbell, but I was sure that would end with a slammed door in my face. Or I could hang out near her house, try not to stand out too much, and follow her when she went out, hoping for a "chance" meeting.

  Finding nowhere on the narrow road near her house where I wouldn't stand out, I retreated to a connected road and parked between houses facing the intersection. Traffic would hopefully be light here, and with any luck I'd be able to recognize her driving in or out. I had no idea if she worked or not. If she'd suddenly quit her job and started purchasing expensive stuff, that would be a subtle hint she'd come into some recent money. I doubted they'd make it that obvious.

  Hooking my laptop to my cell, I googled Sonja Hanson, Stillwater, MN, and her name popped up under Best Real Estate. I smiled as a light bulb flickered on in my head. Pretending to check out local homes would give me the perfect pretext to meet her.

  I followed the internet directions into town to the Best Real Estate office. Sonja Hanson might not be in, and I wanted to avoid tipping my hand by asking for her. I needed to make sure she'd be the agent assigned to me.

  I strolled by the office, casually looking inside, and thought I spotted her in a side-room through half-open blinds, bent over papers spread across a table. I continued on, working up a simple but convincing story. Keep it simple, stupid, as they liked to say in my former profession.

  I sauntered back to the van, and watched from there until my presumed subject rose from the table and headed toward the front desk. I hopped out and hurried to the entrance, pausing a beat to confirm that it was really Sonja Hanson before I entered.

  "Can I help you?" the lady at the desk asked, as Sonja Hanson turned to face me.

  "I was hoping to check out some local homes for sale," I said.

  Sonja Hanson stepped forward, all smiles, extending a hand. "Hi. I'm Sonja. I'd be happy to help you with that."

  "Great." I shook her hand. "I'm Scott."

  We appraised each other. No doubt she was sizing me up. Three thousand square foot house on the river or a repossessed shack by the railroad tracks? And I was noticing her big hazel eyes, full lips, blond-streaked brown hair, and the body of someone who runs and/or works out regularly. Not a hint of strain or sadness in her face that I could see.

  "Nice to meet you," she said. "What brings you to our little burg, Scott?"

  "Just thinking of getting away from the big cities."

  "Is there a particular location or kind of house you're looking for?"

  "Nothing too fancy. Maybe something by the water?"

  "Are you thinking St. Croix or lake?"

  "Either." The more properties I was interested in, the more time I could spend with her. I smiled. "I'm easy."

  "Family? Single?"

  "Very single, at this point." When a hint of question shadowed her features, I added, "But I'm looking for a family-friendly place – thinking of the future."

  "Ah." She smiled. "We have a few properties of that type. Those by the water tend to be a bit more spendy."

  "What's the price range, roughly?"

  "Low end in the high four hundreds. High end, six to eight."

  "That's doable."

  She nodded approvingly, upping the brightness of her smile. "I'd be happy to show you the properties. When you like to take the tour?"

  "I'm free now, if you are."

  "Can you give me about fifteen minutes? I need to clear up some paperwork and make a couple of calls."

  "Not a problem. Maybe I could grab a burger across the street and check back afterward."

  "Perfect. And please don't rush through your meal. I'll wait for you."

  "Sounds good. See you soon."

  In the fifties-style grill and malt restaurant, I couldn't resist the "Double Jumbo Challenge": consuming a pound of hamburger double-stacked in sourdough bread and smothered with onion rings, chips, and bacon in fifteen minutes would earn you a "I Survived the Double Jumbo Burger" T-shirt. I was always a sucker for huge hamburgers and free T-shirts. Plus, I'd skipped lunch and was starving.

  My mom had often cautioned me that my eyes were bigger than my stomach, but this burger looked much bigger than my eyes. Ye of little faith, I told myself, and dug in. About halfway through I began to doubt myself, but I soldiered on, sipping cherry cola as a throat lubricant and digestive aid. I got the job done in eighteen minutes, but a winking waitress handed me the T-shirt anyway.

  I walked out of the restaurant and released a heartfelt belch. Heartburn belch, more like. I hoped we wouldn't be driving on any winding roads while looking at homes.

  Sonja Hanson was waiting in the greeting area when I returned. She held up a manila folder as she rose.

  "I printed up some properties," she said. "Why don't you take a quick look and see if any interest you?"

  I made a pretense of doing that. I started to actually fantasize about having a house by a lake. I had enough cash now for a fairly respectable down payment.

  "I have to admit, everything in here looks cool," I said.

  "Then we'll look at everything."

  "Sounds like a lot of driving. Did you want to take my car...?"

  "No, I'm happy to drive. It's really not that large of an area."

  I followed her out to a late-model Ford Fusion. We drove east out of town.

  "You're living in the Twin Cities area?" she asked.

  "Yes." I searched my eager knowledge of those cities. "I'm getting tired of the traffic."

  "Which part?"

  I thought of the only place here I'd spent some time in. "Edina."

  "Oh. Nice area. I have an aunt and uncle there."

  "True. But it's a bit more built-up than I like. I want more of a, ah, small town atmosphere."

  "I hear you. It's why I'm here."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "About seventeen years. We moved from the cities, too." She bit her lower lip. "Seems a lifetime ago."

