Dust to Dust

by Tami Hoag

  “Hey, we heard about that manhunt!” he called, his excitement overriding his dislike for Kovac. “A killer cop, huh? Are you in on that?”

  “I’m the guy they’re looking for,” Kovac said. “Driven mad from sleep deprivation caused by my neighbor’s garish light display.”

  The neighbor couldn’t decide whether to show offense or pretend good humor.

  “Quite a story, this guy,” he said. “It’s all over the television. They’re even doing a special Crime Time on it.”

  “Another good reason to read a book,” Kovac grumbled.

  The neighbor paid no attention. “Best goddamn show on television.”

  “Reality programming.”

  “You know that guy? Ace? He’s something. He’s a real cop.”

  “He used to be a woman,” Kovac said, unlocking his door.

  The neighbor gave a little jolt of surprise. He narrowed his beady eyes to the size of BBs. “You’re sick!” he announced, and went back to the other side of his yard to hunt for dog shit and yellow snow.

  Kovac went into the house. His gaze went directly to the couch, and he stood there for a moment before it hit him.

  Someone had been there.

  The articles he’d brought home from the library were strewn all over the coffee table. His briefcase had been pried open and now lay on the floor, half hidden behind a chair. The television screen had been kicked in.

  The air in the room seemed to thicken and crackle with electricity. Kovac could feel it on his skin. His pulse jumped. He opened his coat and discreetly reached inside, slipping his gun from the holster. With his other hand, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and hit 911.

  He reported the break-in as he crept through the house, room by room, taking in the damage, looking to see if the perpetrator was still in the building. The drawers had been pulled from his desk. His dresser had been gone through. Cash he had left on top of the dresser was gone, along with an expensive watch he’d won in a raffle at a law enforcement conference. That said burglary. Probably a junkie looking for stuff to pawn.

  He checked his bedroom closet, relieved to find his old .38 in its shoe box on the shelf.

  Back downstairs, he found that the intruder had broken in through the kitchen door. A task that looked to have been embarrassingly easy. He would take some ribbing for his lack of home maintenance, Kovac thought as he turned and saw the basement door ajar.

  He flipped the light switch and listened. Nothing. He descended the first few steps, then crouched down to look, still fairly well concealed by wall.

  The basement wasn’t finished space. He kept a dehumidifier going to fight the damp of the concrete walls and floor. There was no furniture, nothing that would be of any interest to a thief; only half-empty paint cans and boxes and boxes of old case files.

  Boxes that had been pulled from the shelves and dumped all over the floor.

  His cell phone trilled in his pocket.

  “Kovac.”

  “Liska. They’ve found Rubel’s truck. In Lake Minnetonka. Went off the road, down an embankment and through the ice.”

  “So he’s dead?”

  “I said they found the truck. Rubel wasn’t in it.”

  THE ATMOSPHERE ON the banks of Lake Minnetonka was not unlike that on the first day of fishing season. Cars and news vans lined the narrow strip of road. People wandered up and down, waiting for something to happen. Deputies had established a perimeter beyond which only law enforcement personnel were allowed. Just before that line, various representatives of the media had staked out their territories. The largest of the sideshows, by far, was Crime Time. The same crew from the ice rink had set up as near to the yellow crime scene tape as possible.

  Kovac stared. Ace Wyatt, bundled into a heavy parka, stood on his trademark red carpet before a crowd of spectators. Beyond him, beyond the yellow tape, Derek Rubel’s Explorer had been pulled ashore by a tow truck and stood with all doors open as the crime scene unit from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension went over every inch of it. They would look it over here, at the scene, then the vehicle would be transported to their garage in St. Paul and every piece of hair and lint in the thing would be cataloged and held under a microscope.

  Kovac took a moment to assess the scene, trying to imagine it without the crowd. They were on a narrow finger of the lake that had been deemed beneath the efforts of development. A couple of small houses were within sight, near enough to walk to on a cold night, but not so near for a witness to see a man leaping from a vehicle as it ran into the lake.

