by Neal Griffin
McKenzie stared back, not surprised. Jorgensen never just came out with it. He always watched every word, but McKenzie understood. He pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the chief’s desk.
“Just so happens some business-minded folks approached me today. Told me they wanted to make a contribution to the department’s scholarship fund. You’re still handling that program, right, Chief?”
Jorgensen didn’t flinch, just stared back. He shifted in his Italian leather chair and propped his Bruno Magli shoes on the mahogany desk he had bought a month after taking over from Norgaard. For a large man—McKenzie figured him to be all of two eighty—Jorgensen carried himself with ease. He never wore the official blue uniform that Norgaard had been famous for, preferring conservative designer suits tailored for his large frame. Today he wore a starched white button-down shirt and a pin-striped charcoal gray vest; a SIG Sauer 9mm was neatly tucked against his body in a custom-made leather shoulder rig. His deep burgundy tie was finished with a perfect Windsor. Jorgensen picked up the envelope and took a look inside, nodding his massive bald head as he fingered through the cash. The envelope disappeared into a desk drawer.
“I’ll see to it, Doyle. You be sure to extend the thanks of the department.” Jorgensen gave McKenzie a sharp stare. “But this seems a little thin. You might want to shake that tree a little harder next time around.”
McKenzie nodded in acknowledgment. Jorgensen had a real impact on the bottom line, but McKenzie told himself it was worth it. Now that he was finally out from under Norgaard’s microscope, he could get down to some serious earning. Better yet, he could tell Sawyer to go fuck himself. Yep. Under the new administration, business was good.
Jorgensen sat up, his body language making it clear he was changing the subject. “We need to talk.”
McKenzie picked up on the serious tone and immediately thought of the incident with Tyrone. Jorgensen couldn’t know about that, could he? The guy had his finger on the pulse, for sure, but there was no way he could be up on that.
“Bill Petite’s been hooked for murder up in Hayward. You know about the case?”
“Bill Petite? Name rings a bell, Chief, but I can’t say as I can place it right offhand. Who is he?”
Jorgensen sounded less than pleased. “So you’re telling me you haven’t heard anything about it? I would think that as the department narcotics detective, you would stay up on major cases.”
“Damn, Chief,” McKenzie said, hating that he was already on the defensive, “Hayward is three hundred miles from here. Why would I know about the local stuff up there? I got plenty to work on right here in Newberg, you know what I mean?” He shot a look to the desk drawer, trying to remind Jorgensen of his primary concerns.
Jorgensen ignored him and began to lay things out. “Bill Petite served three terms as the district attorney of Florence County. He left the DA’s office quite a few years back, relocated to Hayward, and went into private practice. Specialized in personal injury and medical malpractice. A real ambulance chaser. It’s been seven or eight years. He made himself a fortune torturing doctors, cops, anyone with deep pockets.”
At McKenzie’s blank look of ignorance, Jorgensen appeared frustrated but went on. “Petite had a lady friend on the side. Couple of months ago, it got ugly. Seems he shot her in her own kitchen. Shot her dead.” Jorgensen’s tone changed as he looked hard at McKenzie. “At least that’s how it would appear to the uninformed populace.”
“You never know about a man, Chief. I don’t suppose he did us all a favor and killed another lawyer, did he?” McKenzie tried to humor the man. “You know what it’s called when one lawyer kills another lawyer?”
Jorgensen said nothing, just looked at McKenzie and waited.
“A good start.” McKenzie laughed, pleased at his own stale joke. Jorgensen didn’t even twitch a lip in laughter.
“You probably don’t know about Lipinski either, is that right?”
McKenzie cocked his head. “Henry Lipinski? What about him?”
Oh, yeah. McKenzie knew Lipinski. The man was a law enforcement legend. Lipinski had spent more than thirty years as the elected sheriff of Florence County, along the Wisconsin-Michigan border, well known as an outdoorsman’s paradise. The Nicolet National Forest covered over a million acres of unspoiled beauty, attracting tens of thousands of hunters, campers, and other visitors every year. Less famously but more important in the law enforcement world, the Nicolet Forest was also home to the most expansive and profitable marijuana crops in the entire Midwest. With fewer than five thousand permanent souls in the entire county, a grow could cover hundreds of acres and go undetected for a generation.
