The Sixth Idea

by P. J. Tracy

  “Christ. You ever notice that for a woman with bars on all her windows, she jumps into dangerous situations at the drop of a hat?You ever think she has a death wish?”

  “I think she has motives we’ll never understand.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I promised her I’d call Malcherson.”

  Gino looked away and nudged a chunk of dirty snow that had fallen off his wheel well with a wet plop. “Shit. Did Dahl call you back yet?”

  Magozzi shook his head. “I called from a burner phone. Maybe his supersecret Fed phone blocks unlisted numbers.”

  “Or maybe he doesn’t want to talk to us. Last time he got involved with us, we dragged him up to an Indian reservation in northern Minnesota during the worst blizzard in fifty years to sort through the bodies of a bunch of dead terrorists.”

  “There is that.” Magozzi shoved his hand in the pocket of his overcoat when he heard his phone buzzing. “Malcherson,” he told Gino. “Chief, have you met with Shafer yet?”

  “I’m on my way. Are there any new developments I should know about before I speak with him?”

  “Well, actually, sir, there is. Monkeewrench wanted me to run something by you.”

  Malcherson grunted. “I certainly hope it doesn’t involve MI-6.”

  Magozzi opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut. On rare occasions, the chief toyed with humor and sarcasm, but Magozzi wasn’t sure if this was one of those occasions—he was never really sure—so he answered straight, like always. “No sir, nothing like that.”

  He told the chief what Grace had told him, and not once did he interrupt with questions or protests or challenges—he just listened, processing and carefully considering the information as it was fed to him. Malcherson was probably one of the last critical thinkers alive.

  “I will mention this to Special Agent in Charge Shafer,” he finally said once Magozzi had finished. “But as you pointed out, the decision ultimately rests with Ms. Ascher, and she should be informed of every possible choice before she makes that decision. Let me find out what the FBI has to offer and if they would even provide support outside one of their facilities. There are also policy and legal implications at play here.”

  Magozzi hung up and looked at Gino. “He’ll call us back.”

  McLaren was already at his desk when Magozzi and Gino slogged into Homicide. He looked particularly undone this morning, his red hair showing deep, ragged furrows where his fingers had been dragging through it, a clashing, weirdly knotted red and green plaid tie hanging loosely askew around the collar of his wrinkled shirt. “One single frigging break on the Alvin Keller case,” he greeted them dourly. “And no thanks to the news—Miami just had a blackout, so for sure we’ve got a global catastrophe on our hands, no time for reporting on a boring missing person.”

  “What’s the break on Keller?”

  “Someone just found his body in Curtis Park. But nothing on Arthur Friedman.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  This is not a park,” Gino groused, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his parka pockets, watching his silly little loafers slog through four inches of newly fallen snow.

  “Of course it’s a park. See the sign? Curtis Park. What’s your beef?”

  “Parks have plowed sidewalks. Trimmed trees. Lakes and paths and shit. Look at this place. See those dead brown vines choking the trees to death? Woodbine, the northern kudzu. Every homeowner knows you rip those things out when they’re babies or they’ll kill your trees and maybe kidnap your children. And look at my loafers. They’re going to rot by lunchtime and I’ll probably freeze my feet off and have to walk on my ankles for the rest of my life.”

  “You have boots in your locker. And free will, which for some reason you decided not to exercise this morning.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy, Leo, but you don’t get it. I’m a married man. When you get married, you lose all free will and rely on your wife to make sure you’re dressed properly for the weather and occasion.”

  “That’s pathetic. Do you lose all cognitive function when you get married, too?”

  “Pretty much. At least when it comes to dressing yourself.”

  “I’ll make you a cheat sheet—snow plus loafers equals cold, wet feet. Proceed to locker for appropriate attire before venturing outside.”

  Magozzi couldn’t tell if Gino was amused or annoyed; maybe a little of both. But it didn’t really matter—Gino would air his complaints about anything, anytime, no matter what, and Magozzi would continue to parry with his limited scope of influence. It was a perfect symbiosis.

  They finally found the bench, deep into this five-acre pretend park. A mastodon patrolman guarded the bench and the dead man on it with a stoic stance and a fiercely protective countenance that would have frightened pit bulls. High school wrestler, Magozzi thought. Long torso, massive arms, short, powerful legs, and so gung-ho and new to the job he was still in that phase where you thought you could actually make a difference. In stark contrast was the frail body of Alvin Keller, oddly covered with a blanket, a towel tucked beneath his head.

  “Excellent catch, Patrolman Snyder.”

  “Thank you, Detective Magozzi. My pleasure to serve.”

  He sounded like a veteran, and probably was—lately, they’d been the best additions to the force in a long time. “Do you have anything for us?”

  “Yes sir. This is exactly how I found him. I recognized his face from the BOLO. Doesn’t look like foul play, but I didn’t touch anything or move the blanket.” He took a long look at the man on the bench. “He looks like he was sick.”

  “He was dying of ALS.”

  Snyder’s face darkened and he took a deep breath. He knows the disease, Magozzi thought.

  “He almost looks . . . peaceful. Maybe he came here to die.”

