Live Bait

by P. J. Tracy

  Magozzi scowled and reached for the bottle of wine. Maybe if he got her drunk she’d stop making sense.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad we could help, and those cases were good tests for the software. Helped us work out the kinks. But there are people out there killing right now, and here we are, working your cold cases, sitting on a program that just might be able to save some lives.’

  Magozzi looked her straight in the eye. ‘I’m Italian. I’m absolutely immune to guilt. You, obviously, are not.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that this is your penance. You all still blame yourselves for the Monkeewrench murders.’

  Grace winced. Monkeewrench had been the name of their software company, at least until it also became the media name for a killer, and a series of senseless murders that had nearly paralyzed Minneapolis last fall. They’d been trying to think of a new name ever since.

  ‘Of course we blame ourselves,’ she said quietly. ‘How could we not? But whatever our motivation, this is a good thing, Magozzi, and you know it.’ She held a strawberry up to his mouth and watched, mesmerized, as he took a bite. This was the most intimate, overtly sexual moment Magozzi had ever had with Grace, and it scattered his frustrations like a shotgun blast. God, he hated being so shallow.

  She almost smiled again. ‘So you will look in on Jackson?’

  One more strawberry like that, and I’ll adopt him, he thought, but what he said was, ‘I can’t believe you’re going to abandon that poor, motherless child.’

  ‘He has a very nice foster mother. He says she’s growing on him, even if she is white.’

  ‘That kid worships you, Grace. He’s here every single day. You can’t just run away from attachments like that…’ And then he stopped talking, wondering if that wasn’t also part of the reason she’d decided to take the software company on the road. Attachments were the most dangerous things of all, because someday they might lead to trust and maybe even love, and in Grace’s brutal past, people you loved and trusted almost always tried to kill you.

  ‘It won’t be for a few days,’ Grace tried to appease him without a strawberry. ‘They finished the custom work on the RV today, but Harley and Roadrunner still have to install all the electronics.’

  Magozzi drained his wineglass and reached for the bottle again. ‘A few lousy days? Goddamnit, Grace, people give employers more notice than that. It’s too soon. I could hurry up the seduction thing. I haven’t even seen your ankles yet. Do you have ankles?’

  Her eyes dropped to the tall English riding boots she’d worn every day of her life for over ten years, because back then there had been a man who slashed the Achilles tendons of his victims so they couldn’t run away. ‘I’ll come back, Magozzi.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I can take off the boots.’

  Harley Davidson lived less than half a mile from Grace, in the only neighborhood in the Twin Cities he deemed suitable for a man of his wealth and taste.

  Nowhere was St Paul’s reverence for the past more apparent than on prestigious Summit Avenue, a broad, tree-filled boulevard that rambled from the river bluffs to the edge of downtown.

  At the turn of the century, timber, railroad, and milling barons had settled in this area, erecting vast, imposing mansions on the bluffs and up and down Summit, each newcomer trying to outdo those who had come before. A century later, many of the mansions were still intact and lovingly restored, either by descendants who hadn’t squandered the family fortune, the Minnesota Historical Society, or the newly wealthy.

  Harley was one such newly wealthy Summit Avenue homeowner, much to the dismay of some of his ultraconservative neighbors. He often stomped the streets on pleasant evenings, an enormous, muscular man in leathers and motorcycle boots, his full black beard and ponytail bouncing with the weight of his steps. A frightening visage to residents, and that was before they got close enough to see the tattoos.

  His house was a turreted, red sandstone monstrosity that was surrounded by a tall, wrought-iron fence with spikes large enough to skewer a bull elephant, but a step inside the massive front doors was like walking into a Bavarian castle from a Grimm brothers’ fairy tale. Ten thousand square feet of imported crystal chandeliers, exquisite antique furniture as oversized as the man who owned it, and dark, hand-carved wood from a bygone era that gleamed like ‘a Spanish whore’s eyes,’ as Harley put it, which explained a lot about why his neighbors took offense at his presence. He had a sound system that would knock your socks off piped through the entire mansion, which played non-stop hard rock or opera, depending on whether or not he was alone, because sometimes opera made Harley Davidson weep.

