by P. J. Tracy
“Oh, yeah? Just you wait—they’ll get all fluffed and buffed for the courtroom and their scumbag lawyers will throw down the bright-young-men, second-chance card, and some bleeding-heart jury’s gonna go easy because it’ll be stacked with parents who can envision their own feral offspring doing something just as stupid. It’s a total washout as far as I’m concerned, it’s gonna happen again somewhere else, and probably sometime soon, and meanwhile, nobody remembers that there are films of actual murders getting posted on the Web, and a few pesky maniacs out there playing games with human lives so they can brag to their little cyber-freak buddies about it online.” He took a deep breath. “It’s complete and utter bullshit, and I’m going back to my desk, because there are seven unsolveds that are riding shotgun right now, when they should be driving.”
McLaren stopped drooling over Chelsea Thomas for two seconds and regarded Gino with a candid eye. “You’re really negative this morning, Rolseth.”
“Yeah. I am.” The great thing about Gino was that once he got something off his chest, it was business as usual. “By the way, how did your date go last night?”
McLaren gave them a vague shrug, but didn’t offer any more information, which both Magozzi and Gino took as a good sign. With a guy like McLaren, who ran off at the mouth about how every woman he’d never met wanted to be his love slave, silence was telling. Maybe the little leprechaun might have something going after all.
JOHN SMITH WAS GAZING out the Monkeewrench office window at the same tree that had recently inspired frog genocide thoughts in him. As ambivalent as he’d always been about any sort of flora, he realized he’d grown genuinely fond of this particular tree in the past few days, and he was going to be sorry to leave it.
“What the hell, Smith?” Harley bellowed from the other side of the room, where he and the rest of Monkeewrench were still working. “You hung up with Washington five minutes ago and you’re still staring out the window. Did your boss in D.C. put you in a fugue state of boredom, or is there a naked centerfold out there I should know about?”
Smith smiled a little, then put on his game face before he turned around. “I’ve been called back to Washington. My flight is tomorrow afternoon.” Suddenly, he had four solemn pairs of eyes on him, and he had no idea how to respond to that.
“Seriously?” Roadrunner finally asked.
“Yes.”
The room stayed silent for a few moments, until Harley put his jackboots up on the ledge of his desk and pushed away with a big grin. “Well, then, my friend, tonight is the night for those belly dancers and cigars I promised you. We’re gonna send you out in style.”
Smith nodded graciously. “I appreciate your generosity, but I do have things to attend to . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You have to get back to your shit-bag motel and prepare for a debriefing, whatever. Do it hungover on the plane tomorrow, dude. Tonight, you’re ours.”
Smith’s mind quickly flashed through his time spent here with these strange and brilliant people, and every slippery-slope step he’d taken along the way; then he thought again about the tree and the frogs and the bad people he was fighting, hand in hand with good people who seemed to have their own definition of justice, and their own way of administering it.
“I would be honored,” he finally said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to invite Detectives Rolseth and Magozzi as well.”
Grace smiled at him. “I’ll call them.”
When Magozzi saw Grace’s name on his cell, he lunged for it and knocked it off the desk.
Gino glanced over at his partner scrambling after it on his hands and knees and nudged McLaren. “Grace,” he said, and McLaren nodded.
“That’s really sad.”
“Kind of.”
Magozzi finally caught his sliding cell and flipped them the bird as he answered. “MPD Homicide, Magozzi.”
“Very dignified, Magozzi.”
“I am a very dignified man,” he said from the floor, and Gino burst out laughing.
“Two things, Magozzi. First, John’s been called back to D.C. tomorrow so we’re taking him out for a farewell dinner. He specifically asked for you and Gino to come along.”
God, he loved listening to her voice. He felt a slobbering moon face coming on and stiffened his jaw so he’d look macho. “I guess we could do that. What restaurant?”
“That Greek place on Kellogg.”
“I don’t think I like Greek food. That’s the stuff with the funny olives that taste bad, right?”