  Gino walked to the other side of the bench. “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you, Officer. But this man was almost totally paralyzed, and probably kidnapped. Taken from his house and away from his wife of sixty years.”

  Patrolman Snyder dropped his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s strange, though. There was some respect paid here. Why would a kidnapper take the time or care? And why would he put him in a public space like this, almost pose him?”

  “Maybe the kidnapper wanted him to be found.” Magozzi looked at Gino. “He was in bad shape. Heart attack, maybe.”

  Gino got closer to the body and lifted the blanket. “No signs of foul play under here, either. I think you’re probably right about the heart attack, Leo. Poor guy must have been terrified.”

  Magozzi took a long look at Alvin Keller’s very, very white face. The pallor of death accentuated the deep furrows that old age and disease had carved there. And maybe some very dark, unspoken secrets had contributed to those furrows as well.

  He looked down at his phone when it started chirping. “It’s Chief Malcherson. Excuse me, Officer Snyder.”

  Gino stayed with Snyder while Magozzi retreated out of the wind beneath a small clump of birch trees. He’d always thought birch trees were some of the most beautiful things in the natural world, with their chalk-white trunks studded up and down with almond-shaped black eyes. But at the moment those black eyes seemed to be staring at him, accusing him. “Chief.”

  “Detective Magozzi. I just spoke at length with Special Agent in Charge Shafer. He was very alarmed by recent developments.”

  “I’m sure he was. Are the Feds getting involved?”

  “Not officially, at least not yet. But he promised to do everything possible to provide support in the meantime.”

  “Like a safe house for Lydia Ascher?”

  Malcherson cleared his throat. “Ultimately, yes. But she’s not a federal witness yet, Detective. There is strict protocol.”

  Magozzi felt blood creeping up his neck to his face. “Oh. I ge
t it. Just a little too much red tape to save a life, better luck next time. So what’s this support he’s offering? Is he going to crochet us a safe house out of all that red tape in his spare time?”

  Malcherson cleared his throat. “I was candid with him, Detective. He knows what’s at stake, and he knows there is a larger issue at hand that has to be investigated. Delicately. And he has access to certain channels that we don’t.”

  “That larger issue being his career?”

  “Detective,” Malcherson warned.

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but it really bothers me that Shafer acts like he’s God until it inconveniences him to be omnipotent, then he’s just some clueless schlub in a big office, wearing government shackles and playing dumb and helpless.”

  “Those weren’t my exact words to him.”

  Magozzi was a little nonplussed—sometimes it was easy to forget that Malcherson had been on the job for a long, long time before he’d stepped into the muck of political life, and his allegiance would always lie with the men and women serving under him. He’d never really left the trenches. “I owe you an apology, Chief. Paul Shafer has always rubbed me the wrong way, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same about me.”

  “No harm done, Detective. Now, more importantly—Monkeewrench’s offer to shelter Lydia Ascher. I am not remotely comfortable with that, and I certainly can’t condone it.”

  “I feel the same way, but as private citizens, it’s their call. And it’s Lydia Ascher’s call. And with the Feds bailing, it’s her best shot at this point.”

  “I know this is a difficult situation for you, Detective Magozzi. Please, talk to Monkeewrench again, and all of you think this through very carefully before you make the offer to Ms. Ascher, because she would be a fool not to accept.”

  “I will, sir. And if we do end up bringing her to Harley’s, do we have your permission to request some off-duty volunteers to cover the neighborhood?”

  “That won’t be necessary. MPD and St. Paul PD will provide twenty-four-hour coverage if this comes to pass. It seems both our departments have a year-end budget surplus.”

  Magozzi flexed his hands in his frozen gloves and smiled at the black eyes on the birch bark, because they were smiling back at him now. The budget surplus was absolute bullshit; for all he knew, the chief would be paying overtime out of pocket. “I appreciate that, Chief.”

  “Call me when Ms. Ascher makes her decision.”

  Magozzi stared down at the Call Ended message on his phone’s screen, then heard crunching snow behind him as Gino bravely slogged through it in his ruined loafers.

  “What did the chief have to say?”

  “The Feds are out for now, and they’re not offering a safe house to Lydia. That bastard Paul Shafer is stonewalling. Protocol bullshit, he said, which is ass-covering bullshit in plain English.”

  Gino folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Since when does Shafer turn down a date to thunder in on his white steed and save the day?”

  “I think we might be underestimating this whole thing. When Shafer doesn’t dive in headfirst, that means he’s positioning himself. He sees a career maker or a career breaker, and he wants to be on the right side of it when things go down.”

  “So the chief told him enough that his ears are pricked. You think Shafer knows something?”

  “I think Shafer’s on a hunting expedition right now.”

  “What does the chief think about Monkeewrench’s private safe house offer now that the Feds are out?”

  “He hates the idea as much as we do, but said he’d provide additional police support if that’s the way it goes. Twenty-four-hour coverage around Harley’s place. Even Shafer offered to provide additional support, whatever that means.”

  Gino looked up at the dirty gray sky that promised more fits and spurts of snow to brighten everyone’s day. “So is that what we’re going to do?”