But nothing got past Sheriff Henry Lipinski. Rumor was no plant ever grew to be more than six inches tall without Lipinski’s consent. Lipinski was said to have ruled over one of the largest marijuana empires in all of rural America. College students throughout Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, and beyond had a greatly enhanced scholastic experience because of his organization and distribution skills. Lipinski eventually retired and laundered all his ill-gotten earnings through a used car dealership with outlets in sixteen counties. Word was he had walked away from all the shady stuff and gone legit. To McKenzie, Lipinski was a real law enforcement success story.
“He’s sitting in Chippewa County lockup,” Jorgensen said. “Got hooked up over the weekend for distribution of kiddie porn. Word has it the Feds are on the case. They’ll be picking him up next week. He’s looking at twenty-five years minimum.”
“Shit,” McKenzie said. “That’ll be a hard row for a career cop. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to carry that water. But I gotta tell ya, that guy always struck me as a bit of a pervert.”
Jorgensen disagreed. “I don’t see it. He’s about as dense as a block of wood, but I can’t figure Henry getting off on kids.”
McKenzie shifted in his seat, his mind now turning. “Okay, boss. Two players from Florence hit the pit. You got my attention. What are you worried about?”
The look from Jorgensen was less than complimentary. “Jesus, Detective. Allow me to spell it out for you.”
Jorgensen tossed a yellowed folder across the desk, a Newberg PD arrest report with a date that went back seventeen years. McKenzie recognized the neat block handwriting as that of his former chief, and sure enough Lars Norgaard’s name appeared as the arresting officer. McKenzie looked at the subject block of the report. In bold, black ink the name jumped out: Harlan Lee.
Jorgensen offered an explanation.
“Harlan Lee killed a man back seventeen, eighteen years ago, some beef he had with a rival dope dealer. Lee had a big grow up in Florence. Cultivated a good bit of the ganja with his old man. I gotta admit the Lees grew some high-quality shit. But then again, the Lees had a habit of being a bit standoffish. Never did come under the protection of any sort of collective.”
Jorgensen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then went on. “Anyway, the murder case was out of Florence, but Lee got arrested right here in Newberg. It was Norgaard who caught him with a stolen gun on a traffic stop. Turned out to be the murder weapon. Course, that led to a search warrant of the old homestead up in Florence. Everything fell into place after that. Lars was just a young buck at the time, but I gotta tell ya, he put together a hell of case. Lee was screwed and he knew it. He plead out and Petite hammered him with twenty-five to life.”
McKenzie still couldn’t put it together. He shrugged sheepishly, inviting Jorgensen to continue. The big man stood up and paced the office as he continued.
“Lee was released three months ago. I put in a call to my contact up in Florence County, Scott Jamison. He stepped in as sheriff when Lipinski went off to be a used car rock star. Jamison tells me Lee never reported for parole. He’s not at the old homestead. It’s still sitting empty like it has been since his old man kicked off about ten or twelve years ago.”
“So what are you thinking?” McKenzie regretted the words as soon a
s they left his mouth, and the chief’s booming voice rained down.
“I’ll be goddamned, McKenzie. I thought you were a pretty sharp fella, but I’m starting to think you’re just some special kind of stupid. One of them there idiot savants or some shit.”
Jorgensen waited, allowing McKenzie to respond. When the detective sat quietly, the chief went on.
“Seems like the Lee boy might have gotten some wild hair up his ass. Didn’t think much of having to pay for his crime. Seeing that there is a local connection, I want to be sure none of his bullshit rains down on Newberg. That sort of thing has a tendency to draw a lot of attention. No good for business. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear ya, boss.”
“Get up to Chippewa. Have a talk with Lipinski before anyone else puts this together. See if he’s been in contact with Lee. Remind his dumb bumpkin ass this is why you don’t just get to walk away.”