“It’s Greek/Mediterranean/American. They’ve got squab. You like squab.”
“I love squab. Remind me again, is that a fish or a mammal?”
Grace chuckled. “It’s a bird.”
“Oh, right. What was the second thing?”
“I’m faxing you a thread from a creepy website Huttinger visited all the time. We think it might be how this whole series of Web murders started. Somebody put up a virtual hit list—every victim’s name and location, posted before any of the murders happened.”
“Holy cow. Can you trace whoever put it up?”
“No, not a prayer.” She was quiet for a moment. “But . . . we’re working on something. See you at nine.”
CHAPTER 39
JUDGE JIM HADN’T DRIVEN MUCH SINCE HIS LAST REVOCATION due to an unfortunate alcohol-related traffic incident a few years back, but damned if his big SUV didn’t fire right up—a testament to the importance of a superior battery. But now that he was back behind the wheel again, he remembered how much he loved cruising the freeway with all the windows wide open, the sublime, aftermarket sound system cranked up to ear-bleed level. It brought him right back to his high school days, when he’d worked summers as a bag boy at the SmartMart in Bemidji—the day he’d quit that job was the day he’d finally earned enough money to upgrade the stereo in his green, Bondo-bucket, AMC Rebel.
This morning, he was in a much pricier vehicle, with a much pricier stereo, but the feeling was the same as when he’d been sixteen. He’d selected the overture to Tannhäuser as the theme music of the day—a piece he felt was the perfect accompaniment to his ultimate and impending victory over a grave injustice that desperately needed rectifying.
His former yard looked fairly well kept, which was a surprise; in fact, there were even some new plantings in the gardens. Perhaps Number Four had actually sacrificed a modest portion of her generous monthly subsidy to invest in a little home improvement. Why she would do such a sensible thing was beyond him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the age and physique of the gardener who’d been responsible, because she would die before she lifted a shovel or touched dirt of any kind.
There was also a new sprinkler system—he’d learned that the hard way, tripping over one of the heads during his relocation project.
The chair was heavy, but in this glorious moment of final closure, he felt like he could lift the world. Once the Corbusier was in place, near the bay windows of the sitting room, he looked to the sky with a big smile, then looked to his fly with an even bigger smile, and proceeded to engage a sprinkler system of his own.
“JUDGE, YOU’RE KILLING US.”
“That wasn’t my intention. Do I know you?”
The young officer sighed. “Probably not, but I sure know you. You make way too much work for us.”
“I’ve heard something along those lines from a couple detectives with whom I’m rather well acquainted.”
“Right. Look, I can haul you in for indecent exposure, public urination, vandalism, trespassing, illegally disposing of property, driving after revocation . . .”
“And that’s all?”
The officer was clearly frustrated, but he kept his wits, which Wild Jim appreciated.
“Listen, Officer. I understand your aggravation, and I want you and all of the MPD to know that this was my last act of childish rebellion. And that is a solemn promise. Justice has been served, finally, at least in my world. So, if you can find a w
ay in your heart to grant me a reprieve, you won’t be doing forty hours of paperwork.”
The cop shook his head. “You just had to urinate on your ex’s lawn?”
The judge smiled. “Technically, I pissed on a piece of my property I was magnanimously gifting to her. And sometimes, spontaneous urination just can’t be helped. You’re too young to be suffering from prostate maladies, but I have occasional incontinence issues.”
The officer kept his face stony, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “I have an ex-wife, too.”
“Ah. So perhaps you understand my bladder-control problems after all.”
After his near scrape with the law, and an hour or so spent navigating a significant amount of bureaucracy and the wrath of Number Four, Judge Jim retreated to his condo. He changed into his best black suit, which had been languishing in a plastic dry-cleaning bag in his closet for God-knew-how-long, poured himself a brand-new bourbon he’d selected from the connoisseur’s stock at Cherry Hill Fine Wine and Spirits, and, at last, began tidying things up once and for all.