  Magozzi followed Gino’s eyes up to the sky. “There are no good choices anymore, Gino, only bad ones.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Lydia flailed awake in the most embarrassing way—her numb, stiff limbs spasmed as if they were trying to claw their way out of a nightmare, and she felt the dreaded trickle of sleep drool drying on her chin—one of the greatest horrors of nodding off in public. The chair she’d fallen asleep in should be classified as a torture device, along with the hospital food she’d eaten earlier, but by God, she was still alive. And so was Deputy Harmon, who was snoring peacefully in the bed beside her chair. She didn’t see any drool on his chin.

  There had been absolutely no question that she would stay at his bedside overnight and keep vigil, even though his wound wasn’t critical. He’d stayed by her side ever since she’d called 911 yesterday, and he’d never left it until the ambulance took him away from the motel. No conscious decision necessary. He was stuck with her until he walked out of this place on his own.

  However, in the light of day, she was beginning to question the benefit of her loyalty. Deputy Harmon had been shot because of her. Wasn’t she putting him in danger again, along with everybody else in the hospital? She suddenly realized that she was a liability to anybody around her.

  She hadn’t cried yesterday—not over Otis, not over the bizarre fact that she was marked for death—most likely, she’d been in shock. But finally, she felt tears dripping down her cheeks and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she heard Deputy Harmon’s groggy voice.

  She looked up at him and smiled through her tears. “And so are you. How are you feeling, Deputy?”

  “My name is Terry.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Hurts like a son of a gun, but I’ll make it through, and so will you.” He reached out for her hand. “I woke up a few times and saw you sleeping in that nasty chair. Were you here all night?”

  “Ever since you got admitted. Hospitals suck, and when you wake up, you should have a friendly face waiting for you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind that my friendly face was asleep.”

  “Best thing I’ve ever seen, asleep or awake. But you’d better get up and get your blood flowing again, take it from me. I don’t know who picks out hospital furniture, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of sadistic dungeon master.”

  “I was just thinking the very same thing.” Lydia stood up and shook the pins and needles out of her arms and legs, wondering who Deputy Harmon—Terry—had watched over from an ergonomically bereft hospital chair. Maybe she would ask him one day.

  There was a soft rap on the door, and then Sheriff Gannet announcing himself through the closed door. He walked in and gave them both reserved smiles, which was probably about as ebullient as he ever got, at least when he was on the job. During this whole ordeal, Lydia had observed a compassionate, competent man; one who took his role as leader very seriously. He wasn’t the guy who was going to slap you on the shoulder, take you out to the golf course and lie to you, tell you everything was going to be okay.

  “Deputy, Ms. Ascher,” he said, nodding. “Everything’s quiet, has been all night. Except for the media—they came in like a plague of locusts. Never thought I’d say this about the media, but I’m glad they’re here. Bad guys don’t always run from the cops, but they’ll always run from a bunch of reporters with cameras.”

  Deputy Harmon pushed himself up, wincing. “Good morning, Sheriff. Did you find the SOB who did this to us?”

  “Yes we did. He’s in the morgue now.”

  Lydia felt a tickling glimmer of hope. Two people had tried to kill her, and they were both dead now. There couldn’t possibly be a third, could there? “Do you know who he is, Sheriff?”

  “Not yet. Ms. Ascher, I talked to the Minneapolis detectives a while ago. They have a safe house in mind for you in the city and they’d like to ta
lk to you about it. They should be here soon. As a matter of fact, I’d better get downstairs to clear them through the lobby.”

  A safe house, Lydia thought. Twenty-four hours ago, her house in the country had been safe, but not anymore.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Lydia didn’t know what to expect from Monkeewrench—the scant news stories about them she’d read in the past described them as reclusive, eccentric computer geniuses who regularly donated their time and software to law enforcement all over the country. Harboring a fugitive target of assassins seemed a little above and beyond the call of philanthropic duty, but according to Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth, Harley Davidson’s mansion was better equipped for the job than a lot of high-security installations.

  Maybe in Monkeewrench’s line of work they were used to threats, maybe even death threats, and extreme personal safety measures were just part and parcel of doing business. Or maybe they were wildly paranoid and as eccentric as the articles had portrayed them. Either way, she was grateful for their offer of shelter, regardless of their motivation. But the most important thing was that they had requested her presence—she was the only one who might have a chance of deciphering any hidden messages in her grandfather’s book. That made her feel like she actually had some control over her own fate and something to contribute to a larger cause—finding justice for Chuck and Wally and Otis and all the other innocents who hadn’t been as lucky as she had been.

  Yep, Lydia Ascher, thrust into crime fighting by her family’s past, would become a superhero and staunch guardian of justice with the help of her little pocket rocket and a pulp fiction novel written by her grandfather. The only problem with that scenario was the novel wasn’t yielding any hidden messages or clues, and she’d been poring over it for the past hour.

  She set the book down on her lap in frustration and took in her surroundings for the twentieth time—it was a beautiful room in a grand home, filled with books, curiosities, and furniture that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of King Ludwig II’s castles.