  Last October, after the bloodbath at the Monkeewrench loft office, they’d moved the company to temporary quarters on Harley’s third floor while they worked on FLEE. Up until the day Annie had taken off for Arizona last week, he’d had Grace, Annie, and Roadrunner in his house all day every day for almost six months, and now he was pushing to make the arrangement permanent. Even after everyone left in the evening, the scents and sounds of all of them seemed to linger in the big old house, making it feel as though a family lived there, and Harley liked the feeling.

  Tonight he and Roadrunner were in the carriage house – a two-story marvel with a cobblestone floor and tongue-and-groove oak paneling that ran up the walls into the arches of the cathedral ceiling. There were crystal chandeliers in here, too, which Roadrunner found ridiculously excessive. Besides, he missed the horse stalls and second-floor grooms’ apartments that had been in here when Harley bought the place.

  Right now the enormous space that had once housed carriages, cutters, and the animals to pull them, was home to a very different kind of horsepower. The RV had been delivered today, custom work finally completed. It was a silver-skinned, tinted-glass behemoth, and it just looked wrong in this place.

  ‘It looks like a bus.’ Roadrunner was standing in front of the vehicle, spider arms akimbo, his eyes almost level with the vast expanse of the windshield, which was six and a half feet off the ground. He’d ridden his old ten-speed over from Minneapolis, just for the extra workout, and was wearing one of the Lycra biking suits he wore every single day – a black one tonight, because he was anticipating dirty work.

  ‘It is not a bus. Do not call it a bus. Technically, it is a luxury motor coach, and her name is Chariot.’

  Roadrunner rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you have to name inanimate objects all the time? I hate that. Everything from your house to your dick.’

  ‘My dick is not inanimate.’

  ‘Sez you. If you’re going to spend all your free time thinking up names, think up a new one for the company, why don’t you.’

  ‘I’ve been racking my brain over that one for six months. How do you rename Monkeewrench? It’s like… sacrilege, or something.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Like renaming a ten-year-old kid.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But we have to do it.’

  ‘I guess.’

  None of them were happy about changing the company name. They’d been Monkeewrench for over ten years now, and the moniker had become part of their identities.

  ‘Gecko,’ Roadrunner said abruptly.

  ‘Was that a sneeze?’

  ‘Gecko. We should call it Gecko, Incorporated.’

  Harley’s mouth made a circle of disbelief in the black frame of his beard. ‘Are you out of your friggin’ mind? It’s a goddamned lizard.’

  Roadrunner shrugged. ‘It continues the animal theme. I think it’s good.’

  Harley opened the big hydraulic door and stomped up the steps in disgust. ‘Yeah, well if that’s the direction you’re going, then I think we should just name it after you and call it Dipshit.’

  Roadrunner pouted up the stairs after him, but quickly forgot about his wounded pride the minute he stepped inside the plush interior and took a look around. Thick, buttery soft carpets covered the floor, overstuffed down sofas huddled around a gleaming wooden tab
le like silk-covered marshmallows, the spacious kitchen had granite countertops and sparkling chrome fixtures, and there was polished teak everywhere.

  Harley folded his arms across his massive chest, a size extra-large smile plastered across his face. ‘So what do you think, little buddy? Looks more like Buckingham Palace than something with wheels, huh?’

  Roadrunner’s eyes were as wide as a kid’s on Christmas morning. ‘Wow, this is awesome. I really like all the wood.’

  Harley shrugged modestly. ‘I was sort of going for a yacht look without all the nautical crap. Come on, I’ll show you the rest. We haven’t gotten to the best part.’

  Roadrunner followed him down the length of the RV, stopping briefly to marvel at a large bathroom complete with a full-sized shower and tub. At the far end of the rig was what Harley called the pièce de résistance – an enormous bedroom that had been stripped out and converted into an office. There were four computer workstations, a wall of equipment racks, and a mini-kitchen outfitted with a wine cooler and cigar humidor for Harley; a top-of-the-line, pro-model coffee/espresso maker for Roadrunner.

