Guess things worked out after all, my inner voice said. Good for them.
Cyndy poured an inch of bourbon into a glass and pushed it in front of me. “Friend or foe?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“You’re not here to help Ella.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You didn’t even know her name.”
“That’s true.”
“No one’s seen or heard from her in over six weeks, but you said that you saw her at a party last week.”
“The bit about the party was a lie. I did see her, though. Yesterday, in fact.”
“Well?”
“It’s kind of a long story. I’m trying to decide if I trust you enough to tell it.”
“And you expect me to talk about her?”
“El is missing. She really is this time.”
“Missing or hiding? See, that’s the problem, McKenzie. If you’re looking for El because she’s missing, I’m inclined to help. If you’re looking for her because she’s hiding…”
“Ms. Bosland said the last time she saw her, El seemed frightened. She said that El was frightened by dangerous people from the Cities.”
Cyndy picked up her glass and swished the alcohol around, yet did not drink.
“Bosland isn’t from around here,” she said.
“Do you know who these people are, why they’re dangerous?”
“No.”
“Ms. Bosland said—”
“Why should Bosland care about El? What’s it to her?”
“You tell me.”
“McKenzie, listen, I don’t know what Ms. Bosland said or why. El never told me she was frightened, never said anything in her posts or texts. Last time we actually spoke—it was at Christmas—she said she was having a wonderful time, that the Cities were great and I should come down and visit, find a babysitter for Lizzie so we could party with her boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?”
Cyndy backed away from the bar; her expression suggested she had revealed something that she meant to keep secret.
Let it go, my inner voice told me. Come back to it later.
“Why do you think El is hiding?” I asked aloud.
Cyndy didn’t answer.
“I know about the expensive gifts,” I said. “What was she into? Tell me.”
“Who are you, McKenzie? Why are you here?”
There was something akin to menace in Ms. Bosland’s voice when she had asked those questions earlier. Cyndy M’s voice, though, was filled with concern. So I told her. I told her all of it, starting with the blizzard six weeks earlier and ending with El fleeing my condominium. Somewhere during the story, Cyndy’s smile disappeared. I never saw it again.
“She’s okay?” Cyndy’s voice demanded that the question and answer be the same. “She’s okay now?”
“She gets headaches. Her knee still bothers her.”
“But she’s okay?”
“She seems to be.”
“Her memory, though.”
“She might have been … faking.” I nearly said “malingering.”
“Why?”
“Do you know who Doug Howard is?”
“No.”
“He’s not one of the Deer River tribe?”
“No, and the others—they’re like brothers and sisters. The men who tried to kill El, they have to be someone else.”
“Even the best families can have a falling-out.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That brings us back to the original question. Why do you think El might be hiding?”
“I knew she was into something. When she came home, not just during the holidays, but whenever she came home, she always had expensive gifts, like you said. Clothes and jewelry. I asked how she got the money for it all. She laughed it off. She said if a girl is smart, there’s plenty of easy money to be had. I might be a small-town girl, McKenzie, but I know the streets in the Cities aren’t paved with gold. Anything where you get a lot of money for not much work isn’t going to be honest.”
“When was the last time you heard from El?”
“I saw her at Christmas, like I said. We traded texts and Facebook postings until after New Year’s. A couple weeks before … before the accident.”
“And then?”
“And then, nothing.”
“What about the rest of your friends?”
“We weren’t as close, so not hearing from them—I wasn’t surprised not hearing from them except … except when I sent texts asking about El, no one replied. I asked Tim about it—”
“Tim?”
“Tim Foley. He was one of the original seven that moved to the Cities. Well, six after I dropped out. He came home last, what was it, November?”
“Why?”
“Not everyone is cut out to live in the city. I think it’s much harder to go from here to there than it is to go from there to here. Anyway, I asked him about El and the others, what they were doing. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Which is like—why wouldn’t you tell? Why keep secrets? That’s when I realized something was wrong, and then not hearing from El … You showing up like you did, I thought you might be the reason something was wrong.”
“What is her boyfriend’s name?”
“Oliver Braun. Although…”
“What?”
“One of El’s posts, one of her last posts, she wrote how the U’s food service department sells ice cream made by the students that’s just as good as Ben and Jerry’s and how she’s been going through it one flavor at a time since Oliver suddenly can’t go a single evening without visiting his mother.”
His mother? my inner voice asked. What does that mean?
“El’s texts and posts, what other names did she mention?” I asked aloud. “Did she upload photos of people she met in the Cities?”
“She wrote about the Deer River crowd and their landlord, someone named Leon—Leon Janke, something like that. I guess he’s a real sweetheart. She also mentioned … besides Oliver she mentioned some of his friends, and a couple of guys she met in the Cities, Mitch and Craig, but she didn’t post many pics. I can go back and look. Postings on Facebook last forever. McKenzie, Mitch and Craig—do you think they’re the ones who tried to kill her?”
