Shoot to Thrill

by P. J. Tracy

  Magozzi nodded. “There’s nothing here. Let’s get to the jail and bribe a boy in blue to let us see Wild Jim before they let him out in the morning.”

  “I got nothing to bribe a jailer with.”

  “Give him some vitamin C.”

  “You get that I have had no sleep, right, Leo? Zero, nada, not even a Salvador Dali nap.”

  “I get it. Join the club.”

  Magozzi pulled in at an angle in front of the Hennepin County Jail.

  “And you also understand that it’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I do.”

  “So here’s the thing. My eyes are fried eggs, my brain cells are crisp around the edges, and at the moment I’m about three levels down from any drunk coming off a high, let alone an ex-judge.”

  Magozzi put the car in park and rubbed his eyes. “No choice. The golden time is wearing off on Alan Sommers. We already lost a day thinking he was an accidental, more time finding out he left the club alone, and Wild Jim is the last lead. We’ve gotta milk it.”

  During visiting hours, Hennepin County Jail kept at full ballast with a cross section of society that would never mingle in the real world. There was always the predictable, en masse scum, coming to chitchat with significant-other scums; then there was the regular meat-and-potatoes crowd, always a little shell-shocked by having to visit an errant friend or family member in lockup; and, less frequently, the dressed-to-kill cocktail crowd, sporting major attitude and pissed as hell that their lover or spouse had gotten a DUI after drinking too much champagne at an important charity event. It made for excellent sport if you were into people-watching, but as a cop, you got over that brand of voyeurism your first or second day on the job.

  At this hour the lobby was calm, the sign-in deputy was bored, and Magozzi and Gino were relieved. Efficiency was at its peak, and Wild Jim was escorted immediately to the standard Plexiglas booth that was blurry with scratches and fog from the breath of loved ones declaring their heart’s desire through a quarter-inch of plastic.

  The judge looked perfectly lucid, eyes as sharp as they always had been on the bench, blood alcohol notwithstanding. He plunked down on the steel chair across from Magozzi and Gino with a gracious thanks to the jailer who’d escorted him, then lasered in on the both of them without prelude.

  “I remember you, Magozzi. You were in front of me twice. As I recall, you were trying to lock up a couple craven sociopaths that your wife at the time wanted desperately to put back on the streets, for some incomprehensible reason.”

  “She was a public defender.”

  That elicited a snort from Wild Jim. “Bad bedmates, cops and public defenders. But I guess you figured that out.”

  The comment really pissed Magozzi off. It was incredibly bad form to bring up his ugly divorce that had been so painfully public in the law enforcement community, but he had no choice but to humor him. Drunks coming off jags could change like the wind if you pushed the wrong buttons.

  “Come on, where’s your sense of humor, Magozzi? I’ve had five divorces, so that makes you four times smarter than me. Hey, do you know what the difference is between a criminal and a public defender?”

  “No, Judge, I don’t,” Magozzi said flatly.

  “Neither do I!” He busted a gut laughing at his own tired joke, then his eyes honed in on Gino. “And I remember you, too, Rolseth. Only saw you once, but we made a good team. We exterminated some vermin that day, yes indeed. So, Detectives, assuming this isn’t a social call, what can I do for you?”

  “A body was found in the river this morning,” Gino said.

  “Ah. That’s why there were so damn many cops in my front yard. So what happened to the poor schmuck?”

  “Drowned.”

  “And I’m talking to two homicide detectives. Isn’t that interesting.”

  Magozzi ignored the comment. “We understand you may have seen something last night.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the depraved shit I see down by the river, every goddamned night. People having sex, shooting up, smoking crack . . . I don’t know what happened to this city.”

  “Last night specifically,” Magozzi said, trying to get him back on track. “The sergeant running the canvass said you mentioned a commotion.”

  The judge smiled. “Very delicate phrasing, Magozzi. Yes, I told a cop this morning that there was some crazy faggot raising hell down by my river, like usual. Sorry, but I’m not politically correct.”

