“You’re home late,” she said.
I lowered the gun, pointing it at the floor.
“Geezus, Annie,” I said.
Scalasi rolled off the sofa and moved to my side. I deactivated the Beretta and set it on the narrow table next to the door. She wrapped her arms around my waist and held tight, her forehead brushing my chin. I felt her badge against my stomach.
“I heard what happened,” she said.
“Just another day in paradise.”
“Sure.”
I leaned down and kissed her lips.
“How are you?” I asked.
Her response was to press her mouth hard against mine. She was in uniform, crisp white shirt and tie, blue skirt. She had removed her shoes. Her matching jacket was folded and draped over a chair; I could see a single gold star pinned to each shoulder.
“I was frightened when I heard about the shooting,” Anne said. “I tried not to show it because … because I’m always telling people that you’re just a guy I used to know, a man I once worked with.” She stepped away from me. “I had to lock myself in my office until I stopped trembling. Imagine having that reaction. It surprised me a little bit.”
“We’re friends. I’d be upset if someone shot at you, too.”
Anne removed her tie.
“That’s good to know,” she said. “So, tell me, have you discovered who the woman is, yet—Emily Denys?”
“No.”
She opened the top button of her shirt.
“If it makes you feel any better, the officers working the case don’t have a name, either,” Anne said. “They do have something that you don’t, though.”
“What’s that?”
“They have the bullet.”
From her expression, I knew Anne expected me to guess what she was talking about, so I worked the puzzle in my head. It was difficult, because while I was doing that, she kept opening buttons until her shirt fell open, revealing the powder-blue bra beneath it. The only breathing I could hear now was mine.
Think, Taylor, I told myself. The bullet taken from the back of Emily’s skull …
“NIBIN,” I said.
“The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. My officers ran the bullet through the computer system. They got a match seven hours after they started. It took several days to work the bureaucracy—big surprise. First they had to acquire the bullet from the original source, which took a lot of official correspondence, not to mention UPS. Afterward, they had to bring the bullet to the BCA and order up their own ballistic tests, which took another day.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
“Annie?”
She unbuttoned her skirt, pulled down the zipper, and let it fall into a puddle at her feet.
“The bullet that killed Denys was fired from the same gun that was used in an unsolved homicide thirteen months ago.”
“Where?”
Scalasi stepped out of the skirt.
“A small town called Arona in western Wisconsin,” she said.
She turned and moved toward my bedroom. I could detect a hint of powder-blue panties beneath the tails of her shirt.
“Who was killed?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you later.”
* * *
I was on the phone ten minutes after Scalasi left my apartment. Helin wasn’t as happy as I thought he would be when I explained the connection between the murder of Emily and Mayor Todd Franson in Arona. Not even when I added that he was killed in the same manner as the girl, a single shot to the back of the head while he was unlocking the door to his house, and that the killing occurred at about the same time Emily first appeared in the Cities. Instead of hopping up and down as he did after the shooting earlier, he became quiet.
“Up until now, I thought this was a good thing,” I said.
“The Barrington family has property in Arona, a summer retreat of some sort, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, from what you told me, it’s the same the property U.S. Sand wants to turn into a silica sand mine.”
“Yes.”
“You can bet the CA will be working very, very hard to connect the killing of the mayor to Mrs. Barrington. If she does … Tell me that Eleanor didn’t even know who he was, this Mayor Franson.”
“Do you want me to ask her?”
“Hell no.”
“Then you ask her,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t I drive out there tomorrow morning and take a look around?”
“Why don’t you?”
“At the very least I can flash Emily’s pic and see if anyone can identify her.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Tell me, though—Haukass knew about the bullet yet kept it to herself. Can’t she be cited for withholding evidence from the defense?”
“While the CA’s obligated to turn over all evidence, discovery can unfold gradually, sometimes more gradually than what you might consider fair. Probably, though, she has no more idea if this is inculpatory evidence that proves Mrs. Barrington is guilty or exculpatory that proves she’s innocent than we do, and she’ll want to know before she gives it up.”
“What if I’m the one who finds out if it’s inculpatory or exculpatory?”
“Keep it to yourself. At least until you talk to me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Arona was a two-hour drive from the Twin Cities if you obeyed the posted speed limits. It was the largest city in Kamin County in Wisconsin with just over three thousand residents, yet it wasn’t the county seat. That honor belonged to Tintori Falls, about twenty-five miles east. Even though it was out of my way, that’s where I drove first thing in the morning because that’s where the sheriff lived.
I found the Kamin County Sheriff’s Department a block off the main drag. It was located in one of those flat, ultramodern, energy-efficient, multipurpose brick buildings that somehow manage to always look like an elementary school. That impression changed quickly once I stepped inside, though, and approached a desk that was protected by a thick wall of bulletproof glass. I told the female officer I found there who I was and what I wanted. She directed me to a blue molded-plastic chair and told me to wait.