  I glanced at her. Now she was sounding more like a grieving widow.

  We stopped at a house by a small lake. I didn't have to pretend interest as we walked around back to a patch of sandy beach and then took a quick tour inside the home.

  "What are they asking for this?"

  "Four eighty-five. It's the least expensive house on the list."

  "Nice," I said. "Decent fishing?"

  She shrugged. "Mostly pan fish. I can't claim to be much of a fisherman."

  "I think I'd prefer a bit larger garage and basement."

  "The next place might meet those requirements."

  As we drove to our next destination, I tried to think of small talk that might take us in the direction I wanted. I knew from experience that attempting to force conversation with a woman pretty much guaranteed there wouldn't be any conversation. I had to just relax and talk to her as if I didn't have any agenda. That was my only chance to get her to open up. But then I'd always struggled to make conversation with pretty women.

  "What do you do in Edina?" she asked.

  "Besides hang out at strip clubs?" Her answering smile was lukewarm. "I'm a 'software engineer'."

  "Oh? You don't strike me as a computer programmer."

  "Really? What do I strike you as?"

  "Oh, I don't know." Her short laugh was dismissive and perhaps a little uncomfortable, as if she hadn't intended to make a personal remark. "Something more physical, I guess."

  "Professional golfer?"

  She laughed – this time without tension. "Something like that."

  My stomach lurched as we rounded a corner. I took a deep breath and suppressed the monster belch that was forming.

  "Are you okay?" She was giving me a concerned eye.

  "I probably shouldn't have taken the 'double jumbo challenge'."

  "Oh my God!" She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Did you actually manage to eat one of those humungous burgers?"

/>   "I plead guilty to the charge. Fast enough to earn a T-shirt, too."

  "Oofta! Maybe we should stop somewhere and get you some Pepto-Bismol?"

  I gave her a brave smile. "I'll be okay. Just take it easy on the curves, okay?"

  She jerked the steering wheel. "Like that?"

  I clutched my stomach. "Not funny."

  Suddenly I was hoping she didn't know anything, that she was just the nice, innocent, gorgeous lady with the sense of humor that she seemed to be.

  The next place was a bigger house on a bigger lake. After so many years in desert digs, I had to admit that water had its appeal – even freshwater, despite being a certified ocean guy.

  "This one's five-sixty," she said, handing me the sheet.

  The two-story plus three-car garage and full basement on one hundred feet of shoreline wasn't quite the equal of Ethan Ellenberg's house, but the view destroyed his place: a long and very blue lake stretched beyond what I could view from the backyard.

  "What do you think?" Sonja asked.

  "I like it."

  "Garage and backyard big enough?"

  "They'll do." I returned her dry smile.

  We climbed back in her car and drove on. Mid-afternoon pushed into late-afternoon. We stopped at another place by another lake that was cool but not as impressive as the second property.

  "You'll probably want to get home," I said. "I think I've taken enough of your time today."

  "One more place. I've saved the best for last. It's actually not far from my house, with a great view of the river."

  "You live on the St. Croix?"

  "Overlooking it."

  "I'm guessing you have a family there?"

  "No family." She said it crisply, matter-of-factly, her voice shorn of regret. "No husband, either, for that matter."

  She was opening up. I wished I could take more satisfaction in that.

  "Divorced? Or...?"

  " Or , I guess you could say." She was staring straight ahead. "He's dead. Recently, in fact."

  "I'm sorry."

  She glanced at me. Her face seemed more annoyed than sad.

  "We'd separated almost two years ago," she said. "He was living in Minneapolis. We had a marriage in name only for at least two years before that."

  "Oh."

  "I just mentioned that because I didn't want you to feel sorry for me. I'm not happy he's dead, but I'm not grieving, either. I went through that years ago."

  I nodded. It seemed clear that Sonja Hanson believed her husband was dead. That meant she probably wasn't part of any conspiracy – assuming there was one.

  "How did he die? If you don't mind me asking."

  Sonja tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and frowned. Had I pushed her too far? But then she shrugged.

  "You know about the recent church shooting in St. Paul?"

  "Yes." I feigned a startled expression. "Are you saying he was there...that he was one of the victims?"

  "Victims?" She snorted. "I wouldn't put it that way. He was one of the Oath Keepers. Gary Hanson."

  "Oh. Wow. Right – he was one of the ones who shot up that wedding partly..." I trailed off at her hardened expression.

  "That's what they say." She spoke through pinched lips.

  "Did you see his body?"

  She shot me a surprised and slightly suspicious look. "No. Why did you ask that?"

  "Sorry. I just thought that might offer a clue about what happened."

  "I was advised not to by the police. Not that they had to argue much to convince me."

  "Did anyone identify his body?"

  "His brother."

  The last house was arguably the best. Two stories, and at the end of a cul-de-sac a quarter-mile from her home, it featured a three-car garage and appeared to be built into the side of a hill overlooking the St. Croix.

  "Neat house," I said, as we wandered around the outside. "Great view."

  "I couldn't have said it better." Her smile was back. "Full basement, including a recreation room with weight equipment the owner is happy to leave behind."