“You got it, Chief.” McKenzie did his best to portray confidence. “Anything Henry knows about this Harlan Lee fella, I’ll get it.”
“Forget that.” Jorgensen nearly shouted. He emphasized his words with the point of his cigar. “Don’t be turning this into some kind of history lesson. Just find out if Henry has any current intel on Lee. If he has any reason to think Lee might be behind this shit. That’s as far as you need to take it. Once you got what you can out of him, it would probably be best if Henry didn’t talk to anyone else.”
Jorgensen hesitated, then clarified his point.
“Ever.”
The room went quiet.
“You get my meaning?” Jorgensen said after a long moment.
McKenzie thought over the exchange. His heart picked up its pace in his chest.
“Boss are you—?”
Jorgensen cut him off and returned to the protective curtain of his desk.
“I’m saying I don’t want to worry about Henry Lipinski running his mouth. I don’t want Henry getting some idea that he needs to go providing any details about this Harlan Lee situation to any swinging dick who comes calling. Especially some federal prick.” Jorgensen held up the case file. “The Lee file is not to see the light of day, and it sure as hell ain’t going to be a matter of discussion in a federal courtroom.”
Jorgensen took another strong puff, then stared down his detective.
“You follow me?”
Yep, there was definitely a new chief in town. This was it. In or out. Jump in with both feet or get the hell off the ride. Easy call. The big time had come knocking.
“Like I said, Chief, I’m on it.” McKenzie tried his best to sound matter-of-fact. Standard procedures. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Jorgensen narrowed his eyes. “No, you won’t. I can read a newspaper.”
McKenzie recognized the chief’s habit of keeping his distance.
“Use those instincts of yours, Doyle. Take care of this shit and keep it out of Newberg. Keep it away from me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got other things to attend to.”
McKenzie stood to leave, realizing he’d been dismissed. He also realized he had underestimated Jorgensen, but that would not happen again. For the first time in their dealings he felt a trace of fear. It was as though Jorgensen sensed it and decided to show McKenzie that his newfound respect was well placed.
“By the way,” Jorgensen said, settling back into his overstuffed chair, “I got a call from an old colleague from the State Police. He mentioned your name. Said you two worked a few special details over the years.”
McKenzie waited.
“Anyway, he called to tell me about a local boy they found dumped outside Beloit. Eldon something or other. Two forty-cal slugs in his chest. Wasn’t no ghetto ammo either. Some of that really high-performing shit that can turn a man’s insides to Jell-O. An alarming situation, no doubt. Probably dope related. I told my contact to keep me up on any developments in the case. Being that you are the department narc, I thought you’d want to know.”
McKenzie knew if he’d ever had the upper hand when it came to Jorgensen—and right now, he wasn’t sure he had—he had definitely lost it.
“Sure thing, Chief. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Oh, and one last thing, Doyle. I’d like to expand the kids’ soccer league this year but fees are way up. See if you can get a few donations put together for me. I think twenty grand oughta get us off the ground.”
McKenzie quailed at the thought. This was going to cut into his own take. “Twenty grand, huh? That’s a hell of soccer program, Chief.”
Jorgensen sat back, wrapped his thick lips around his glowing cigar, and puffed out a long string of perfect blue rings. “Only the best for the people of Newberg, Doyle. Only the best.”
FOURTEEN
Harlan rested a solid arm against the aged oak growing along the boulevard and took in the scene just a few houses down the street. Yep. This is it.
The first address he’d come up with had been an empty house. A few questions to neighbors—posed as if he was an old family friend—had led him to a live-in hospital for old folks with all sorts of ailments. It had the look of a top-shelf sort of facility although security was nonexistent. Finding the exact room had been as simple as walking in and reading the directory posted in the lobby. Once he had the old man pegged, he spent a few days in surveillance mode. Harlan had watched the blond dish sit for hours reading aloud and talking to the old guy, though it didn’t appear to Harlan she ever got much of an answer back.