I expected a long wait. Instead, the officer was back in less than a minute. She pushed a hidden button, and I heard a loud buzzing sound. She waved me through a security door and led me down a brilliantly lit corridor to a spacious office. Directly behind a cluttered desk stood a large man with white hair and glasses and wearing a neatly pressed white shirt with a five-point star over his left pocket and an American flag sewn above his right. He made no attempt to shake my hand, so I didn’t try to shake his.
“Mr. Taylor,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You have?”
He jerked his head to his left. I followed the movement to a comfy-looking sofa against the wall. Martin McGaney was sitting on the sofa. He gave me a little finger wave. I didn’t know if he was saying hello or tut-tut.
“’Morning, Martin,” I said.
“Taylor.”
“You’re out and about bright and early today.”
“So are you.”
“You’re here cuz of the bullet,” the sheriff said. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I went into my spiel, explaining my presence and purpose in an out-of-state jurisdiction to the proper authorities just like the handbook suggests.
“Sheriff, I am a licensed private investigator from the state of Minnesota. I am investigating the murder of a woman who went by the name of Emily Denys in St. Paul. I have reason to believe that her murder is connected to the killing of a Kamin County resident some thirteen months ago. I am asking for your cooperation in this matter.”
The sheriff smiled and turned to McGaney.
“I like ’im,” he said. “A little formal for my taste.”
“He’s not a bad sort once you get past his at
titude.”
“Hell’s bells, son, all them PIs got attitude.”
“Tell me, Taylor,” McGaney said. “How’d you know about the bullet? The BCA didn’t even confirm a match until late yesterday.”
He probably already guessed that Anne Scalasi told me, yet there was no way I was going to give her up.
“You might find this hard to believe, Martin,” I said, “but there is a surprisingly large number of employees in the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office who simply do not like their new boss.”
“Actually, I don’t find that hard to believe at all.”
“A mite prickly in person, is she?” the sheriff asked. “Cuz over the phone she was charming as all get-out.”
“Marianne Haukass is a politician,” I said.
“They’re all politicians, son. So am I when it comes down to it. That’s why I’d like to see some closure in the Franson case before the next election. Which is also why I’m not gonna kick if you go down there. You’re not going to get any cooperation, at least not from me or my office. You want to go pokin’ around, though, you got my blessing. Who knows, might be you raise up some dust we missed. Right now we ain’t got jack. Let me tell ya, that’s embarrassing. A mayor—the goddamned mayor, mind you—catches a nine in the back of the head and we can’t solve it? Embarrassing.”
“Don’t you have any suspects?”
“Problem is we have too many suspects. Half the town hated the prick. Well, anyway, forty-nine percent if you go by the last election.”
“Can I see your field reports?”
“What part of you’re not going to get any cooperation from me don’t you understand? The skirt down in Arona might let you see hers, but not me.”
“Skirt?”
“The police chief in Arona is a woman,” McGaney said.
“Ahh.”
Anne Scalasi had received a steady litany of insults when she joined the St. Paul Police Department and worked her way up the promotion ladder, yet I don’t remember “skirt” being among them.
“Now, Mr. McGaney here—he and his boss have all my cooperation and copies of most of my records,” the sheriff said. “Call it professional courtesy. Maybe they’ll share with you.”
I gave him a hopeful glance. After all, we were friends—sorta. McGaney waved his finger at me.
“Can you at least tell me if you identified Emily Denys?” I asked.
“When we do, I’m sure your lawyer friend will be the first to hear about it.”
“I got a question for you, now,” the sheriff said. “You carrying?”
“I have a permit for Minnesota,” I said. “Not for Wisconsin, though, so no, I’m not armed.”
The sheriff glanced at McGaney as if he were seeking confirmation.
“I’ll bet real money he has a gun stashed in his car, probably the trunk, probably a Beretta. I believe that’s his weapon of choice.”
The sheriff was looking directly at me when he said, “As long as he keeps it in his trunk we ain’t got no problems.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said.
I headed for the door. McGaney called after me.
“Haukass said if we ran into each other I should tell you—the tow truck operator who boosted all those vehicles, he copped a plea. Your testimony won’t be required after all.”
With that, whatever leverage I had with the woman was gone.
“It’s always a pleasure, Martin,” I said.
“Best to the assistant chief next time you see her.”
* * *
Arona was one of those small towns that seemed to stretch forever. There was a McDonald’s at one end of the main street, a Subway at the other, and in between just about everything you’d expect to find in a small town, plus several healthcare centers, one linked to the Mayo Clinic. North of town was a factory that manufactured furniture, and south was a facility where they processed chicken. West along the river, bait shops, boat rentals, resorts, and campgrounds catered to tourists. Surrounding it all were family farms stretching to the horizon.