  ‘This is where our mobile command center is going, my friend. We are going to kick some ass and bust some balls from right here. Bad guys all across the country are quaking in fear as we speak.’

  Roadrunner finally managed to tear himself away from the coffeemaker. ‘Man, Grace and Annie are going to freak when they see this thing. Where is Grace, anyhow? I thought for sure she’d be over here to check it out.’

  ‘Couldn’t make it tonight. She’s at her love palace with the Italian Stallion.’

  ‘You mean Magozzi?’ Roadrunner asked skeptically.

  ‘Yeah, who else?’

  He thought about that for a minute. ‘You think they’re in love?’

  Harley gaped at him in disbelief. ‘You just get a news flash, genius? Where the hell have you been for the past six months? Of course they’re in love.’

  Roadrunner’s lower lip curled down in that tragic, wounded expression he always got when he thought he’d been left out of something. ‘I’ve never even seen them hold hands. I thought they were just friends.’

  Harley rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, this isn’t think-tank material, Roadrunner. It doesn’t take more than a heartbeat and one functioning brain cell to know there’s something up the minute you see them together, getting all dopey and sloe-eyed on each other.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. That’s why you think they’re in love? Honestly, Harley, you’re such a hopeless romantic. You only see what you want to see. Magozzi gets all dopey and sloe-eyed. Grace always holds back, and if you had two functioning brain cells you would have seen that. I know Magozzi’s in love with Grace, and I really feel sorry for the man, but Grace just isn’t ready to let herself go down that road. Maybe she never will be.’

  Harley glowered at him. He didn’t like what Roadrunner had said, so he decided not to believe him.

  ‘Do not ever quash anyone’s dreams of romance. Love is a mysterious and unpredictable force, and stranger things than Grace and Magozzi getting together have happened. Hell, who knows? One day a human female might actually find you attractive. The world is just full of surprises.’

  9

  ‘Puff! Here kitty, kitty, kitty!’ There was a tremor in Rose’s voice, and for good reason. It was dreadfully late and that useless beast was still sauntering around the yard, pretending to be deaf.

  She’d always hated the dark, even as a little girl, and the fear had only grown worse with age. Now, some seventy-odd years later, it had morphed into an irrational, debilitating phobia that made no sense at all. She wasn’t afraid of the mundane dangers that might befall an elderly woman living alone, things like burglars or murderers or rapists; or even of falling down and breaking her hip, all concerns her daughter voiced at every opportunity. It was the dark itself.

  She took another tentative step out onto the back porch and caught a brief glimpse of white in the farthest corner of the tulip bed. Puff obviously assumed that all the hard work Rose had put into the gardens today were for his benefit – the world’s largest litter box.

  ‘Puff, come here!’

  He responded with an irritated twitch of his tail, letting her know he’d come in when he was good and ready and not a minute before. His tiny kitty brain just didn’t understand that once darkness swallowed the backyard, it wouldn’t matter if he were being eaten alive by the neighborhood dogs before her very eyes – she still wouldn’t be able to go out to save him.

  God, she hated being like this, hated the tears of frustration that prickled behind her eyes. Why couldn’t that damned cat just come in?…

  ‘PUFF, COME HERE!’

  And at last, Puff did. He trotted up to his mistress as if he’d just noticed her presence for the first time, tail flagging in a cheerful greeting. Rose scooped him up into her arms, cooing admonishments as giddy tears of relief splashed onto his fur. Once she retreated into the safety of her bright, cozy kitchen, her silly tears dried and she poured a dish of cream for him, a glass of sherry for herself.

  The phone rang as she was settling into a sofa almost as old and lumpy as she was. It was her son-in-law – not the brightest fellow on the planet, and a lousy dentist, she’d always thought – but he was a good husband to her Lorrel, and Rose supposed a mother couldn’t ask for much more.