  "Better and better."

  "I thought you might spend some time in the gym."

  "What gave me away?"

  She laughed. "I was married to a gym rat. Not to mention a gun nut. I know the signs."

  We entered the house. Sonja led me down some stairs to a spacious basement with high ceilings and a respectable set of free weights and cable machines.

  "You don't approve of guns?" I asked. "Or just gun nuts?"

  "I don't like guns, period. Don't misunderstand me – I believe in the Second Amendment. But I'm so sick of all these psychos shooting people up. The Second Amendment doesn't say that crazies have the right to own guns."

  "It doesn't say they don't, either." I lifted one of the stainless steel dumbbells off its rack, and then replaced it. "Do you think your husband was crazy?"

  "Not as far as I knew. He was kind of obsessed with the Constitution and fighting what he thought was a tyrannical government, but I never believed in a million years he'd ever go ballistic like they say he did."

  "Was he a racist?"

  "I don't think so. He wasn't too fond of what he called 'black culture' – the ghetto/welfare side of it anyway – but he believed that most blacks were good people. He told me that more than once."

  I turned to face her. "Then what happened in that church?"

  "I don't have a clue. The only thing I can imagine is that he was hopped up on those antidepressants he was taking."

  "You haven't had any contact recently?"

  Sonja seemed to snap out of a reverie, and turned accusing eyes on me.

  "You know, you're starting to sound a lot like a reporter, Scott." As I considered my response, she added, "You aren't a reporter, are you?"

  "Computer programmer. Scout's honor." I made the Boy Scout sign.

  "Gary was in the Boy Scouts, too. Does your business have a name?"

  I thought quickly. "Scott Harrow Software Solutions." I actually liked the sound of that, despite my guilt at lying to her face. Some ex-Scout I was. I could only hope she wouldn't check me out on the internet any time soon.

  Sonja Hanson maintained her skeptical gaze for a few seconds before her faced relaxed. She shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, Scott. I've had several reporters wanting to talk to me, but I'm done with that."

  "I understand. Enough about your former husband. We can talk about Minnesota winters and lutefisk instead."

  "Risqué stuff."

  I had the pleasure of following Sonja Hanson's pert derrière upstairs and out into the kitchen, where a large bay window in the dining area offered semi-spectacular views of the river.

  "Let me guess," I said. "Seven hundred and twenty-five thousand."

  "Close. I'm impressed. Seven-forty."

  I stood watching shadows from the oak and pine trees reach across the river. Seven hundred and forty thousand. It might as well be seven million. I really needed to pick up my money game. On the plus side, if civilization imploded, property values would likely decline.

  "Any thoughts?"

  I offered her a crooked smile. "I need to think about it?"

  Her short laugh had a "Have I just wasted my time?" edge to it. And here I'd imagined that she found me so charming and sexy that she didn't even care about a forty thousand dollar commission.

  "I was also wondering if I could buy you dinner," I said.

  I hadn't even considered that possibility until this very moment. I guessed we'd soon see just how charming and sexy she found me.

  Sonja made a little face and half-shook her head, and I was sure she was about to give me a diplomatic refusal.

  "You actually have an appetite after that hamburger?"

  I smiled at her. "I could eat something light."

  More reflection on her part, which meant she wasn't entirely opposed to the possibility – or me. I imagined she was now considering whether I was dating material, whether or not it was wise
to mix business with pleasure, and if some terrible disaster would befall her if we had dinner.

  "I have an idea," she said. "I don't really feel like going out, and I'm not all that hungry myself. My house is just down the street. How do cracker and cheese hors-d'oeuvres and wine as we watch the sun go down sound?"

  "Freaking fantastic."

  She smiled. "I'll take that as a yes."

  A single girl inviting a strange guy into her home seemed a tad dubious to me. She must trust her instincts. Or she was really lonely. A gorgeous woman like her would have guys frothing over her, of course, but then this was a small town and the locals might be cautious in consideration of her husband's death. I wasn't sure where this was going – wasn't sure where I wanted it to go – but wine and hors-d'oeuvres was fine in and of itself.

  Sonja Hanson's place was slightly more modest than the last property – only a two-car garage and fewer square feet – but the view from the back balcony was as good or better. Especially with a glass of rosé in hand.

  "How's the real estate business treating you?" I asked.

  "I can't complain. Not that I'm rich. We bought this house some time ago, and it's paid off, so it doesn't take a lot to maintain my fabulous lifestyle."

  "Right now it does seem pretty fabulous." I tipped my wineglass toward the golden-orange hues infusing the river below.

  "How about you? How's the software engineer business?"

  "It's okay. Pays the bills. I have some savings." The lion's share of which was Markus Killian's 75K donation.

  "House prices have gone up quite a bit sense we bought back in 2000. There was a bit of a downslide after the real estate bubble burst in the mid-2000s, but it's come back up – especially in desirable areas such as Stillwater."

  "I'm happy for you."

  We clicked glasses, and sipped our wine. "You say you bought this place in 2000?"

  She gave me a dry smile. "Doing the math?"

  "I have to admit I thought you were in your late-twenties. But unless you purchased the home in your teens..."