  Tippen came over in his Dr. Seuss hat, hands stuffed in the pockets of a fat parka.

  “They checked the houses. One is vacant. The other isn’t, but nobody’s home and there’s no vehicle. They’re trying to track down somebody who might know where the owner is—or rather, where the owner is supposed to be. No luck so far.”

  “Rubel’s probably riding around with the owner’s body in the trunk of the owner’s Buick,” Kovac said. “What a nightmare.”

  “It’s that. Minnesota hasn’t gotten this kind of attention since Andrew Cunanan.”

  “Andrew Cunanan wasn’t a cop. This has Hollywood written all over it.”

  Kovac spotted the WB VPs just at the corner of Wyatt’s carpet, right behind Fat Donald, the director. The redhead had bought herself a parka that looked made from aluminum foil. Gaines came over to them and seemed to be explaining something, pointing one arm toward the lake, where, in the distance, ice fishing houses dotted the snowscape.

  Kovac looked around again, trying to get his bearings—hard to do for a city boy tossed out into the maze around Minnetonka. But he didn’t think they were far from Neil Fallon’s place. Where Gaines was pointing might have been it, though one ice fishing hut looked pretty much like the next to Kovac.

  Wyatt was having his makeup done again while some toady held a light meter next to his head and called out numbers.

  “Can you believe this guy?” Kovac said.

  “His people were here staking out that spot practically before we were,” Tippen said. “It pays to have friends in high places, even at a freak show like this.”

  “Especially at a freak show like this. Reality programming.”

  A gust of wind came up off the lake, blowing Wyatt’s red muffler across his face. The director swore, then turned and swore again at the woman in the shag carpet coat, then announced everyone should take ten, and stalked off toward the official Crime Time motor home parked on the road.

  The videographers dug out cigarettes. Shag Coat went onto the carpet to adjust Wyatt’s scarf, the WB VPs right behind her. Gaines paused en route to accept a steaming cup of coffee from another minion.

  Kovac joined the cadre, giving the eye to the bouncer who stepped toward him at the edge of the carpet. The bouncer stepped back.

  “Johnny-on-the-spot here, aren’t you, Ace?” Kovac said.

  “Too bad we can’t say the same for you, Sam.” Wyatt stood perfectly still while Shag Coat arranged the offending scarf in an artful and clever way. “I understand you and your partner were in on the fiasco last night.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a real cop, I don’t just play one on TV. As you know, in the real world, with real bad guys, shit happens.”

  “And you step in it?” Gaines suggested as he put the coffee cup into Wyatt’s hand.

  “I swim through it, Slick. If that’s what I have to do to get what I’m after. You should know how that tastes, you being a professional kiss-ass. Do they give college degrees for that now?”

  “We’re very busy here, Sergeant,” Gaines said tightly.

  “I understand, and I’ll let you get back to finding the cure for cancer in a minute. I just have a question for Captain America here.”

  Wyatt huffed a sigh. “You’re starting to get on my nerves, Sam.”

  “Yeah, I have a talent,” Kovac said. “After our chat yesterday, I was curious, so I went back and read over the articles from the Thorne murd
er. That’s a hell of a dramatic story, Ace. I’d forgotten. You ought to do a special on that. A movie of the week maybe. The network could run it to hype the new show.”

  “The show will succeed on its own merits,” Wyatt said tightly. “I have no intention of capitalizing on that night.”

  Kovac laughed. “You’ve done it your whole career. Why stop now?”

  “No!” Wyatt barked. “That was never my intent. What happened with my career at the time was out of my hands.”

  He turned and snapped at the shag coat woman, who was still fussing with his clothes. “Leave the goddamn scarf alone!”

  The WB VPs looked at Wyatt, then at each other, then at Gaines, panicked at having been left out of the loop.

  “It’s a tragic story,” Kovac explained.