Yet what I noticed most were the heavy trucks. At least a half dozen rumbled past while I stood at a gas pump filling my Camry, a cloud of yellow dust following each like the contrails of a high-flying jet.
“You believe this shit?” the owner of the service station said. “Been like this for over a year now. They say there are over nine thousand truckloads of frack sand leaving the state every day. I believe it, man. Just sitting here, if you don’t see a truck driving past every ten minutes you think there’s something wrong with your watch.”
“Must get old in a hurry.”
“People used to walk the streets, you know? Used to stroll down Main Street. That was a thing. Nobody does that anymore. Not with these monster trucks flying by all the time.”
“You live here long?”
“My whole life.”
“Working a service station, you must know everyone.”
“Wouldn’t say I know ’em, but there ain’t but a couple of us pumping gas, so we pretty much see everybody at one time or another.”
“Did you ever see this girl?”
I showed him a pic of Emily on my cell phone. He took the phone and studied the screen for a moment before passing it back.
“No, can’t say I ever saw her before, and if I did, I’d think I’d remember. Not too many women hereabouts look as good as she does. What’s it all about?”
“A missing girl I was asked to find.”
“You one of them private eyes?”
“Something like that.”
Another truck filled with silica sand rumbled down the street as he spoke.
“If she lives around here, I can’t blame her for running away.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wisconsin had changed. I remembered when it was good-natured, with a healthy us-versus-them attitude, the same attitude that you’ll find in Minnesota. Now it was us-against-us, with the population pretty much split along party lines. It started with the election of a polarizing governor and the rancorous recall election that followed. Over a million voters signed the recall petition. The governor survived the recall, and soon after the petition was uploaded to the internet. Now whenever anyone attempts to run for office, apply for a state job, or simply seek government assistance, the powers that be check the petition, and if your name is on it, you’re screwed.
There just didn’t seem to be much middle ground anymore, a fact that was emphasized when I checked into the Everheart Resort, Restaurant, and Bar nestled along the Trempealeau River. The owner was named William Everheart. He told me to call him Bill and added, “I don’t want any trouble in my place.”
“Are you expecting trouble?” I asked.
“I got sand miners staying here, and environmentalists, and tourists that came for the fishing and water and want to be left alone—three groups that hate each other so, yeah, I’m expecting some trouble. Not to mention the townspeople. The community—used to be we had names. Now we have labels—right wing, left wing, neoconservative, flaming liberal, obstructionist, reactionary, bleeding heart, fascist, socialist, pro-business, anti-government, tree hugger…”
“What about you?”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“That makes you an endangered species, doesn’t it?”
“I’m a local businessman, emphasis on local. Sure, I cater to out-of-towners that want to stay in my rooms or occupy a spot at my campground down the road. They rent my boats, buy my bait, and work the river and streams for trout. Lots of the customers who eat in my restaurant, drink in my bar, and sing karaoke on weekends, though, they’re local. Some of them work the sand. It doesn’t pay for me to be one thing or the other.”
“You’re not worried about the mines affecting your business?”
“’Course I’m worried. On a good weekend, I’ll draw five hundred people, and that goes right up through hunting season. The silica sand facility they’re proposing, it’s less than a m
ile away. If it pollutes the river and streams, killing the trout; if it pollutes the air, turning the forest yellow with blowing sand; if it depletes and destroys what Mother Nature gave us here—I’m out of business.”
“Why let the sand miners stay?”
“I’m hoping there’ll be some adults among them, that they’ll show some real responsibility.”
“Have they so far?”
“There’s going to be a town hall meeting at the high school auditorium. I’ll know better then. In the meantime…”
“You’ll get no trouble from me.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. I probably wouldn’t even have said anything except you don’t look like you’re here to wet a line.”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
I pulled up Emily’s pic on my smartphone and handed it to the resort owner.
“Well, if you’re looking for a girl, that one there’s worth finding,” he said.
“Have you seen her?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Everheart swiped the screen with his finger. Another pic appeared and then another. I reached for the phone, annoyed at his rudeness. You don’t swipe someone else’s phone, c’mon. But he stopped me.
“Wait,” Everheart said. “I know her.”
“Who?”
He held up the pic for me to see. It was a selfie of Emily and Devon.
“That’s the Barrington girl, isn’t it? Sure. She used to come in all the time, mostly with her brother. They’d shoot pool in the bar. Haven’t seen her for … it must be a year at least.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not a lot. She seems like a nice kid. Always polite. Can sing, too. Most people who do karaoke, they make you want to dive under the table. Devon has a nice voice, kind of sweet. ’Course, she was always sober. This is a family place and we let kids run around, but it’s also a bar. Her older brother, on the other hand … Meh, Joel’s all right, I guess. He always looked to me like he was counting his money, though. Devon’s old lady—don’t get me started. I doubt Eleanor Barrington could string five words together without complaining about something.”
Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 11