  “Raising hell? What does that mean?”

  “He was crashing through the brush, yodeling like a coloratura soprano on helium.”

  “Calling for help?” Gino asked.

  Wild Jim leaned back in his chair and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “You know what the problem with this line of questioning is, Detectives? I’m a bourbon aficionado. And when you like Kentucky horse piss as much as I do, memories and recollections are hard to come by. If I saw something, I don’t remember it. All I can tell you is I heard yodeling, then I heard a cop shouting at me to wake up this morning. There’s nothing in between.”

  Magozzi sighed audibly.

  “Don’t look so dejected, my friend. I may be a dissolute drunk, but just because I don’t remember last night right now doesn’t mean I won’t think of something later. So, are you expecting your perp to get into more monkey business down there, maybe return to the scene, or is this a one-off murder?”

  Magozzi and Gino just shrugged noncommitally.

  “Well, there’s my answer. Tell you what—I’m down there every night anyhow. I’ll be your eyes and ears. And I know where to find you.”

  “We wouldn’t recommend night walks by the river for a while.”

  The judge smiled. “I’m sure I’ll have plenty of company. You cops always blanket an area after a homicide, at least for a week or two. By the way, am I a suspect?”

  “Should you be?”

  “Absolutely. Anybody down by that river last night should be a suspect, but I don’t have to tell you that. Anything else you need to know?”

  Magozzi looked straight at him. “Yeah. What happened to the respected judge who sat on the bench, handing out justice for twenty years?”

  The judge looked surprised. “Nothing happened to that respected judge. You’re looking at him. I sat on the bench handing out justice for twenty years, and for every one of them I was drunk out of my mind. Kind of puts a wrinkle in the robe, doesn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 10

  CLINT RAN HIS RED PEN DOWN THE LIST NEXT TO HIS computer, crossing off the items he’d completed one by one. Feed Ruffian. Eat supper. Wash dishes. Code post.

  If you’re too stupid to remember your chores, write them down, Clinton.

  The only valuable advice from the dead bitch who claimed to have borne him, although the thought of such a thing still made him sick to his stomach. To have lived in the sagging, bloated belly of such a creature was more than he could imagine.

  He put a gold star on the last of the one-page essays the dear children had written in class today, then crossed “grade papers” off his list. Perhaps the gold star hadn’t been earned in this case—certainly not grammatically—but this particular boy always tried so hard, and needed a pat on the back every now and then.

  He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands together, then keyed in the magic that would send away the post he had coded earlier. The anticipation began the moment he pushed the last key. It filled him with energy, and made him jump up from his chair. Two more items on the list: Walk Ruffian; Chesterfield’s. He could hardly wait to cross off the last one.

  “Ready for your walk, boy?”

  The golden retriever rose heavily from his bed next to the desk, but he wagged his tail as he walked to where his leash hung on the hook by the door. He was old for his breed, and his beloved nightly walk took longer as the arthritis got worse. Clint didn’t mind the extra time. It was still too early, and he had a few hours to kill.

  MARIAN PUT AWAY HER mop and
bucket, took a last swipe at the bar with her rag, checked the final load of glasses, and started turning out the lights. On nights like this, when she was especially anxious to get home, there seemed to be a million switches: one hooked to the mirror lights that reflected the polished bottles; another for the window lights; then the interior neon signs. “This is ridiculous, Bert. Get an electrician in here and put these all on one circuit. I spend ten minutes every night shutting them off.”

  “Can’t.” Bert was already at the door, receipt wallet under his arm, hand on the knob. “All these lights on one circuit and this place would blow like a two-dollar whore. The electric’s way below code.”

  “They’re going to nail you on that one of these days and shut this place down, and there goes Alissa’s college fund.”

  Bert snorted. “They’re not going to nail us on any damn thing. Cheetah Bacheeta did some lip service to our noble inspector in the can one night, and I got it on film.”