  “Which is precisely why the captain doesn’t want to bring it up,” Gaines said, putting himself between Kovac and Wyatt. He spoke to the VPs. “A friend of the captain’s was killed, another was left a paraplegic. You can understand why he wouldn’t want to dredge up the trauma.”

  “No, they can’t,” Kovac said. “That night made the Ace here a hero. He saved another cop’s life. It’s a story made for Hollywood. Ace makes it big with the show, everybody in America’s gonna want to hear it.

  “I’m just wondering, Ace,” he continued, cocking his head to look around Gaines. “Have you kept in touch with Bill Thorne’s widow over the years? It occurred to me she might appreciate hearing about Mike’s passing.”

  “No,” he said. “We lost touch.”

  Kovac raised his brows. “As close as you stayed with Mike, you lost touch with Evelyn Thorne? After all you went through?”

  “Because of all we went through,” Wyatt murmured.

  “When Andy Fallon talked with you about the case, did he mention if he’d spoken with her? Or with Thorne’s daughter?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s in his notes,” Kovac said. “I just haven’t found them yet. I’ll let you know. In case you want to reach out.”

  “We need to clear the set, Sergeant,” Gaines said, trying to back him away. “We’re airing this tonight. Trying to help bring this mess to a conclusion for you.”

  “That’s big of you, Junior,” Kovac said. “Frees me up to concentrate on something else. Thanks.”

  Kovac walked away, shooting a glance up at the bouncer. “You should have gone into wrestling. Better class of people.”

  34

  CHAPTER

  “ONCE AGAIN, CITIZENS, this is a photograph of the known murderer at the heart of this manhunt tonight.”

  Wyatt had what was often described as “the look of eagles.” Steely-eyed. Hard-jawed. A face that inspired fear and trust.

  “This is the face of Officer Derek Rubel. Known to have murdered a fellow police officer. Suspected in several more brutal crimes. This man is at large in our country tonight, and it’s going to take the courage and diligence of citizens to bring this animal to justice.

  “If you see Derek Rubel, do not under any circumstances approach him. This man is extremely dangerous. What do you do, Citizen Jane?”

  “Do go to the nearest telephone and call the police,” the woman says.

  Another member of the audience is called on.

  “Do write down a license number!”

  On cue, the audience shouts in unison, “Be PROActive!”

  The hot-line number and Web site address appear on the screen.

  The television goes black.

  Admirable.

  A testament to the powers of redemption and penance.

  A service to the community. Empowering to the powerless.

  The agitation returns.

  A fear burning in the pit of the stomach and radiating outward.

  Fear of discovery.

  Fear of death.

  Fear of the inner knowledge of one’s own capabilities when threatened.

  There is the sense that the world is turning faster and faster, growing smaller and smaller, making discovery inevitable.

  It is only a matter of time.

  The thought repeats endlessly as the gaze scans the photographs of death.

  It is only a matter of time.

  Kovac must die.

  35

  CHAPTER

  “I LOVE THAT show,” Liska said as she hung up the phone.

  Across the cubicle, Kovac scowled. He had his computer on and the telephone receiver wedged between his shoulder and ear.

  “The hot-line phones rang off the hook after the show ran last night.”

  “With how many legitimate leads?” he asked.

  “All it takes is one. What’s your problem with it, anyway?” she asked.

  “I hate—”

  “Besides that you hate Ace Wyatt.”

  Kovac pouted. “That’d pretty much be it.”

  “Look what that show does. It teaches people who feel they have no power to stand up and make something happen. If Cal Springer had paid attention to that message, Derek Rubel wouldn’t be running loose now.”

  “It’s the whole reality programming thing.”

  “You love America’s Most Wanted.”

  “That’s different. What Wyatt has is a game show. What’s next? Interactive court trials? People can log on and vote guilty or not guilty?”

  “They’ve already got that on Dateline.”

  “Great. And next season they can televise the executions from Texas. Maybe they can get Regis Philbin to host,” he crabbed.

  “Who are you on the line with?” Liska asked, finally noticing that he had yet to speak into the receiver.