“We’ll have to ask them, won’t we? I’m going to give you my cell number. If you find out anything about Oliver, about Doug Howard and the others, anything that might tell me where to look for El, you call.”
“I will.”
“In the meantime, your other friends, the ones who went to the Cities with El, I want their names, addresses, cell numbers, whatever you can give me.”
“They wouldn’t have hurt El.”
“They might know who did.”
“Maybe they’re in danger, too.”
“Maybe.”
Cyndy wrote out the information on a napkin. She told me the address was for a duplex the Deer River tribe was sharing near the University of Minnesota campus.
“They live on the top floor,” she said.
“Earlier you told me that El had moved,” I reminded her.
“She house-sits sometimes.”
“Is that a job, babysitting people’s homes while they’re on vacation?”
“I think so.”
I held up the napkin.
“Don’t tell your friends you gave this to me,” I said.
“I’m trusting you with a lot, McKenzie.”
More than Fifteen did, my inner voice said.
* * *
It took me three and a half hours to drive home on an icy highway. Probably I should have spent the night in a motel, except the thought of my own warm bed kept me on the road even though I was fast approaching an entire day without sleep. Along the way, I stopped to top off my gas tank and buy black coffee and strawberry Twizzlers. I was tempted to call Bobby Dunston’s office and recite into his voice mail Ella Elber’s real name as well as the other names and numbers Cyndy had given me. I knew he wouldn’t get the me
ssage until morning, though, and decided to wait. As for calling him at home—I had learned long ago that’s not something you do, call a policeman’s home late at night if it isn’t a dire emergency.
I tried not to wake Nina when I returned to the condominium. As I slipped silently beneath the sheets, though, she rolled over and rested an arm across my chest.
“Bobby wants you to call him,” she said.
“First thing in the morning.”
“How was your trip?”
“No one died.”
“Hmm,” she purred in reply.
SEVEN
When I said first thing in the morning, what I meant was sometime after ten o’clock. Imagine my annoyance when my cell phone started singing at a quarter past eight. I would have ignored it despite Nina’s NHL-quality elbow to my ribs, except I thought it might be Cyndy M with more information.
“McKenzie,” I said.
“Dunston,” Bobby said. “Meet me at the Highland Park arena. Meet me now.”
“Why?” I asked, but he had hung up before I could get the word out.
“I hate it when he does that.”
“Hmm,” Nina said and rolled over.
* * *
The ice arena in Highland Park, usually considered a “Jewish neighborhood” because most of St. Paul’s synagogues were located there, was actually called the Charles M. Schulz—Highland Arena, named for the creator of Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and the other Peanuts characters. It’s where Bobby and I and our ne’er-do-well friends have been playing pickup hockey for the past decade and a half—the scene of many happy moments, and I thought of it fondly.
I knew that was about to change, though, when I pulled into the parking lot and found a half-dozen police cars surrounding a steel-blue Ford Taurus, its doors wide open. The arena was about to be added to a long list of locations in the Twin Cities that tightened my stomach, that caused me to look away.
That’s the park where they shot Chopper in the back.
That’s the house where they raped and murdered Jamie Carlson.
That’s the fast-food joint where I killed Cleve Benjamn.
That’s where they snatched Victoria Dunston off the street.
That’s where we found her.
Someone had posted the customary three-inch wide yellow tape—POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS—but the way the cars were arranged, no one was going to get close anyway. I parked on the south side of the lot and walked over, afraid of what I would find. The temperature had climbed to thirty degrees; there was even some giddy talk on the radio that it might reach above freezing, yet I did not feel it. Officers and techs turned to look at me as I approached. I felt embarrassed by my appearance. I had been quick to leave my apartment after Bobby had called, and my teeth were unbrushed, my face unshaved, my bed-hair matted beneath a stocking hat, and I was wearing yesterday’s jeans.
Bobby juked between two squad cars and intercepted me. He rested a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s not her,” he said.
I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had been holding my breath. I stopped caring what I looked like.
Bobby led me under the tape and past several officers until we were close to the truck. He wanted me to get a good look at the young man slumped across the passenger side of the front seat. I had no idea who he was and said so.
“Take a good look.”
I did.
“According to his ID, his name is Oliver Braun,” Bobby said.
Oh, God, no.
“Student at the University of Minnesota, majoring in political science. Lived with his parents in Little Canada.”
No, no, no …
“The Taurus is in their name. Preliminary findings indicate he was killed between eight and twelve last night. I’m guessing closer to midnight because the arena was closed by then, no one around to see. That’s all we have so far.”
Tell him, my inner voice said.
Wait, I told it.
Why?
Just wait.
“You didn’t bring me here just to confirm the kid’s identity,” I said aloud. I nearly added “That’s not like you,” but didn’t.
“Jeannie,” Bobby said.