Today Harlan had watched as the woman and a couple of orderlies bundled the old man into her minivan. Harlan followed them across town to a Victorian house on a manicured street of stylish homes. A man and a boy threw the football across the lawn; the same pretty little thing he’d seen all week hung back and watched, her arms draped over the old man’s shoulders. The years had left a hard mark on the man, but the resemblance was still clear. “So what the hell happened to you?” Harlan spoke in a low voice. “Stuck in a wheelchair. Drooling all over your damn self?”
The woman continued to dote on the old man just as she had at the care joint. At first Harlan thought maybe she was one of those kindhearted volunteer types, but no. That wasn’t it. Even from this distance Harlan could see the affection in the old man’s eyes. Those two were flesh and blood.
“Officer Lars Norgaard, in the flesh,” Harlan mused out loud, “looks like you went and got yourself all fucked up and crippled somehow, didn’t ya? Little justice came early.”
His initial disappointment at the old man’s condition was short-lived. Harlan thought back to the last bitter years endured by his own father. Alone and abandoned, in failing health, with his only kin locked away. Standing under the tree watching the family scene, Harlan wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. Course he hadn’t known the details, but now it all came clear. With a few minor deviations, with some careful planning, he would strike a most meaningful blow.
“Looks like we got us a chance for some true symmetry.”
As he stood there with his new plan beginning to fall into place, Harlan noticed the stalwart figure giving him the once-over from his place on the lawn. With the ball in one hand, Norgaard’s son-in-law began a slow walk to the curb that drew Harlan’s attention. Time to get gone.
Fifty yards down the road, Harlan allowed himself a last look over his shoulder and saw the man was still watching. Harlan turned away and kept walking, deciding to himself that he’d be sure to give this guy a wide berth.
FIFTEEN
Standing behind her dad, Alex thought it was shaping up to be a good afternoon. With Lars visiting for the day, Alex and Ben had done their best to bury the hatchet and put on the happy family act. Jake could never resist an offer to throw the ball around. Alex hoped she and Ben could use the time together as a chance to sort of regroup.
“Throw the ball, Dad.” Alex watched as Jake took off and ran another down-and-out pattern. The boy turned for the pass, but his father paid him no mind. Ben was staring down the road.
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Alex walked up and playfully swatted the ball from Ben’s hand. He ignored her, continuing his long stare. Alex followed Ben’s gaze into the distance where a man walked away from them along the sidewalk.
“What’s up? You playing or not?”
“Did you see that guy? Looked like he was watching us or something.”
Alex was used to Ben’s hypervigilant cop instincts. After all those years in Oakland, Ben could see a bogeyman around every corner. It didn’t matter if they were in a restaurant, a movie theater, or even church. Ben was always suspicious of what to anyone else seemed like a part of everyday life. It made sense in the big-city world of Oakland, but this was Newberg.
“He’s gone now. Come on back and play.” She pulled on his arm, but Ben stayed put. The stranger, far off now, turned and gave a last look.
“I’m telling you, that guy was checking us out. I got half a mind to go ask him what the hell he wants.”
Jake tried again to get his father’s attention. “Dad. Throw me the ball.”
Alex hooked one leg around her husband’s and hugged his waist from behind. “Tell you what. Let’s write this one off as a nothin’ burger. If we see him around again, we’ll get all of Newberg PD on him. Run his ass out of town.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Forget about him, Benny. This is nice. Jake and Dad are having a great time. Let’s just enjoy it.”
Ben couldn’t let it go. Alex could only watch as Ben continued to stare and took another three steps toward curb.
Jake finally lost his patience. “Dad, would you just throw the damn ball?”
Ben and Alex stared at each other, then swiveled their heads to look at Jake.
“Uh … sorry?” The boy went scarlet and waited for the punishment he knew must be coming.
Ben was about to speak, when coarse laughter came from nearby. Alex, Ben, and Jake turned to Lars, who had a broad grin on his face. The old man’s eyes were sparkling. After a beat, Ben dropped back and signaled to his son to go deep.