  “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Kojak, he’s dead.”

  “I’m on hold. Donna at the phone company. Anyway, what if the show gives someone a false sense of power, and they do something stupid and end up dead?”

  “What if someone ends up dead because they’re spineless and stupid and they don’t watch the show?”

  “I hate Ace Wyatt.”

  “The WB is promoting him as Captain America.”

  Disgust made a strangled sound in his throat. “Aw, jeez, those fucking VPs. They stole that from me!”

  “Call your agent, Hollywood.”

  “You’re the one who wants that, Tinker Bell, not me.”

  “Just so I get my fame for catching Rubel, not for being killed by him.”

  Kovac drew breath to ask her how she was doing—really doing—when, finally, a human being picked up on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry to keep you on hold, Sam. What can I do you for?”

  “Hey, Donna. I need the LUDS on a Minneapolis number.”

  “You have the paperwork?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That would mean no.”

  “Well . . . yes. But the guy’s dead. Who will care?”

  “How about his family?”

  “Dead and in jail.”

  “How about the county attorney?”

  “I just need to shake something loose here, Donna. It doesn’t have to stand up in court.”

  “Mmm . . . You didn’t get it from me.”

  “I never have, but I live in hope.”

  Donna cracked up at that. Classy broad. Kovac gave her Andy Fallon’s phone number and hung up.

  “What are you after?” Liska asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” he admitted. “I want to go through Andy’s phone records and see if something jumps out. Andy was poking around in the Thorne murder, trying to connect to Mike through his experiences. When I did some of that same poking, I got a rise out of Wyatt. I want to see—”

  “You’re obsessed, Sam,” Liska said. “You don’t like Rubel for Andy’s murder? If it was a murder.”

  “No. It doesn’t fit. Andy’s scene was too neat. Look what Rubel did—beat a guy to death with a ball bat, beat a guy near to death with a pipe, shot a guy point-blank in the chest. Where’s the finesse?”

  “But you said
Pierce told you he’d seen Andy with another guy. What if it was Rubel? That might track. Andy was looking at Ogden for being dirty. No one knew Ogden and Rubel were an item. Through his connection to Curtis—having once been a patrol partner—Rubel gets close to Andy to keep an eye on the case from the inside, so to speak. Andy gets too close to some truth. . . . See?”

  “No way. Rubel was Ogden’s partner—”

  “Not at the beginning of the investigation. There was no connection between them at the time, none that anyone knew of. Rubel had been patrol partners with Curtis, but Curtis swore none of his former partners harassed him.”

  “Until he infected one.”

  “And if Andy somehow found out about Rubel’s HIV status . . .” She left Kovac to finish the thought for himself, then added, “I’m putting Rubel in a photo array and showing it to Pierce.”

  “Have at it,” Kovac said. “Meanwhile, who broke into my house? Why would Rubel? It’s not like I’ve got the one piece of evidence that can hang him.”

  “That could have been anybody, for any reason. Probably a junkie looking for your secret cash stash. Or maybe it was some other scumbag you’re looking at for something else. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Fallon.”

  The possibility had crossed Kovac’s mind. He had other cases ongoing. . . . He grabbed his phone on the third ring.

  “Homicide. Kovac.”

  “Kovac, Maggie Stone. I looked over that case—Fallon, Andy.”

  “And?”

  “Is he in the ground yet?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I’d like to have him back for a visit. I think he might have been murdered.”

  MAGGIE STONE’S OFFICE at the Hennepin County morgue always made Kovac think of those news stories about crazy old people whose bodies were found mummified among the stacks of newspapers and magazines and garbage they had not thrown out in nine years. The room was a maze of papers and professional journals and books on forensic medicine and motorcycle magazines. Stone rode a Harley Hog in good weather.

  She waved Kovac into the office with one hand, holding a sugared jelly doughnut in the other. The doughnut was oozing red from its center, and bore a little too much resemblance to some of the stuff in the photographs spread out on the desk.