  Marian rolled her head to release the tension in her neck. She didn’t understand the world anymore. All men were pigs, and the system sucked. “Jeez, Bert, you are the slimiest of slimes.”

  “Maybe. But Alissa’s going to college, and I’m all over that. Any acceptance letters yet?”

  Marian smiled. “A couple. She’s waiting for Barnard.”

  “What’s Barnard?”

  “The grand prize.”

  Bert chuckled and reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Big bills, even for a weekend night. “Tips, baby, for Alissa’s tuition.”

  Marian thumbed through a few of them and made her mouth hard. She could take all the crap the guys dished out here every night without blinking, but kindness always brought her up short. “Christ. I didn’t even blow any of the guys here tonight.”

  “Yeah, well, there you go.”

  “Bert?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How many times have I got to tell you not to walk out of here with that receipt wallet? You’re going to get mugged one of these nights. Everyone in town knows you take the cash home.”

  “Everyone in this town loves me, doll baby. Kiss the kid going to college for me. Tell her the boys all want to see her down here before she shakes the dust of this town off her shoes. You gonna lock up?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Marian wiped at her cheek as Bert walked out the door. She was dead tired. Six days a week for fifteen years she’d worked two shifts at the diner; then the night shift here at the bar, and most of the time she felt like she was being pulled through a knothole backwards. But Alissa was going to college, by God, and that was the brass ring.

  By the time she locked up and the worn heels of her cowboy boots clicked across the empty parking lot, the stars were out, shining on who she was and what she’d done, and the moon looked surprised. Maybe, she thought, it didn’t matter so much what you did as what you made happen for somebody else. Like your kid.

  She knew Alissa was already asleep. She also knew that there would be a freshly baked, beautifully decorated chocolate-almond cake on the scarred, shabby kitchen counter, because the kid baked a birthday cake for her mother every year. There was some guilt wrapped up in that, because Marian had always had three jobs to support them, and no time to be Betty Crocker. Alissa had jumped into the role. There would be forty candles on the top of the cake, and some sloppy sentiment written on the brown icing, and wrapped presents around it with curlicue ribbons.

  Marian’s face had weathered and hardened into a mask that no man would want; her knees were bad and her hips were shot, and most of the time she couldn’t feel her fingers from all those years carrying the heavy trays; and still she figured she was the luckiest woman in the world.

  Dew sparkled on the windshield of the old Ford Tempo, lighting her way, and made Christmas in July on the spruce that towered around the slab of tar cut into the forest. “How lucky are you?” she whispered to herself, key out to unlock the door, heart open to the blessings of her life, and even when she saw the tripod with its mounted camera, and felt the hand on her shoulder and the cold knife on her throat, she couldn’t imagine that this could be anything bad.

  CHAPTER 11

  GINO HAD THE PASSENGER SEAT OF THE CADILLAC ON FULL recline, but his eyes were wide open. Magozzi kept glancing over to make sure he blinked.

  “Close your eyes, for God’s sake. You look like you’re dead.”

  “I am dead, or might as well be, and I am never going out with you after dark again. First you take me to a drag club, then to some poor dead sap’s apartment so I can see the sorry remains of his sorry life, then to the county jail. Christ. I had a better time at my vasectomy. What time did you drop me off?”

  “Four a.m.”

  “And what time did you pick me up?”

  “Seven-thirty, just like always. Jeez, Gino, you got three hours. What are you complaining about?”

  “No, I did not get three hours, because the little man toddled into our bedroom at a quarter after five and hurled all over me. Why do little kids get the flu all the time? It’s not even flu season. It pisses me off. And why do we have to get up and work our regular shift when we worked all night? They don’t let pilots do that. So many hours in the air, you gotta take so many hours off. Shit. Even truck drivers have rules like that. But cops? Nah. No sleep? No problem. Load your weapon and get out there. I’m an armed man with a brain you could stir with a straw. Now, that’s just plain stupid.”

  Magozzi yawned. “Tell you what. I got three hours’ sleep. Ask me before you shoot somebody.”

  “Okay.”