He spent the remaining portion of the day organizing some very interesting documents he’d recently compiled, then carefully arranged them in an accordion file, which he stuffed into a duffel bag; he cleaned and oiled his Winchester rifle, which also fit nicely inside the duffel bag; and then he made dinner reservations at his favorite seafood restaurant. Last on his punch list were two phone calls, one of which would have to wait until the last possible moment.
There was nothing left to do before dinner, so he refilled his glass, lit his best cigar, and wandered through his condo, thinking of the time he’d spent here. It hadn’t been a bad place. In fact, it had been rather convenient, and the Mississippi River view was unparalleled. And without the ominous presence of the Corbusier continually monopolizing the space and his mind, the living room looked so much better; elegant, even. Maybe there was something to that whole feng shui nonsense. Damnit, he should have gotten rid of the thing a long time ago.
The final stop of his own home tour was at the photo shrine of his son—the only part of the condo he would truly miss. He reverently picked up his favorite picture, the one where he and Jessie were mugging for the camera on the eighteenth green of Woodland Hills Country Club. The little shit had actually whacked a hole in one that day. It was like all the luck he’d ever have was funneled into that very last game of golf, into that very last, eighteenth, cup. God, life was strange.
He ran his fingers over the glass, then at the last minute, decided to put the photograph in the duffel bag along with the gun and the files.
CHAPTER 40
IT WASN’T AN IRISH PUB, BUT MAGOZZI WAS HAPPY ENOUGH to be within spitting distance of Grace MacBride for a change, although she seemed a little distracted. Magozzi took it personally, of course, but there was the promise of great food, the certainty of great wine, since Harley had brought a few bottles from his famous cellar, and scantily clad women already on the stage and weaving through the tables of the restaurant and bar, so the brush-off was mitigated. Slightly.
They were all jammed together in an entry with four thousand of their closest friends, most of whom would certainly get a table before they did, since they had arrived first. Magozzi cozied up to Roadrunner, who was painfully shy at confronting strangers one-on-one, and yet totally comfortable in crowds where he wasn’t likely to be singled out. “I don’t get it, Roadrunner. Mr. Foodie at a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations? What happened to the chef’stable treatment? Where are the minions kneeling at our feet with caviar and foie gras?”
Roadrunner was resplendent and clearly tickled to be out of jeans and back to normal in navy-blue Lycra. “Actually, we’ve never been here before. The food could suck, but Harley promised John belly dancers.”
Magozzi looked at him. “John? Would that be Special Agent John Smith of the FBI? Mr. Straight and Narrow?”
Roadrunner chuckled. “He’s not so bad. And he’s probably never seen a belly dancer up close and personal. It was more of a threat than a promise.”
“Terrific. Happy to hear you’re all bonding with your old enemies. But the thing is, there isn’t a woman in the world, I don’t care what she can do with her belly, that’s going to risk coming close to Smith with Grace hanging on to his arm like that.”
Roadrunner glanced over at the twosome, heads tipped together as they tried to talk over the din. “They cooked together and have been pretty chummy ever since. I think Grace likes him, and you know her, she doesn’t like anybody. Kind of a happy moment to see her moving beyond the tight circle, isn’t it? Like she’s letting go of something.”
Magozzi glowered. “It’s just so goddamn precious it makes me want to puke. I mean, he’s good at his job, and he kind of grows on you, but the guy’s a million years old.”
Roadrunner gave him an alarmed look. “Jeez, Magozzi, I didn’t mean she liked him like that. More of a father-daughter kind of thing.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. All I care about is when we’re going to get to eat. I’m starving.”
“The hostess said half an hour after Harley tucked a wad of bills in her halter top. We’re supposed to wait in the bar.”
“So where the hell is the bar? Maybe they’ve got pretzels.”
Roadrunner pointed the way, but stayed in the entry, watching the dancers.