Jean Shipman stepped forward. She was young, beautiful, and smart as hell—at least that’s how Bobby once described her to me, although I didn’t see it. She had been Bobby’s partner before they made him a commander and remained his cohort of choice on those occasions when he stepped away from his role as a practicing bureaucrat and actually did some investigating.
“Hey, Jeannie,” I said.
“That’s Detective Shipman to you.”
Did I tell you—she didn’t care for me one bit.
Shipman was holding a clear-plastic evidence bag. She held it up for me to see. The bag contained a .38 Smith & Wesson wheel gun.
“Look familiar?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
I wasn’t answering her question, though. I was answering the one that formed in the back of my head the moment I learned the kid’s identity. Is El responsible for this?
“It’s yours, all right,” Shipman said. “Serial number matches the S&W you told the Minneapolis cops was stolen from your house—assuming it was stolen.”
Dammit, El.
“Only it’s not the murder weapon,” Bobby said.
Wait. What?
“You seem surprised,” Shipman said.
“We found it on the floor of the car,” Bobby said. “It hasn’t been fired. The kid—he was killed with a knife.”
I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing.
“Again, you seem surprised,” Shipman said.
“Let’s chat, shall we,” Bobby said.
He led me back under the yellow tape and away from the crime scene. Shipman followed along. As we walked I heard someone say “Fucking McKenzie,” but I didn’t look to see who it was. I still had plenty of friends with the St. Paul Police Department, men and women I had worked with who didn’t seem to mind at all that I quit to take the reward on Teachwell. I also had plenty of enemies, cops who very much minded, who were upset that I had sold my badge for exactly $3,128,584.50. Then there were those who were convinced I had hit the lottery and wished they could do the same.
“Well?” Shipman asked.
“Well, what?”
“How did the gun get here?”
“Obviously, either Fifteen gave it to him or Braun took it from her.”
“So obvious we won’t even consider the possibility she held it on him while someone else gutted the kid with a knife.”
“Why leave the gun behind?”
“What’s your theory?”
I was surprised how much it distressed me to say it. “Fifteen’s lying in a ditch somewhere and a second party now has my guns.”
“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Bobby said.
“Where were you last night?” Shipman asked.
“Seriously, Detective, you’re asking me that question?”
“Where?”
“Deer River, Minnesota.”
“Witnesses?”
“Several.” I recited a few. “Plus, I used my credit card. You can check the times.”
“You know I will.”
“Stop it,” Bobby said.
“She started it,” I said.
“You think you’re so damn smart, McKenzie,” Shipman said.
“What can I say? They gave me tests. Rushmore, they said, you have a superior mind. It’s a burden I’ve been carrying ever since.”
“You two make me so sad,” Bobby said.
Because he actually sounded sad, Shipman and I stopped talking and just stood there glaring at each other.
“McKenzie, tell me something I don’t already know,” Bobby said.
“Fifteen’s real name is Ella Elbers, sometimes called El. She’s twenty-one or twenty-two, from Deer River. She moved down here a couple years ago with a few high school friends.”
I pulled
out the napkin and recited the names and address Cyndy M had written there. Shipman read along over my shoulder, transcribing the names into a notebook.
“What else?” Bobby asked.
Time to come clean, my inner voice said.
Instead, I told him El had a habit of bestowing expensive gifts on her BFFs, but that none of them knew where the money came from.
“She’s well loved up there,” I added. “Her friends are worried. They haven’t heard from her for over six weeks. Look, what about Doug Howard? What do you have on him?”
“Nothing,” Shipman said.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing means nothing. Checking him out was a waste of valuable police resources. The reason he was parked on Washington Avenue near your overpriced condominium was because he was waiting for his wife, who works for the Spaghetti Factory, also located on Washington Avenue.”
“How do you know?”
“Straight-up solid police work, McKenzie. I asked him. And his wife.”
“My children behave better than you two,” Bobby said.
“He was wasting my time,” Shipman said.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I thought—wait. If El didn’t know who Howard was, why would she have been afraid of him? Why would she have run?”
“She caught your paranoia. It’s contagious.”
“You think she’s hiding, then.”
“If Elbers had wanted to go into hiding, she would have taken one gun for protection and all of the money, all twenty-five grand. Instead, she took four guns and five thousand dollars. She took only what she thought she needed.”
“Needed for what?”
“Baby’s gone a-hunting.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“There’s something you should know,” Bobby said. “A call was made from the landline in your apartment. It was placed about fifteen, twenty minutes before Fifteen—Ella Elbers—took off. To Oliver Braun.”
At the sound of his name, we all turned to gaze on the crime scene.
“Do you want to explain that, McKenzie?” Shipman asked.
Tell them!
“Oliver Braun was El’s boyfriend,” I said aloud.
“McKenzie,” Bobby said, “you’re just telling us this now?”
“They might have broken up around Christmas. I was looking into it.”
“Dammit, McKenzie,” Shipman said. “That’s obstruction.”
Unidentified Woman #15 Page 10