  Magozzi pulled onto Summit Avenue, and a few blocks later through the open wrought-iron gate of Harley’s driveway. “Up and at ’em, partner. Time for our playdate with the Feeb.”

  “You’re not going to go off on this guy and get us thrown in the pen, are you?”

  “You want me to make nice with a Fed? Your onions fall off in the shower or what?”

  “This is a little Fed. A hapless soldier. He didn’t make the decision not to pull cops in earlier. Besides, I’m too weak to referee one of your pissing matches.” He got out of the car and stretched, looking around. “Man, I keep forgetting to get the name of Harley’s gardener. Look at those peonies. They’re just about enough to break your heart. You know what I think of when I see peonies? Cheer-leaders. Don’t ask me why.”

  “I will not. I promise.”

  Gino veered to the right of the walk and tromped across Harley’s perfect lawn to the koi pond, his favorite feature of the house. He pulled a bag of miniature marshmallows out of his pocket and tossed a few in the water, then started humming the Jaws theme music while he waited for the feeding frenzy. After a few seconds he called over his shoulder. “Hey, Leo. These guys aren’t moving today.”

  Magozzi sighed and joined him at the pond’s edge. “Of course they’re not moving. They’re dead. That’s why they’re floating on their sides.”

  “Aw, shit. I loved those big guys. What do you suppose killed them?”

  “Marshmallows.”

  “Now that was just plain mean.”

  As far as Gino was concerned, the really cool thing about coming to Harley’s mansion in the morning was that it always smelled like his grandmother’s house. Which meant that it smelled like animal fat. This was not permissible breakfast food in the home he loved so much, because Angela wanted him to live forever instead of letting him die young, fat, and happy. Bacon, sausage, the occasional flat steak, sometimes pork—these were the aromas that filled his memory, reminding him of Grandma’s oak table and tin sink and the cast-iron pan spitting grease on an old wood-burning stove. Every time he showed up here in the morning he half-expected Harley to show up in an apron with yellow sunflowers and crinkly gray hair pulled back into a bun.

  Grace was waiting for them in the breakfast room, her eyes fixed on the cup of coffee that was cradled between her hands. Gino wanted desperately to hate this woman, because she messed with the mind of
the best friend he would ever have in this life; but there was something about her that tugged at him.

  “You had food of the gods for breakfast,” he said with a smile, and Grace nodded.

  “Harley cooked cholesterol. He knew you were coming. By the way, we checked the dates on the murders confirmed so far, including your river bride. Lots of time between all of them, so your traveler theory is still alive, Gino.” She looked back at Magozzi. “Any breaks with the river body?”

  “Nope. We got an ID on the guy, a time line that shows him leaving a club alone, and the last person who saw him alive is a pickled judge who can’t remember his own name half the time. How about you? Any luck tracing the film?”

  She shook her head. “Nobody’s been able to trace it. We think that tactic is a dead end—whoever did this is too good to leave tracks.

  “Did you bring our films?”

  Magozzi patted his sports-coat pocket. “Ten bodies, some fresh, some not so fresh, just like you asked. It was a pretty weird request, Grace.”

  “If Roadrunner’s idea works, these disks are going to teach our software program how to tell if a murder is real or staged. He can explain it better than I can. How long can we keep them?”

  “No real hurry, all the cases are cleared. But I signed for them, and they have to go back to the locker eventually, so don’t give them to your pet Fed.”

  She gifted him with her rarest of expressions—a tiny, one-sided smile. “You’re going to like Agent Smith. He reminds me a lot of you. Now, can I have the disks? We need to get started. Food’s still warm in the kitchen if you want to load a plate to bring upstairs.”

  Gino did a drill turn toward the kitchen, but Magozzi stopped him.

  “Maybe later. We’ll meet with Smith first.”

  Charlie was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, floppy ears trying to stand erect, stubby tail trying to make a breeze. He went for Gino first, as he always did, standing on his hind legs so his tongue could reach the man’s face. “This dog really loves me.”