  ‘Hello, Richard. Yes, I’m fine. I suppose Lorrel is working late again? Of course I remember tomorrow night, I haven’t lost my mind yet, Richard. Five o’clock. Kiss the girls for me and tell them I can’t wait to see them. I baked cookies.’

  Rose smiled as she hung up the phone, and was still smiling as she clicked on the TV, coaxed Puff onto her lap, and started to doze. Her granddaughters were home from college, and tomorrow night they would all go out for dinner.

  Rose woke up much later, disoriented and aching from her arduous day of gardening. Puff had deserted her lap, but she could feel his fur tickling the back of her neck. He’d retreated to his favorite perch on the back of the couch, where he liked to sit and look out the window. She reached behind to pat him, but her hand froze in midair.

  Puff was growling.

  She groped for the remote and eventually found the mute button. ‘What’s wrong, kitty?’ After a few moments of silence, she heard a faint rustling coming from behind her, outside in the bushes.

  Juncos in the arborvitae, that’s all it is, she told herself. At night the little birds sheltered in the soft evergreen, making fluttery noises as they hopped from branch to branch.

  But this wasn’t a fluttery noise, exactly. It sounded… bigger.

  Someone is out there.

  Rose felt it in those good senses people never pay attention to until it’s too late: the little hairs standing up on the back of her neck, the goose bumps rising on the loose, checkered skin of her old arms, and when the low rumble of Puff’s growl jumped in pitch, she knew…

  … Someone is out there, on the other side of the glass, looking in at me.

  She turned her head slowly, slowly, and then she saw a pair of eyes hanging there in the dark just outside the window, staring in at her.

  There was a brief moment when her body reacted the way it was supposed to – when her heart leaped and started to hammer, when the blood rushed from her brain to her legs in an ancient preparation for flight, leaving her face cold and clammy. But it was over almost as soon as it began, and Rose simply turned her eyes back to the muted television screen and sat there quietly, waiting to wake up from this very bad dream.

  It isn’t a dream.

  The rustling stopped and a few minutes later, when she’d finally summoned the courage to turn around again, there was nobody at her window.

  She didn’t breathe until her lungs screamed for air, and by then, she was feeling a little silly, because it probably had been just a dream. The mind always played tricks on you in that twilight netherworld between sleep and wakefulness; especially old minds.

  And
then the front door rattled in its frame and Rose started shaking so badly, she feared her old bones might shatter like glass.

  Call the police.

  She reached for the phone on the table beside her, but her hand wasn’t working the way it was supposed to, no, not at all, and there was nothing she could do but watch helplessly as the useless appendage spasmed and flailed and twitched and knocked the phone to the floor.

  The noise at the front door finally stopped, but the silence was much worse, because she was terribly afraid that she might have forgotten to lock the back door, and even more afraid to get up and look.

  She sat frozen on the sofa, a pathetic old woman deluding herself into believing that if she remained perfectly still, if she didn’t breathe, whatever was coming would simply pass her by. In the next instant, she heard the back screen door open, then close with a click, and still, she couldn’t move.

  The heavy inside door closed, sucking a little air from the room.

  Rose never turned to look at him, so he walked into her line of sight and waited for her eyes to rise to his. When they did, he pulled a large handgun from his jacket pocket and pointed it at her.

  Oh, God. It wasn’t going to pass her by; this time it was going to kill her.

  In that dreadful moment of realization, she became young and strong and fearless again, and she vaulted upward at the precise moment the bullet left the muzzle, ruining his killing shot. Fire tore into her stomach instead of her heart and Rose looked down to see a blossom of red spreading across the front of her little-old-lady dress.

  ‘Goddamnit,’ he said, and shot her again.

  10

  Chief Malcherson was one of those tall, well-built Swedes with thick white hair, lake-ice eyes that made him look mean, and a hangdog face that made him look mournful. Sort of like a homicidal basset hound. He was wearing pinstripes this morning – for him, a daring foray into edgy fashion.

  ‘I like the suit,’ Gino pronounced, flopping into a chair next to Magozzi. Magozzi shot him a warning look, but Gino was oblivious. ‘It’s real zippy. Kind of a mob look.’