They didn’t have pretzels in the little room with its zinc bar and blue mystery bottles reflecting in a mirror, but they were developing a very healthy respect for Gino, who had no compunction whatsoever about flashing his badge and demanding any kind of food that wouldn’t eat him first. Magozzi came up next to his partner and clapped his hand on his shoulder.
“Thank God. Reinforcements,” Gino said. “What kind of place is this, Leo? They got dancers with little jiggly bellies they sure as hell didn’t get here, ’cause there’s no food and I’m about to eat my hand. Now, I don’t mind showing my face at a farewell dinner for Smith, but for chrissakes I’m not sleeping with the guy, so there’d better be something to eat.”
“Tell me about it. Six o’clock, latest Mom ever had dinner on the table, and Pop nearly had apoplexy. I’m telling you, the world is going to hell when dinnertime jumps past when the kids go to bed.”
Gino nodded a chin starting to bristle this many hours past the last shave. “Let us become inebriated as quickly as possible, and toast the days when you ate supper and still had time for baseball in the corner lot before dark. Do you realize it’s past nine?”
“I do.”
The bartender brought out a plate of tiny little meatballs on a stick propped on a bowl of white stuff with green flecks and set it in front of Gino with an arrogant flourish. “Sir,” he said snippily.
Gino scowled down at the meager offering and opened his sport coat to show his gun. “Listen, you little puke. I am MPD Homicide and today I have saved the world. These are not meatballs. They’re dots on a toothpick. Now get your ass back to the kitchen and try harder.”
The barkeep had a lot of white around his dark eyes when he opened them that wide and backed away.
Surprisingly, it was relatively quiet in the little room off the entry. Most of the patrons collected their drinks and carried them out to the main room so they could watch the belly dancers.
“Detectives.”
Magozzi jumped at the voice behind him and the hand on his shoulder, and spun to see Special Agent John Smith, who had been standing too goddamn close to Grace.
“I want you to know it has been a privilege and an honor to watch real law enforcement at work, and I thank you both for the opportunity to witness it. And Detective Magozzi, you are the most fortunate of men. You have the affection of a most extraordinary woman, which is in itself the accomplishment of a lifetime.”
Magozzi felt like a cartoon character with his mouth hanging open like that, and all he could do was nod like one of those stupid plastic birds on the glassy edge of a killer tropical drink. Happily, the bartender returned at that mo
ment with a platter of giant meatballs and a gravy boat of the white stuff with green flecks. Gino dug in without breathing.
“Okay, guys, I don’t know what the hell this is, but it ain’t bad. Barkeep, you’re the man. Give us three big ones of whatever alcohol goes with this stuff.”
The bartender, probably remembering his glimpse of Gino’s weapon, almost bowed. “It’s lamb kabobs, sir, with cucumber sauce, most frequently accompanied with ouzo.”
“Well, it’s friggin’ excellent, is what it is. Bring us some of that oo-stuff to go with it.”
Magozzi had his hand around a narrow glass of the oo-stuff when his cell vibrated against his hip. He flipped it open, frowned at the readout, and waited for the caller to identify himself.
When you were a cop and got a call from an unfamiliar number on your personal cell, you didn’t say anything until you knew who was on the other end. A county deputy in Alexandria had made that mistake five years ago while he was running regular rounds of the local bars, checking for underage drinkers. He answered his cell with his name, and a drunken ex-con with a grudge, a snootful, and a long memory for the name of the cop who had put him in Stillwater promptly shot him in the back. The shooter got twenty years and the deputy got a bagpipe funeral.
“Good evening, Detective Magozzi. This is Judge James Bukowski.”
That made Magozzi unhappy. The man was getting intrusive, taking advantage. “How’d you get this number, Judge?”
He heard the judge sigh just before a belly dancer literally bellied up to the bar next to John and jingled her bells and clicked her little metal clackers at him. Magozzi backed away a few paces.
“How I got your private number is irrelevant, Detective. Please pretend for a moment that I might be a man with something important to say, and listen very carefully. We don’t have much time.”
“I’m listening.”
“Would you mind giving me your approximate location?”